by Brian Drake
“No trouble here, Wolf,” the bartender said.
“I want to talk with Mason. Tell him to come out and there won’t be any trouble.”
“He’s not here.”
“Where else would he be?” Wolf glanced at the back-office door, where a small camera hung above the door frame.
“He’s out--hey, stop!”
Wolf moved briskly along the bar. The bartender shouted, “Stop!” again and pumped a shotgun. Wolf spun around with the .45 out and pointed at the bartender’s left eye.
“You didn’t get up this morning to go home in a box,” Wolf said.
The bartender swallowed a lump, put down the shotgun and raised his hands.
Wolf winked and pushed through the office door. Nate Mason sat behind his cluttered desk with folded arms. He’d been watching the exchange on a black-and-white TV monitor.
“Thought he had you dead-bang,” Mason said.
“You’d have liked that.”
“You took twenty big ones from me the other night. How am I going to collect if you’re dead?”
“You can have it back,” Wolf said. “I don’t need it. But I’m not giving it back unless you provide something in return.”
Mason cocked his head to one side. “What?”
“Who wants me dead?”
“Maybe half a dozen guys.”
“So, tell me.”
“Can’t tell you what I don’t know, Wolf,” Mason said, but his cocky grin said otherwise.
“You’re lying.”
“Yeah, maybe I am. Maybe I heard a story in the bar. I hear lots of things in the bar.”
“Tell it.”
“You’re in the way. You and another guy.”
“In the way of what and who’s the other guy?”
“You got a pal named Harry Ames, right?”
Wolf frowned. He hadn’t heard anybody say that name in a long time, not since Harry had gone to prison for stealing cars. Prior to that, Wolf had helped him out of another jam. And prior to that, Harry knew Wolf in his past life. They had grown up together.
“What about Harry?”
“He’s getting out of the slammer today. He’s on the kill list, too.”
“I’m losing my patience,” Wolf said, leaning across the desk. “Who?”
“I don’t know who, okay? That’s all I heard. Somebody wants you and Harry dead so they can pull off some caper, sounded like something Harry was into before he went to jail, okay?”
Wolf went around the desk and punched Mason once. Mason’s face slammed into the desk. He grabbed his head, spitting curses between painful moans.
“That’s all I know!”
“It better be. Or I’m coming back here.”
“When you come back you better have my money.”
Wolf laughed and headed for the door. “I’ll put a bow on it.”
Wolf considered the story as he drove. The chewing gum kept the wind from whistling so only the engine noise mingled with his thoughts.
Neither Harry nor his girlfriend, Maggie, had sent word about needing more help. If Harry didn’t know he was a marked man, he couldn’t very well sound the alarm just yet. Wolf needed to get to him first. On the freeway, his cell rang. It was a disposable cell that he used only to communicate with Callaway, and the inspector’s number showed up on the caller ID.
“Yeah.”
“Come to the morgue,” Callaway said. “I got another stiff for you.”
A chill went up Wolf’s back.
“Do I know him?”
“He’s a pal of yours, yeah.”
Wolf’s scarred face remained still as Inspector Callaway pulled the morgue drawer open. The metal track moaned. Wolf looked at the wrapped body as a mist of chilled air touched his cheeks. The detective unzipped the body bag and exposed the dead man’s face. Wolf moved more of the bag aside to reveal the jagged lightning bolt tattoo on the dead man’s left shoulder. He tilted his head to the side and said: “That’s Harry.”
“You’re all broken up.”
Wolf eyed the inspector.
Inspector John Callaway shoved the drawer closed. The gold ring on his finger twinkled from the overhead light. “Okay, you did what I asked. Let’s go talk about it.”
Wolf turned for the door, pushed through.
The inspector caught up and said: “Harry Ames corresponded only with you and his girlfriend the five years he was away. On the day he’s released somebody shoots him on the sidewalk. Why?”
“I’m wondering that myself.”
Wolf reached for the exit door and Callaway grabbed his arm. “I’m serious.”
Wolf twisted out of the grip and put a hand on the cold metal crash bar. “I’m hungry,” he said.
They went outside and walked half a block to a hot dog vendor. They took their hot dogs to a nearby bench. A nearby tree filtered the sunlight.
“So?” Callaway said.
Between bites Wolf relayed his conversation with Nate Mason. The inspector listened but said nothing until he’d finished eating.
“Okay, you know you’re on the right track,” the inspector said. “I’m sorry about your friend.”
Wolf wadded up the hot dog wrapper and tossed it in the trashcan to his right. He stood up. “Be seeing you.”
Callaway watched him go.
Wolf spent the rest of the day playing poker and didn’t return home until late. He’d lost every cent he brought to the game. He had wanted a distraction; that had been impossible. He parked his car at the curb beneath the humming streetlamp, in front of his apartment building. A few cars rumbled up the road. Wolf looked up at the half moon. When he lowered his gaze, he saw a black sedan parked down the street. One man sat inside, watching him. Wolf shook his head and went up the steps to his second-floor apartment and went in. The place still smelled of fried eggs and bacon from breakfast. On the dusty table to his left he placed his wallet and keys and flicked a light switch.
“’Bout time you got back.”
Wolf turned. Two men sat in his living room. One occupied his worn plaid recliner and had a fat mole on his left cheek and wore a shirt too tight for his round belly. The other lounged on the couch with Wolf’s copy of Scuba with the front cover folded back. The second man had a mop of red hair. Both looked at him with dark eyes.
The man with the mole had spoken and raised his arm to show Wolf a gun.
“We were just about to leave,” he said. “Frankie said five more minutes. I think he just wanted to finish whatever he was reading.”
“I’m going to have to visit Monterey,” the redhead, Frankie, said, holding up the magazine. “Looks really nice.”
Wolf grunted.
“Take off your jacket,” Mole Man said. Wolf removed his coat and dropped it on the carpet. He raised his arms, rotated, faced the two men.
“I don’t have a gun,” Wolf said.
“And I give to Make-A-Wish.”
Frankie put the magazine down and came over to Wolf and clamped one hand on the flesh between Wolf’s neck and shoulder, pressing hard. Wolf winced, stiffening, and the redhead ran his other hand up and down Wolf’s body. He stepped away. “Clean, Mal.”
“Good,” Mal the Mole Man said. He stood up.
“You’re not here to shoot me,” Wolf said.
“Perceptive. No. We wanted you and Harry out of the way--especially you--but Harry didn’t have what we wanted. So that means the contract is cancelled because now we need you alive. So, where are they?”
“Where’s what?”
“The letters. We want the letters.”
“And I’d like to get back the money I lost tonight.”
“The cards weren’t good to you? That’s too bad. Texas Hold-‘em or Stud?”
“Stud,” Wolf said.
“I like stud poker,” Mal said. “I think Texas Hold-‘em has ruined the game. Everybody and his uncle is playing Texas Hold-‘em.”
“Are,” Wolf said.
“What?”
&nb
sp; “Everybody and his uncle are playing Texas Hold-‘em.”
“Oh, you’re a grammar cop, is that it? Frankie, show him what we do with grammar cops.”
The redhead moved his upper body and Wolf braced for a punch, but the other man lashed out with a kick instead. The redhead’s leather shoe smashed into Wolf’s belly. Breath rushed from Wolf’s mouth; he hit the floor hard. The redhead took a step, slammed another kick into Wolf’s side. Wolf couldn’t breathe, started to roll. The redhead bent a little and punched Wolf in the face.
Wolf lay on his back, curled, sucking air. Spots filled his spinning vision. His body throbbed. He clenched his teeth and groaned.
“Ask him again, Frankie.”
The redhead stepped closer. His foot came back. Wolf uncoiled his body and grabbed the redhead’s ankle, twisting, and the redhead thudded down. Wolf crawled over and pumped his fists into the redhead’s body. The man had hard muscle beneath his clothes. Wolf punched harder. Sweat dripped into his eyes.
Mal the Mole Man said, “Hey!”
The redhead’s coat fell open, revealing a shoulder-holstered automatic, and Wolf snatched out the gun. He sprang to his feet, snapped back the gun’s action, and covered the Mole Man. He kept his teeth clenched, holding his side.
The redhead started to get up. Wolf put a foot on his face and pressed hard. The redhead made a hurt sound.
Wolf said: “I oughta shoot you both and be done but I’m sure you’re only the small fry and I want the big fish. I also promised my landlady there would be no more killings in my apartment.”
Wolf stepped back and Frankie rolled over and pushed to his feet. He eyed Wolf without blinking. His eyes went to the automatic. “I want my gun.”
“I’ll give it back after show-and-tell tomorrow,” Wolf said.
The Mole Man and Frankie reached the door and went out. Frankie glared back at Wolf, but he didn’t try to take his gun back.
Wolf leaned against the wall a moment, and then set the gun on the table with his wallet and keys. It was a well-worn Browning Hi-Power. A flash of gold on the back strap caught his eye. There were words engraved and inlaid with gold. To Frankie from Fifi with Love. Wolf laughed. He surveyed his apartment. Nothing seemed out of place or damaged.
He picked up the scuba magazine and shoved it in the trash. He took a bottle of Anchor Steam from the clanking fridge and sat at the kitchen table, planting a foot on one of the legs to keep the table from wobbling. He drank some beer. What letters? Wolf’s brow furrowed and he took the bottle into the second bedroom, which he’d set up with a desk and bookcases.
From a desk drawer he removed a folder and sorted through letters post-marked from the state prison. Harry’s letters. He read through them. None of Harry’s jabbering provided a clue. They all mentioned Maggie, his girlfriend. Wolf read the last letter and noticed what looked like doodles drawn in the margin and the word Emerald above the scribbles.
Wolf brought the folder back to the kitchen and looked out the window. What secret did the letters hold?
Wolf tried the Starbucks where Maggie worked, having to stand in line with the rest of the morning crowd. The line went out the door. When Wolf finally had a chance to ask about Maggie, a coworker told him she hadn’t shown up for her shift. Wolf took his green tea and drove to her apartment; when she didn’t answer, he picked the lock and went inside, loudly announcing his arrival. He froze in the doorway and heard her sobs from the living room. Wolf found her curled up on the couch in the spartan one-bedroom, the furniture used and worn, spots dotting the carpet. She seemed relieved when she saw him. She sat up and scooted over to make room, wiping her eyes with the back of one hand.
“We’re going to find out who did this,” Wolf said.
“Uh-huh.”
“They’ve already tried for me,” he said. He gave her the rundown.
Her eyes widened. “Am I a target, too?”
“More than likely. When you weren’t at work, I was afraid they’d got you first.”
“And they want his letters?”
“I think they snatched him as soon as he hit the street, and when he couldn’t give them what they wanted, they shot him. That’s when I suddenly became more valuable alive than dead. Luckily for them I’m hard to kill.
“I read the letters Harry sent me,” Wolf continued, “and couldn’t see why they’re so important. Did you two have a code he may have hidden in the text?”
“I don’t think either of us is that smart.”
“Do you still have the letters he sent?”
“Of course.”
“Here?”
“No, safe deposit box.”
“At the bank?”
“It’s a girl thing,” she said.
Wolf put his arm around her and squeezed. “We gotta get going. Pack a few things. You’re staying with me until this is over.”
She jumped up and went down the hall to her bedroom. Wolf remained seated and stared at a spot on the carpet. The spot offered neither answers nor insight. He stared at it anyway and let his mind wander.
Presently Maggie announced she was ready, and they hit the road.
Wolf had driven halfway down the block when Maggie said: “Why do you have bubblegum stuck in that hole?”
Wolf stood guard near the safe deposit area in the back corner of Maggie’s bank, ignoring curious looks from customers who weren’t sure a man with a rough face, dressed in black, should be there. None of the bank staff bothered him. She emerged with a wrapped bundle of envelopes and they drove to Wolf’s apartment. He scanned the block as they exited the car. No sign of surveillance, but that didn’t mean anything. Frankie and Mal and their friends could be anywhere. Wolf didn’t want to stay long and figured a move was in order. Too many bad guys knew where he lived.
While Wolf packed a few supplies and clothes, Maggie sat at the kitchen table and read all the letters beginning to end. When she finished, she found Wolf in his bedroom zipping a suitcase closed.
“Why did you keep the letters, Wolf?”
He turned to her. “If you read them you know why.”
“You’ve known Harry longer than me.”
“We grew up together. He knew me before I became the man I am now.”
“So, when you helped us last time, that wasn’t just a job, was it?”
“No,” Wolf said. “I came out here to change my life. Harry came out here to get away from the heat back home. I wish he had followed my example, but you can’t make a man do what he doesn’t want to do.”
She bit her lower lip.
Wolf pulled the locket up from his shirt. “Harry’s sister gave me this.”
“I didn’t even know he had one.”
“She’s gone.” Wolf tucked the locket away.
She swallowed the lump in her throat.
Wolf said: “Did you find anything we could use?”
“No.”
Wolf frowned. “Who did Harry work with when he was stealing cars?”
“The only name I remember is Oscar Lane,” she said. “They used to do a lot of drinking together. I don’t know where to find him.”
“Shouldn’t be hard if he’s still in the city.” He grabbed his suitcase. “Let’s get out of here.”
She continued reading the letters in the car, shifting between ones written to her and then to Wolf.
“Did you notice the doodles in the margins?” she said.
“Yeah, chicken scratches.”
“Mine have them too. Is that a clue?”
“Might be.”
Wolf pulled up in front of the Carlton Hotel downtown and let the valet park the Cadillac. He secured a two-room suite on one of the upper floors. Maggie chose a bedroom and began unpacking while Wolf left his suitcase on the couch.
“I’m going out,” Wolf told Maggie once they had unpacked. “I want you to stay put. You can leave the room but do not leave the hotel. Do not make any calls.”
“Can I breathe?”
“Through one
nostril only.” He grinned.
She let out a short laugh. “I needed that.”
“We have to stay under the radar,” he said. “Order whatever you want from room service if you get hungry.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m gonna track down Oscar Lane and anybody else Harry knew. Somebody always knows something.”
Wolf drove in circles for half an hour, checking for tails, making sudden changes in direction. Nobody followed him. What were Mal and Frankie waiting for? What were they organizing behind the scenes?
Wolf parked across the street from a small corner restaurant with open air seating in front. He walked past the patrons enjoying the sun and wandered to the back of the place. Concrete floor, rough wooden tables on wobbly legs, odd-looking art adorning the walls; it wasn’t a classy place, but the food was good. Wolf found Charlie Mott inhaling a plate of greasy tacos. The fat man sat in a back corner, alone. Wolf pulled a chair from another table and sat down in front of the other man.
Mott swallowed a big bite and wiped his mouth with a well-used napkin. “Hiya, Wolf.” He licked the stubby fingers on his right hand and extended the hand to Wolf.
Wolf said: “Pardon if I don’t shake.”
Mott laughed. “What brings you here?”
Charlie Mott wrote the gossip column for the city’s newspaper. He knew almost everything going on around town and had plenty of sources lined up to fill any gaps.
“Where do I find Oscar Lane?”
“That dumb cuss? He keeps a low profile these days. Runs a gambling concession for the Chicago Outfit, somewhere downtown.”
“He kicks back to Gulino and Sanchez?”
“Right. He’s square with them. No trouble.”
“Would anybody want him out of the way?”
“Don’t know. Is somebody working an angle?”
“I’m not sure yet.” Wolf explained the situation.
“Fascinating,” Mott said. He took another big bite, slurping loose pieces of shredded meat into his mouth. Drippings trickled down his chin. He wiped with the napkin. “Can I buy you some chow?”
Wolf said: “Not right now. Did Lane take over the concession before or after Harry went to jail?”
