The Dangerous Mr Wolf

by Brian Drake

  Wolf drank his beer and listened for any nuggets from the conversation.

  Scott Palakis entered the bar and zeroed on the back booth like a heat seeking missile. Brock waited for him, his hand on a beer. On the other side of the table sat an unattended glass of scotch. Scott sat down and sipped the scotch.

  Brock said, “I figured you’d need it.”

  “I was at Dad’s for dinner, but he spent most of his time on the phone. Then you called. I had to lie about a meeting tomorrow to get out of there. What’s so urgent?”

  “Your Dad’s made his own moves,” the detective said. “My people back east say one of Califano’s enforcers has come out to help.”

  Scott cursed.

  “The three of us need to be scarce the next few weeks,” Brock said. “I’m going to have to reach Alexa in person, I can’t get her on the phone. And I mean scarce, Scott. Gone. Until this is over.”

  “One way or another.”

  “Right,” Brock said. He dropped a pair of twenties on the table. “Have a few more on me. And don’t tell me where you’re going.” The detective headed for the exit.

  Scott waved at a passing waiter and ordered another drink. He didn’t see the tall man in a long black coat follow Brock outside.

  Scott Palakis sat in the booth but didn’t hear the country music or taste the Johnny Walker. He couldn’t think of a place to hide and his mind began to drift. He thought of the chain of events which led him to Detective Harry Brock.

  Scott was still living at home when the accident occurred. He’d been up late on a Saturday, studying, and went downstairs, where he found his father leaning against the wall near the door to the garage, his head down, left hand covering that side of his face. Scott approached to see what was wrong, but his father waved him off. With his right hand. Drank a little too much at Bev’s party, he said. Just a little light-headed. Should have used the car service. Scott carried on with his evening and his father went upstairs to bed. While taking some trash out to the garage, Scott noticed the damage to the right front fender of his father’s Lincoln. It had been caved in, the headlight cracked, trim pieces dangling. Flecks of blue paint against the Lincoln’s silver jumped out.

  At work the next morning, two of the girls were talking about a car crash that killed a little boy. They couldn’t believe it, a hit-and-run. A cop’s family, too. The other driver sped away. Scott listened without comment, thinking of his dad and the Lincoln’s damage. No, he decided, couldn’t have been Dad. He was at Bev’s party on the other side of town.

  Later he called Bev to ask how the party was. He’d been invited but schoolwork kept him from attending. Bev was a close friend of his late mother and still kept in touch. Bev said the party went perfectly and she was sorry he wasn’t there to enjoy it but was also sorry that his father couldn’t make it. Scott made a few clumsy excuses and ended the conversation. If Dad hadn’t been at Bev’s, where did he go? That night he found a rental car in the garage. His father told him he’d bumped into a light pole and took the Lincoln to get fixed. Scott thought, light poles aren’t painted blue.

  Then the cop showed up at work. Detective Brock. Do you know where your father was Saturday night? Scott said, at a party. Were you with him? No. Why do you ask? Brock said Mr. Palakis was a person of interest in a hit-and-run crash. Not that he caused it, the detective said, but may have witnessed it, and the police would like a few words with him. A buzzer went off in Scott’s brain. What was your name again? Brock, the detective said. And it clicked. The victims of the crash. Your son was killed?

  “I saw your father hit my car,” he told Scott. “But nobody wants to hear that. Your father’s a big shot. His company employs thousands of people in this city. It’ll be my word against his. I thought maybe you’d be the one to do the right thing.”

  “You want me to turn my father in,” Scott said.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Scott excused himself, left work, and went to a park to think.

  His father had always preached the value of integrity, right over wrong. Scott believed that stuff through and through, but here was Brock saying his father was now the antithesis of such a code. I can’t prove it, he thought. If I can’t prove it, I can’t say anything. Right?

  He saw Brock again soon after. Another uninvited visit to the office. Scott had strong feelings about his father’s guilt, but what could he do? Especially since, after the incident, somebody else had confessed, been arrested, charged, and convicted. Brock claimed it was a set-up, that his father pulled some strings. He wouldn’t rest until he could prove otherwise.

  Scott promised to help if solid proof ever turned up, but he knew it was just empty talk. Brock knew, too. That’s why he’d narrowed his eyes at the younger Palakis before departing, and Scott never forgot that look. Disappointment, pain, anger, all rolled into one.

  Over the next three years, Scott’s relationship with his father, from Scott’s perspective, changed. They started growing apart. Talked less. Didn’t do as much together. When Scott moved out it more or less sealed their separation, though they continued to visit a few times a month. A voice continued to nag at Scott that he should say something about the accident. Another voice countered that without proof, he couldn’t say his father was guilty. Right?

  Then Detective Brock appeared again. It had been during a night off, a rare occurrence, and Scott had been browsing his favorite bookstore. He headed back to his car. The parking lot was packed, most people in the next-door gym and the WalMart across the way, and Scott scanned the aisle for his car. If he had been paying attention, he would have seen the man in dark clothes coming up alongside. Scott looked too late. The man grabbed his arm, jammed an automatic into his side and said, “Keep moving and don’t make a sound.”

  “Hey--”

  “I said shut up or I’ll kill you.”

  A lamp post illuminated the man’s face a moment. Long face, high cheekbones, pock-marked and rough. He looked familiar, but unfamiliar at the same time.

  The man said, “Where’s your car?”

  Scott pointed out his black Mazda 6. The man steered him that way. The man said, “Tinted windows, good.” They reached the car. “Get in.”

  Scott’s hands shook as he pressed a button on his key ring remote. The Mazda’s doors unlocked. He had a strong impulse to lock the doors and get the engine going before the other man could get in, but fear froze him. The other man dropped into the passenger seat, pulled the door shut, and put the automatic under his jacket. The bright dome light didn’t bother him; he even asked Scott to keep it on. Scott reached up, flicked a switch. The other man pulled a folded manila envelope from another pocket of his jacket. Scott watched him lift the flap.

  The long-faced man let out a breath and scanned Scott’s face. He said, “Sorry about the gun, Scott.”

  Scott sank back against the car door as he realized who was talking to him. He couldn’t believe how much Brock’s appearance had changed since their last encounter. Thinner. Less hair. The high cheekbones made the sides of his face look like deep pits.

  “You know who I am?”

  The name came out a whisper. “Brock.”

  “I’m not exactly on duty right now.”

  “No kiddin’.”

  “I have something I want you to look at.” The detective pulled a sheet from the envelope and said, “You won’t like it but you’re a right guy, I think, so I hope you’ll do the right thing.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  Brock’s eyes never left the young man’s face as he showed Scott a blank sheet of paper. At least, that’s what Scott thought it was. When the detective turned it over, Scott saw a glossy black-and-white photograph. He studied the picture. A lump formed in his throat. He tried to talk, but the words never made it past the lump.

  “It’s not a fake,” Brock said.

  Scott closed his eyes, took a breath. He opened his eyes and looked at the picture again. It showed his father and a woman sitting
in the Lincoln and sitting close. Brock handed Scott several more photos featuring Vince Palakis and the woman. The final shot showed them with locked lips.

  Brock said, “I decided to let them have some privacy after a while.”

  “I--I don’t…understand.”

  “It’s your father.”

  “I know that.”

  “They didn’t stay in the car long. I followed them to the Bonaventure. The girl entered through the front and your father went in through the side entrance. Wearing a fake beard. They left together a few hours later. Know what they passed on the way home? A certain intersection. Where a certain accident happened and where my son was killed.”

  Brock showed Scott a final photo which showed Vince Palakis with a fake beard, trimmed close to his jaw line. Scott stared, moved his head side-to-side.

  “The girl is a hooker I know; her name’s Jodi,” the detective said, “that tells me your father has a regular stable of girls he likes to party with. He had one of those parties the night of the crash.”

  Scott’s eyes remained wide, watery.

  Brock said, “You don’t need a PhD to know why I’m doing this.”

  “I’m just wondering why it took so long.”

  The detective shrugged. “Your father has a video hidden somewhere and I want it.”

  “Of him and the hookers?”

  “The video has nothing to do with your father, but he’s keeping it safe for an old friend. That old friend would hate for that DVD to fall into the wrong hands. If your father’s relationship with this old friend becomes public, somebody might start asking questions about that patsy they framed for killing my boy.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You told me--”

  “This is different.”

  “If what my friend says is true--”

  “She’s a hooker, Harry. She only said that to avoid arrest.”

  “She wasn’t under arrest, Scott.”

  “You banging her, too?”

  “She’s a source of information. We talk a few times a month. She just happened to mention a certain client of hers and I asked questions and she said some things and I learned about the DVD disk. Your father has a big mouth.”

  “How do you know she isn’t lying?”

  “She’s never lied before,” Brock said.

  Scott ran a hand through his hair. His cheeks puffed as he exhaled. “The old friend. He stepped in after what happened to your son?”

  Brock nodded once. “I’m working with people who’d like to ask your father a couple of questions. They want to know where the old friend is. They don’t want to kill your father. After they’re done, the disk becomes my property to do with what I see fit. This way I can get back at your father and the man who helped him get away with murder.”

  “I can’t help you.”

  “I’m not working alone, and my partners don’t mind doing this the hard way. Make it easy, Scott.”

  Scott’s face twisted in genuine pain. He hurt inside, too. Like he’d swallowed a rock.

  “You know as well as I do your father’s been guilty all these years, yet you’ve done nothing. Do something now, Scott.”

  Silence lingered a moment.

  “Okay.”

  Brock’s eyes remained dull.

  “I’ll do it, okay? Is that what you want?”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “I don’t recall you giving me a choice.”

  “We all have choices, Scott. Some choose better than others.”

  Scott drummed fingers on the steering wheel. Two chatty women crossed in front of the Mazda; he watched them.

  “It’s probably in the safe,” he said.

  “Where’s that?”

  “Dad’s bedroom.”

  “Thanks.”

  Scott fixed his eyes on the detective. “It’s not for you. For your son. I’m sorry as hell about what happened.”

  12

  When Brock left Scott Palakis at the Mother Goose bar, he drove to Lakeview Cemetery and used a flashlight to navigate the rows of headstones. He knew the way but had never visited at night. The branches swung at him, seemingly reaching out with claws. Moon-cast shadows of headstones crawled across the ground. His boots sank into the soft dirt. He should have noted the lack of crickets, but his focused mind didn’t register the silence.

  The detective settled the flash on a single headstone, stopped, read the name engraved there, Robert Hale Brock.

  “It’s almost over, Bobby.”

  “Detective.”

  Brock spun around, a hand going to his holster. He froze when he saw the automatic pistol in Wolf’s hand.

  “No need for guns, Detective,” Wolf said. “Let’s put ‘em away.”

  Brock dropped his hand to his side; Wolf holstered his gun. Brock said, “Long time, Wolf.”

  Wolf stepped toward the other man. “I saw you with Scott Palakis at the bar.”

  “And you’re here because?”

  “Why have you involved civilians in this? Two men are dead already. One left a pregnant wife behind.”

  “This is none of your business.”

  “I have a reason at the northeast corner of this cemetery that makes it my business. Now are we going to stand and argue or is there a chance we can help each other?”

  “I went your way once and you couldn’t deliver.”

  “There was nothing I could do, Harry. All the evidence went toward the man they convicted.”

  “Or you finally found a problem your gun couldn’t solve.”

  “Damnit, Harry--”

  “Get out of here.”

  “What’s on the disk?”

  Brock blinked. “How do you know about that?”

  “I have the disk, Harry. Not the people you’re working with. Yeah, I heard bits of your chat.”

  “They don’t have the disk?”

  “Palakis doesn’t know any better, either. I bet your friends are pissed because things didn’t quite work out, and now you’re a loose end so let me help you before more people die. What’s on the disk?”

  “How do I know you’ve seen it?”

  Wolf described the video. “Good enough? I’m running out of patience.”

  Brock said, “The video was recorded twenty years ago and shows Ugo Califano and a federal prosecutor named Schofield. Califano is, or was, a major mob boss in New York City. The deal was for Schofield to keep the feds away. The disk was leverage to make sure Schofield never went back on the deal. Califano is in hiding now. He double-crossed some rivals, who put a contract out on him, and now he’s hiding to keep from being killed.”

  “Where does Palakis fit in?”

  “He and Califano are old friends. Palakis was given the DVD for safekeeping.”

  “And you come into this how?”

  “I found two men who want to know where Califano is hiding, and they’re using the theft of the video to make Palakis talk, or they’ll expose the fact that Palakis is dirty.”

  “Names,” Wolf said.

  “Teddy Gambolini and Ben Regan. They were part of the syndicate that rivaled Califano. They pissed off their bosses, too, and now they’re marked for murder. If they can find where Califano is hiding, they can use that as a peace offering to turn off the heat. They’ve set up shop here in Las Palmas, and I found them while working another case.”

  “How’d you find the disk?”

  “A hooker friend told me. I approached Gambolini and Regan, and they planned the robbery after I told where Palakis had hidden the disk.”

  “What’s in it for you?”

  “I get the DVD as soon as they’re done. Between that and my witness I’ll expose Palakis and his cover-up of the hit-and-run and put him behind bars.”

  Wolf shook his head. “You’re playing with fire. Regan will kill you and Scott and your other friend and for what? You should have come to me.”

  A twig snapped; a gun roared; the bullet whined off a headstone.

  Sh
adows formed into men with guns and Wolf and Brock drew their own and when the shadows started shooting, Wolf and Brock fired back and jumped for cover.

  The random bullets sliced the air. Wolf ducked behind a stone cross as a slug clipped an overhead branch. Wolf aimed where he had seen a muzzle flash and fired once. Off to his left, Brock let go a string of rounds, tracking a target. Somebody screamed.

  Ahead of Wolf stood a tree and he ran for it, spotting two gunmen as they shifted cover. He fired once, twice; one of the gunmen went down. The other, twisted Wolf’s way fired; Wolf fired back, missed, and the gunman ducked out of sight.

  Another string of rapid shots from Brock echoed as Wolf advanced. A shotgun boomed. Wolf dived face first into the dirt. Brock screamed, “I’m hit,” and another shotgun blast shook the night.

  Wolf hopped up and retreated to the cross. Out in the open, he also caught two shooters by surprise. The pistol-toting gunman winged a shot Wolf’s way but the .45 responded and knocked the man down. The shotgunner, a few steps behind, returned fire. By then Wolf had neared the cross enough to drop and roll the remaining distance. The shotgunner dropped back. Wolf reloaded and scanned the area while he caught his breath. Sensing no further movement, he went looking for Harry Brock.

  Ben Regan tucked the shotgun close to his body and hit the ground as the first shots popped. As Brock and the other unknown man split for cover, Regan crawled along the dirt, chunks of soil clinging to his elbows. He weaved around headstones to get closer to the detective.

  Brock kept exposing his location each time he fired a string of shots. The slow, steady booms of the unknown man’s weapon cautioned Regan. The other guy knew his business.

  Presently, Regan reached a position back and to the left of Brock. He rose to one knee, lifted the Mossberg and pulled the trigger.

  “I’m hit!” the detective cried out.

  Brock rolled onto his side, his back, swinging his pistol around. Regan pumped and fired a second blast and Brock stopped moving.