The Suicide King (The Grave Diggers Book 2)

by Chris Fritschi

  As a result, Mortuary Affairs was the recipient of the Army’s surplus equipment. All of it functional, but in some cases bordering on relics.

  Colonel Hewett had told Tate about an untapped slush fund he discovered. Originally slated for someone’s pet project in the Drug Enforcement Agency’s operation out of Colombia, it hadn’t been touched since the Vix outbreak.

  Colonel Hewett concluded the person channeling the funds was either dead, or stranded in one of the possibly thousands of yet to be discovered isolated pockets of survivors scattered throughout the country, still waiting for rescue. Either way, he was going to plunder it when the moment was right.

  “I understand, Colonel,” said Tate.

  “If you find anything else about this Stockton mess,” said Hewett, “I want to hear about it.”

  “Solid copy, sir,” said Tate.

  “Good man,” said Hewett and disconnected the call.

  Tate intended to find out a lot more. How much he was comfortable passing on to the colonel was yet to be seen.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SUICIDE KING

  A few days later, Sergeant Rosse unexpectedly sat down across from Tate as he was eating lunch at the DFAC.

  Tate had to stop himself from smirking at the dramatic way Rosse glanced around with deep suspicion for anyone looking in their direction. Satisfied, he leaned across the table, gesturing for Tate the do the same.

  “You gotta message from Doctor Jer,” said Rosse, almost so quiet Tate couldn’t hear him.

  “It’s all right, Rosse,” reassured Tate. “I don’t think we’re being watched.”

  “Yeah, well, just the same,” said Rosse. “It don’t hurt to be careful.”

  “Roger that,” said Tate. “What’ve you got?”

  “Doctor Jer says he found a guy who maybe knows about, you know,” Rosse said, his voice dropping to a hiss of a whisper, “the Suicide King. He got a meet set up for tomorrow night.”

  Rosse slid a scrap of paper across the table.

  “Good,” said Tate, as he took the paper and read it.

  9 PM. Blue Orchid. The Falcon room. Alone.

  Tate re-read the note in surprise. The Blue Orchid was Tate’s favorite haunt when he wanted to get away from it all. The owner of the Orchid was run by Teddy Moon. Colorful, with an affection of the 1940s, Teddy made the club look like something from a Humphrey Bogart movie.

  Tate wondered if he should read something more into the meet taking place at the Orchid. He didn’t like going alone into a situation where someone was already a step ahead of him.

  * * *

  The vivid neon sign of the Blue Orchid cast a rainbow of colors on the street below as Tate’s taxi pulled up. The club’s doorman opened the taxi door as Tate paid the driver and got out.

  Teddy had taken a liking to Tate and had instructed his staff to give him VIP treatment, which included not having to wait in line to get in.

  “Evening, Mr. Jack,” said the doorman.

  “Hello, Rocko,” said Tate.

  Rocko, the Orchid’s doorman and bouncer tipped his hat with a gloved hand. “It’s good to see you again,” he said in his deep rumble of a voice.

  Tate mused at the amount of cloth used to make a doorman’s coat big enough to fit this giant man. It could double as a ship’s sail.

  “We haven’t seen you in a while, Mr. Jack. The Commodore will be pleased you’re back.”

  They walked up the wide steps, and Rocko opened the club door for him.

  Tate heard angry shouts over the music spilling from the club. Across the street were twenty or thirty people milling around.

  In the streetlight, Tate could see they carried signs. “U.S.A invaders” said one. “Fight American land grab” said another.

  As the United States continued its program of clearing out Vix and the resettlement of South American survivors, protests like this were becoming larger and more frequent. To them, the Vix outbreak was a smoke screen created by power-hungry corporations.

  It’d been two years and the world was still picking itself up from the incomprehensible destruction of the Vix outbreak, yet many refused to believe the evidence. To them, it was a masterpiece of all conspiracies.

  In spite of the resistance, the resettlement program was working. When Tate considered the scale of the operation, it was a wonder it hadn’t turned into a giant government disaster.

  Accessibility was key in the sweep and clear strategy of reclaiming territory from the Vix. AVF elements would move along the northern coast, reclaiming ports which provided ocean freighters to deliver needed supplies.

  As AVF forces encountered survivors, they’d be treated for injuries, fed and cared for. Afterwards, they’d be processed through the resettlement program and relocated based on their skills.

  The complexities of undertaking this repopulation was not lost on the newly-formed Department of South America. It wasn’t as simple as moving chess pieces from one square to another. They were deciding the lives of people from diverse cultures, generations of traditions, national pride and more. That they had become American citizens was tougher to swallow than their country being wiped out by the living dead.

  U.N. Resolution 14982.c.

  Tate had been all over the world and witnessed the bond people felt for a patch of land. He empathized with the refugees, but there was no getting around the reality that the world had changed. Everyone had lost something, and no amount of denial would roll back the clock to the way things used to be. The life people had known was gone, never to return again.

  Tate looked at the dejected protesters, recognizing how futile their effort was.

  “Protesters,” said Rocko. “Some people aren’t happy South America’s under new management.”

  “What are they doing over there?” asked Tate. “Everything’s closed for the night.”

  “It’s the Orchid they’re protesting,” grinned Rocko. “They were marching right here. Like the Orchid’s got anything to do with anything. Then the Commodore saw what was going on and told me to escort them across the street.”

  “He sent just you to move thirty angry protesters?” said Tate, openly astonished.

  “Well,” chuckled Rocko, “there’s thirty of them now. They might have lost a few between here and the other side of the street.”

  “Persuaded by your natural charm?” said Tate.

  “Something like that,” said Rocko. “Have a good night, Mr. Jack.”

  “Thanks, Rocko,” said Tate. He handed the doorman a folded fifty-dollar bill without pretense.

  Rocko nodded and slipped the bill into his pocket without looking at it.

  Inside the Blue Orchid was as different as night and day from the outside world, which was exactly why Tate came here.

  Beyond the reception area, the club opened up into a large hall. Small tables covered with cream-colored linen filled the center floor. To the left was the bar, its rich, polished wood tastefully accented in brass. The bartender was particular about keeping it immaculate.

  On the other side of the hall, a row of booths offered a more private setting and further back was an open lounge of fat leather couches and club chairs. At the back was a stage, where bands would play 1940s music. Except for the stage, the lights were kept low, giving the club an air of intimacy. The lighting had the additional benefit of obscuring the wear and tear the place had seen over the years, but the club wore it well.

  Whatever small-talk Tate would have had with the pretty hostess vanished as Teddy Moon made his entrance.

  “Jack,” said Teddy. “The place hasn’t been the same without you. Welcome to the Blue Orchid.” His love of the 1940s was reflected in his appearance. He wore a white, three-piece suit with a vest. The lamp caught a subtle shadow pinstripe in the material of his jacket. His collared shirt was a rich, deep blue and his gold paisley tie matched the hanky in his breast pocket.

  “Thank you, Teddy,” said Jack, as Teddy warmly shook his hand.

 
Tate caught the scent of Teddy’s signature cologne; a mildly citrus smell with a warm mix of tobacco and leather.

  “Teddy? Jack, you’re always so formal,” he said. “Commodore, please. But, you’re not here to shoot the breeze with me tonight. The other member of your party is cooling his heels in the Falcon room.”

  The Orchid catered to a variety of customers and some of them preferred a higher level of privacy. Behind the open lounge was a door that lead to four, well furnished rooms where people could enjoy a private party, or in tonight’s case, conduct business. Each room was named, not surprisingly, from a Humphrey Bogart movie.

  Teddy lead Tate through the crowded club, greeting other customers along the way until they came to the door leading to the private rooms. Teddy waved away the well-dressed bouncer aside.

  “It’s none of my business,” said Teddy, which was his way of saying he was about to make it his business, “but your appointment brought along a tough guy. They know the rules. No rough stuff in my joint, but if you’d feel better with one of my men in there… consider it complements of the house.”

  Tate didn’t know how, but over the years Teddy had gotten a soft spot for him. Tate’s instincts told him that in spite of Teddy’s dapper, smiling appearance, you wouldn’t want him for an enemy.

  “That is very generous of you, Commodore,” he said. “I don’t see any reason for this to get hostile.” But, even as he said the words, he considered that Doctor Jer’s poking around the black market could have rattled the wrong cage. He could be walking into a meeting with one of the Suicide King’s people here to tie up a loose thread.

  “Stick around afterwards,” said Teddy. “I’ll keep a place open at the bar for you.”

  “Thanks,” said Tate.

  The door closed behind him and the lock slid in place with a soft click. His steps were noiseless on the plush carpet as he walked down the hallway. Red and gold striped velvet wallpaper lined the walls and art deco sconces lit the way.

  Tate paused at the door adorned with a brass plate, engraved with The Falcon Room, taking a moment to collect his thoughts then went inside. The first thing to catch Tate’s attention was the gorilla of a man standing at the other side of the room near a leather couch. He looked at Tate impassively through small, deep set eyes. The man’s black and white bowling shirt hung loosely over his bulky frame causing Tate to wonder if the shirt concealed a gun. The next surprise came as Tate shifted his view to the kid sitting in the middle of the couch. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen and he regarded Tate with a mixture of arrogance and amusement. Two upholstered chairs were separated from the couch by a low, wood table. Tate sat in the nearest chair. He and the kid regarded each other for a few moments until Tate decided to end what was beginning to feel like a game of who blinks first.

  “I’m looking for information about someone running coke,” said Tate. “They use a suicide king logo.”

  “That’s what I heard,” said the kid. “You don’t look like someone who belongs in that world.” He flicked his head, swinging his long, braided ponytail over his shoulder before leaning back against the couch.

  “I belong where ever I need to be,” said Tate.

  The kid made a show of chuckling, but it was so artificial Tate couldn’t help smirking. It was like watching a child in a school play. Tate’s expression clearly annoyed the kid.

  “You should be respectful, old man,” said the kid. “Mister Sergeant Major Jack Tate,” he said with mild contempt.

  Tate was more confused by the kid’s first statement than he was curious how the kid knew his name.

  “Respect is earned,” he said. “I don’t know you.”

  “We haven’t met, but you know me,” said the Kid. “I am Nesto San Roman. You work for me.”

  San Roman had been a small time nobody in the Colombian cartel operation. A nobody that was hungry to move up the ranks, but that’s not a ladder someone climbs quickly. His only chance to jump ahead would take a miraculous opportunity and it came on the backs of a storm of undead.

  The cartel was hit by the Vix outbreak as hard as any other business. While others were trying to stabilize the fractures wrought by the undead, San Roman saw an opening to leap frog into power. He paved the way with dead bodies and when he got there he held on to that power with a cold brutality that kept his enemies at a respectful distance.

  He and San Roman had crossed paths when Tate and his team were escaping an ambush. Tate’s attackers ran into San Roman’s soldiers who killed all but one of them. The surviving attacker said he had information about a spy in Tate’s unit and San Roman offered Tate a deal. Tate would be allowed to talk to the prisoner and in return Tate would warn San Roman about any military operations planned in his territory.

  Tate didn’t like it, but as the saying goes, needs must when the devil drives. Now San Roman was sitting across the room peering at Tate with cunning brown eyes. Tate was there to do business, but San Roman’s shrewd expression said he wanted to win a knife fight.

  “You’re pretty young to be a drug boss,” said Tate. If the kid wanted to play, Tate was up for it.

  The bodyguard stiffened at the affront to his boss, but didn’t move. At least he was trained to stay on his leash.

  San Roman frowned his indifference to the jab. “You’re pretty fat to be a soldier,” he said. “But I don’t care if you’re fat, or old, but when people double-cross me… That makes me very angry.”

  On cue the bodyguard pulled a silenced gun from under his shirt and aimed it at Tate’s face. Tate glanced at the bodyguard, keeping his expression flat and neutral. If San Roman was looking for fear, Tate would give him nothing. He’d had guns pointed at his head before. It scared the hell out of him each time, but showing fear was like giving permission to pull the trigger. He told himself if that bodyguard pulled the trigger he’d never feel a thing, and left it at that.

  “What are you talking about?” said Tate, unfazed.

  “I let you interrogate my prisoner,” said San Roman, “MINE, and you stole him. From me.”

  After Tate had interrogated San Roman’s prisoner he’d let him go. Tate used the cover story the prisoner had been killed trying to escape. There were only a handful of people who knew what really happened and Tate was about to bet his life that none of them had sold him out.

  Tate didn’t think San Roman knew the real facts, but had doubts about the cover story. He suspected San Roman was fishing for a confession.

  “The last time I saw him,” said Tate calmly, “he was tied to a chair with a bloody face, but he was there. That’s the last time I saw him. What happened? Did you lose your prisoner?”

  “I didn’t lose anyone,” said San Roman, sitting forward and pointing a finger at Tate. “When my man returned from that meeting, he said my prisoner tried to escape and he killed him. Dumped the body in a river.”

  Tate decided that if San Roman hadn’t given his bodyguard the order to shoot by now, he didn’t have any evidence of the truth.

  “And you think I was able to take your prisoner from your guards and right-hand man and then convince him to lie to you, his boss,” said Tate. “If that was true, you have a bigger problem than me. Your guard’s worthless and your right-hand man is a traitor.”

  San Roman stared at Tate with smoldering frustration. Without a confession he had nothing to back up his suspicions. Tate knew San Roman’s type. Distrustful, reckless and unflinchingly violent. But, he was hungry for status and power and Tate was too valuable a prize to lose over vague doubts.

  “Maybe you’re right,” said San Roman, “and that would be bad for many people… including you. I think, in my head, that you played a trick on me, but that’s okay because now I know you better.” San Roman tapped the side of his head with a grin. “A clever man like you is a useful thing. I think we can be useful together. You are looking for information about this?”

  San Roman tossed a small pistol on the table with a thud. Tate gave a meaningful l
ook at the bodyguard. San Roman gestured to the guard who tucked his gun under his ample shirt. Satisfied, Tate picked up the pistol. Out of habit he pulled back the slide to confirm it wasn’t loaded then examined the gun more closely. Painted on the grip was the logo for the Suicide King.

  Tate hadn’t seen a drug manufacturer brand their guns before, and he was beginning to think he was after a different breed of cat.

  “Okay,” said Tate, nodding his head with a chuckle. “I get it now. This guy’s competition, and you want me to do what? Take him down for you? Not a chance. He’s your problem. You deal with it.”

  San Roman’s face flushed red. He was on his feet in an instant with a gun pointed inches from Tate’s head. “You will show me respect,” he sputtered, “you fat, old gringo, or I’ll paint the wall with your brains.”

  San Roman was holding a four-inch barrel, Rhino .357 revolver and at this range he couldn’t miss. Tate had been prodding to see how far he could push the kid and now he found it. San Roman was gripping the gun so hard his knuckles were white and the gun trembled. His anger was screaming for him to pull the trigger.

  “You’re right,” said Tate, as he slowly raised his hands. “I apologize.”

  “You’re damn right, bitch,” spat San Roman. He stood over Tate with his hand-cannon in Tate’s face for a while longer until his anger suddenly evaporated. He sat back on the couch with an amused smile on his face as if nothing had happened.

  Why do I get all the psychotic ones? Tate wondered to himself.

  Tate had pushed the edge with San Roman. Now it was time for him to be respectful and give San Roman’s ego plenty of open ground to run. He’d shown up to learn about the Suicide King, but having San Roman in front of him gave him a rare opportunity to study his counterpart close up and personal. Know thine enemy.

  “You will not like what I know about the Suicide King,” said San Roman. “And the rumors I have been hearing, you will like even less.”