The Final Twist

by Jeffery Deaver

  Russell was on his phone, checking GPS.

  Pepper said, “I hope it’s a damn big reward you’re after.”

  “No reward.”

  “So. Last week you nearly got killed in a cult and there was no reward. And now you’re tap-dancing with the crews in Hunters Point, and there’s no reward.”

  Shaw said, “Sums it up.”

  “Good luck. Nice meeting you, Russell.”

  “Same.”

  Shaw disconnected. “Which first?”

  “Hmm. Bikers’re closer.”

  26

  As they drove through the streets, both residential and commercial, Shaw looked around him. Hunters Point had always borne the brunt of commerce unwelcome in other parts of the city. At one time it was acres upon acres of slaughterhouses, power plants, tanneries and shipyards, all of which dumped waste into the land, the air and the water of the western Bay.

  A hard place, battered and grubby, the Point was only somewhat improved over its nineteenth-century incarnation. Part workaday industrial, part slowly emerging residential and retail redevelopment, part weedy fields and labyrinthine foundations cleared of superstructure. Quite the mix: they drove by a series of vacant lots and a burned-out building right next to which was a small, Victorian-style opera house, painted bright green. Just past that was a construction site on which a sign announced this would be the future home of a division of a well-known internet company, whose headquarters was about fifteen miles south, on the eastern edge of Silicon Valley.

  They soon spotted their destination. Lou’s was the name of the bar and it was right out of central set design for a 1960s chopped-cycle movie. Peeling paint, grimy windows, a few unsteady tables and less steady chairs out in front, presently unoccupied. Two Harleys and a Moto Guzzi cycle leaned at the curb.

  Russell parked and the two men got out, adjusting jacket and coat to make sure their pistols were invisible.

  The interior of the bar was dim and smelled of Lysol and cigarette smoke. The only décor, aside from the ignored no smoking sign, was old and fly-specked posters of surfers—more women than men—along with a wooden Nazi iron cross and a picture of Berchtesgaden, Hitler’s mountain retreat.

  There were a half-dozen Bayneck crew sitting at three tables. They’d been talking, before they turned en masse to gape at the newcomers. Breakfast beers, in bottles, and coffee mugs clustered on the scarred table. Four of them were classic bikers: huge and inked, with long frizzy beards and hair to the shoulders or in ponytails. Their cloth of choice was denim. The remaining two—slimmer—had shaved heads. One wore a Pendleton flannel shirt, the other a T-shirt under a bomber jacket. Both were in Doc Martens boots. One had a skateboard at his feet. Shaw knew that in this gang culture, extreme sports like boarding and, his own, motocross, were popular.

  The smallest of the bearded men—marginally the oldest, Shaw estimated—looked them over and said in a gravelly voice, “Well, you’re here for some reason. They don’t letcha wear face hair like that in the Bureau or SFPD so this’s about something else. Maybe you’re with an organization”—he rolled the word out, adding an extra syllable or two—“that might have a contrary interest to ours.”

  Shaw noticed the bartender, a stocky man, balding, drop his hands below the level of the bar. And one of the shaved-headed men casually put his hand on his thigh. “This’s a private club. Why don’t you get the fuck out?”

  Russell unbuttoned his jacket.

  Shaw said, “Who’s got the MGX-21?”

  It was a top-of-the-line Moto Guzzi, and a beautiful cycle. The body was black and the cylinder head and front brake pad bright red.

  The leader of the gang cut a glance to the bartender, whose hands became visible once more.

  “Mine,” said the biggest of the bikers.

  “Hundred horses?” Shaw asked.

  “Close enough. You ride?”

  “I do.”

  “Bike?”

  Shaw said, “Yamaha.”

  “XV1900?”

  This was the largest Yamaha in production.

  “Smaller.”

  “Figured,” the leader said, both grunting and snickering simultaneously.

  The leader said, “Now that we’re done comparing dicks, why don’t you take my young associate’s advice.” He nodded to the door.

  Russell said, “We’re looking for somebody. If you can help us it’ll be worth something for you.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  Russell said, “I’m reaching for my phone.” He did this very slowly. He held out the picture of Blond.

  The man wouldn’t know he was looking at a dead man. Karin had yet another talent apparently: Photoshop. She’d removed the bullet hole and adjusted the eyes a bit. Apparently there was a filter called “Liquify,” Russell had explained, which gave the deceased man a bit of a smile. The image was grotesque only if you knew the truth.

  “He scammed our mother out of twenty K,” Russell added.

  The brothers had prepared what they thought was a credible story, Russell providing most of the material. After all, he was the one who had been the director of the “mugging” theater outside of the safe house yesterday morning.

  The leader frowned. Whatever this gang did for a living, robbing mothers was apparently off the table.

  Shaw said, “We know he’s some connection with a crew here. You get us his real name and who he runs with, there’s a thousand in it for you. So, he wear your colors?”

  The six men looked at the picture again, then regarded one another.

  The leader said, “Not one of us. Never seen him.”

  The others agreed. Shaw believed they were telling the truth. There had not been a single flash of recognition in any eye.

  Russell put his phone away.

  The Bayneck in the flannel shirt—a twitchy man—said, “I think our looking was worth something.” It was he who’d placed his hand on his thigh earlier, and the fingers now moved closer to where his weapon would rest.

  For a very long moment not a soul moved.

  Then the biggest of the bikers said, “Naw, forget it. Too early for that kind of shit. And I ain’t finished but one beer yet. So I’m not in any mood.”

  The leader said, “All I’ll say is why weren’t you looking after your mother? Two grown men like you. Sad. Now, get on out.”

  27

  Now the SUV was cruising through a different part of the district.

  They were on their way to the Hudson Kings’ headquarters.

  They were near the waterfront and Shaw looked out on the dark water at the decommissioned Hunters Point Naval Shipyard, dominated by the massive gantry crane that bore a skeletal resemblance to the battleships whose turrets it lifted off so that the cannon could be replaced fast. A huge civilian and naval shipbuilding and repair facility for more than a hundred years, the yard was now closed and parcels were being sold off for condominiums and commercial buildings—that is, if and when the land was decontaminated. The place was a Superfund toxic waste site and much of it was still tainted, including by radioactive materials. It was from this shipyard that the USS Indianapolis sailed to the Mariana Islands, its cargo parts for Little Boy and Fat Man, the atomic bombs that were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in August of 1945.

  Cleanup was a big business here. Many small craft operated by a company called BayPoint Enviro-Sure Solutions were collecting drums with hazard warnings stenciled on the sides. The workers were wearing so much protective gear, they looked like astronauts laboring on the moon.

  Russell turned and steered away from the water. A moment later he pointed to a storefront. “That’s it.”

  There was nowhere to park nearby so he drove a block and a half farther, and pulled to the curb. The brothers climbed out and started to walk toward the storefront.

  A trio of rats slipped fro
m an abandoned warehouse nearby and nonchalantly vanished into a drain.

  “Yo, you buying, man?”

  The voice belonged to a skinny young man sitting on an unsteady chair in front of a dubious shop selling prepaid phones and minutes cards, along with vaping paraphernalia. Two figures inside were speaking into flip cells.

  The brothers moved on without responding.

  Some kids, from teens to mid-twenties, were clustered together on the corner between the brothers and the social club. They were smoking joints, a few cigarettes. The clothing was hoodies and T-shirts and baggy slacks. Their running shoes were nice, and the hairstyles ranged from shaved to elaborate works of art. A few wore medallions, chains and other bling. They looked over the white men walking slowly past and grew energized, whispering and snickering. They were assessing the men as easy targets: beard on one, slim build on another.

  Three of the crew broke from the clutch and strode up the sidewalk, stepping in front of and stopping Shaw and his brother.

  “You need directions? I give you directions. You know what I’m saying? C-note, and I give you directions.”

  “You lost? They lost.”

  “What you about, man?” A young man got right in Shaw’s face.

  The brothers had no time for a fight.

  Never resort to violence unless you have no alternative.

  Ashton might have added: especially with foolish teenagers.

  Two others joined the trio. The newcomers postured, gesturing broadly with bony hands. The grins were cold.

  Courage in numbers isn’t courage.

  “I’m talking to you an’ you ignoring me. That rude.”

  “Is Kevin Miller around?” Russell asked.

  They fell silent.

  Shaw said, “It’s all good. We’ve got money for him.”

  The skinniest of them—a boy of about fifteen or sixteen—said, “I’ll take it to him. Save you the trouble, you know what I’m saying?”

  It was then someone else joined the clutch. A tall, lanky man in his mid-thirties. His face was wrinkled and he bore tats in the shape of teardrops near his eyes. They could signify either a long prison term or that he’d committed murder.

  The boys glanced at him with a measure of respect.

  “Yo, Kevin!”

  “What up, Kevin?”

  Signs were flashed, fists bumped.

  So this was Tom Pepper’s O.G.—original gangster—one who had earned his colors years ago and managed to survive life on the street.

  “My man.”

  “Dog.”

  Both Shaw and Russell looked at him, holding his gaze steadily. Neither of the brothers said anything. Eyes still on the interlopers, Kevin said to the crew, “Right. Everybody, move off.”

  “But . . .” one protested.

  A brief glance was all it took. The kids cast murderous looks toward Shaw and Russell but headed down the sidewalk.

  “You wanted me, you got me.” Kevin swiveled back, smooth, looking them over. “You L.E.?”

  “We’re not law.”

  A squinting assessment. “No. You don’t smell law. How’d you get my name?”

  “Tom Pepper vouched.”

  Kevin nodded. The teardrop beneath his eye was inked well. A bit of skin showed through the black and gave the image three dimensions.

  Russell displayed Blond’s doctored picture. “We’re trying to find this man. He’s got a connection with a crew here, Hunters Point, Bayview.”

  “That hair, it ain’t normal.”

  Blond’s complexion had grown lighter in death but the hairdo remained as brightly jaundiced as ever.

  “I’ve got a thousand, if you help us out.”

  “Why here? He’s white.”

  Shaw asked, “Don’t you do business with everybody—regardless of race, creed, et cetera.”

  Kevin chuckled. “Talk to the rednecks.”

  “We did. They don’t know him.”

  “Lemme see that picture again.”

  Russell displayed it.

  The O.G. nodded with a thoughtful frown. “Sorry, brother. No idea. And I’m as connected as they come.”

  “Any other crews here?” Russell asked.

  “Nothing righteous. Some franchises from Salinas keep flirting with the shorefront, north. They show up, we discourage them. They go away. They come back. You know what it is. All right. I got business.” He looked at Shaw. “Tom Pepper. He was okay. Fair man. Good thing he still with us.”

  Kevin returned to the social club, and the men to the SUV. “We could canvass here a week and that’s the only answer we’re ever going to get. There’s got to be a better way,” Shaw said.

  “Yeah. Find the courier bag. Use it as leverage to stop BlackBridge.” Russell started the big engine.

  Shaw looked out the passenger window. He saw one of the young men who’d confronted them on the street—one of the skinnier, with a shaved head. The kid stood on a pile of rubble about thirty feet away. He reached up under his burgundy hoodie as he stared toward the vehicle with a demeaning smile.

  Shaw tensed and his hand went toward his hip.

  Russell glanced his brother’s way.

  Suddenly, the kid’s hand zipped from under the sweatshirt and, with his fingers formed like a pistol, pointed at Shaw and mimicked firing, the hand jerking back in recoil. The smile vanished. His hand tightened into a fist and the next gesture involved a single finger. He clambered down the rubble heap and vanished.

  Shaw said, “Let’s pick up on Ashton’s leads. Burlingame first.”

  “Put it in GPS.”

  Shaw pulled out his phone, then paused as he looked over the screen. “Not yet. Braxton and Droon are on the move.”

  28

  The GPS tracker hidden in the spine of Henry David Thoreau’s meditation on self-sufficiency had led them back to the Tenderloin.

  They were not far from where Shaw’s unexpected reward job—to locate Tessy Vasquez—had begun.

  Russell parked the SUV in a spot in front of a dilapidated retail storefront, closed now. The window bills pleaded for lessees. A homeless man, wrapped in a gray blanket, slept in the doorway. A few dollar bills peeked from under the corner of his covering. Russell knelt and pushed them out of sight. Shaw had been about to do the same.

  Orienting himself, glancing around the neighborhood, then at the GPS app, Shaw pointed to an alley.

  The brothers declined an offer from a pale young woman in her early twenties and they stepped over another man, about the same age, unconscious and lying in the mouth of the alley. He too was presumably homeless, though his clothes were more or less clean and he didn’t have any of the accoutrements that most street people possess: bags, shopping cart, blankets, extra clothing. Was he dead?

  Russell apparently caught his brother’s thought. He nudged the man’s arm with his shoe and got a reaction. Three doors away was a storefront of a community outreach service. Shaw walked to it and stepped inside. A thin man of about fifty in a clerical collar looked up and offered a pleasant smile. “Help you?”

  “There’re two men, up the street, passed out. Maybe you’ve got somebody who could help. One’s drunk, I think, but the other one might’ve OD’d. Out the door to the right.”

  He rose and called into the back room, “Rosie, come on and bring your bag.” He said to Shaw, “Terrible. Overdoses’re up fifty percent in the past couple months, and we’ve got a gang injunction here. I don’t know what’s going on.”

  The Urban Improvement Plan is what’s going on.

  Shaw returned to his brother and they proceeded down the alley, with Russell behind, checking for threats from that direction, just as Shaw did in the front. This was instinctive.

  Never believe your enemies aren’t pursuing you.

  At the far end of the moist,
soiled passage, they found themselves on the edge of a large area—taking up several blocks—that was in the process of being cleared. Bulldozers and backhoes, their yellow and black paint jobs spattered with mud, sat unoccupied, parked in the north section of the space. The site was a mix of partially demolished buildings and vacant ground. Pits of oily standing water shimmered and modest mountains of scrap materials from the destroyed buildings dotted the landscape. The terrain was light in color, almost beige. The soil would be clay.

  In the center of the flattened area sat a black SUV, a Cadillac Escalade. The GPS indicated that it was the source of the pings. Braxton probably had with her a briefcase or backpack containing the material she’d stolen from Shaw’s camper the other day, including the bugged book.

  The Escalade’s doors opened and Droon, who was the driver, and Braxton climbed out. They looked around—Russell and Shaw crouched behind a pile of scrap wood and plasterboard. When they rose and looked again, the pair from BlackBridge was in a heads-down conversation. Droon was nodding.

  Another car pulled in and the two BlackBridge employees looked up. It was a Rolls-Royce, dark red. The sleek vehicle eased slowly over the uneven ground and parked, side by side with the Caddie.

  No doors opened.

  Braxton took a phone call.

  Droon stretched and lit a cigarette.

  Russell took out his phone, snapped some pictures, then put it back. “Look at the tags.”

  On the Rolls there was a sheet of white cardboard or plastic over the license plate. The illegal obfuscation would be only temporary; as soon as they hit the street, the driver would pause and pull off the rectangle.

  Who was the visitor?

  Braxton disconnected and the driver of the Rolls, a huge Asian man in a black suit, got out. He looked around, necessitating another dodge by the brothers. Then he opened the back passenger side door. The man who climbed out was of fair complexion, short, balding and round. He wore a pinstripe suit, navy blue, a pink shirt and a wide burgundy tie. A white handkerchief exploded from the breast pocket. His white-rimmed glasses were oversize and the lenses square—maybe stylish, maybe necessary for a serious vision malady. His expression suggested irritation or impatience.