Jack Palms Crime Series: Books 1-3: Jack Palms Crime Box Set 1 (Jack Palms Box Sets)

by Seth Harwood

  “I was going to try,” Jack says. “See what I can find out.”

  Niki nods. He takes a card out of the inside of his suit and hands it to Jack. “Call if you need help from me. I do not party with them. I will be ready.”

  “Okay.” Jack nods. He looks at the card in his hand. It has a San Francisco cell phone number printed on the back. “Thanks.” He pats Niki on the shoulder as he heads over to the Mustang.

  Vlade, grinning wide, some white powder left in his mustache, pokes his head out of the SUV’s back window. “You will join us later, Jack?” Jack waves and nods. “No, Palms. I am serious.” He points right at Jack. “You will come to our hotel. We have business to settle.”

  “Yes,” Jack says. “Trust me. I’ll be there after I handle a few things.”

  “Good,” Vlade says. “Good.” He slaps the side of the Escalade as they’re starting to back out, and from inside Jack can hear the techno music double in volume.

  In Japantown, it’s not hard to locate the restaurant Joe Buddha was talking about: The Peace Pagoda is the kind of thing there’s only one of a tall concrete column with increasingly small horizontal platforms set along its height. Jack parks close to it, walks around into the park space that surrounds the tower—a concrete stretch that might be grass somewhere else, but here in the heart of Japantown is very much gray concrete with a few jutting shapes and round constructions to sit on. Jack sits down to catch his breath for a moment, his hands on his knees. He takes a deep breath through his diaphragm, lets it out slowly, counting to seven. He thinks about doing any of the half dozen relaxation exercises that he used to do before scenes, the ones that got him ready to work. And now, just over five years out of actually doing any acting, he’d almost rather just smoke a cigarette. But isn’t that the most common breathing exercise of them all?

  He thinks it all through, taking stock of what’s happened. Now he’s not only lost a friend, but someone shot up his Mustang. Just thinking about it turns his stomach. Now the idea of going home, even if he could and not have Sergeant Hopkins come after him for what happened downtown, feels like it would be a failure. But it’s no longer even a choice. Now he has to work with Hopkins, and he gets to find who shot up his car, who sent the dead KGB fucks who did it.

  He’s here in Japantown because he has to know who that is, because Junius Ponds is the only lead he has left, the only road that’s not Tony Vitelli. For all he knows, Tony V. will be at the bottom of this eventually; that’s the feeling Jack has in his bones—the bruised ribs especially—but right now he’s got a few more questions to ask.

  Across the street Jack sees a big restaurant, one of the area’s larger and nicer ones, with a round window covering a large part of the first and second floors. He can see tables through the window, lined up against the glass on the second floor for what must be a decent view, people eating at them, and, below that, the floor beneath and a big classy chandelier that must hang above the main lobby. The front entrance to the place is two big wooden doors, guarded by twin concrete lions.

  Jack takes a last deep breath, gets up, and crosses the street, makes his way up the steps and through the big double doors into the front vestibule of the restaurant. Here two guys stand at the far ends of the room, one on either side of a tall maître d’ stand and a snappily dressed host at its helm. “Sir,” he says, looking Jack up and down. He frowns disdainfully. “I’m afraid we have a strict dress code here.”

  “Right,” Jack says. “But I’m here to see Junius Ponds.”

  “Ponds?” the maître d’ asks.

  “Yes. The guy that always comes here. Big black guy. You know him.”

  “Ahh,” the man says, raising a finger. He drops it onto his chart and starts consulting his table arrangements. Jack looks over the front of the podium to see how the place is laid out: a lot of round tables across the first floor, with a few private rooms in the back. The two thugs on either side of the door start to nudge closer to Jack.

  “Let me guess,” Jack says, pointing to the rooms behind the main dining floor. “Junius is back here in one of these?”

  “No, I—”

  Jack raises his hands to ward off the bouncers, showing them he means peace. He only hopes to slow them down, but when they actually stop coming, he has to fight off a look of surprise. “I’ll just go on back, if that’s okay,” he says, then without waiting for an answer, walks past the host and into the main dining room. He passes the first few tables and looks back to see that, sure enough, one of the guys from out front is following him.

  “Sir,” the suit says. Jack weaves through the tables, cutting and zigzagging so it’s hard for the other man to follow, heading for the back. In a flash, he wonders if this was really the best way to come in, if he couldn’t have talked it up a little smoother, but now he can’t change and go back. He keeps making his way toward the rooms at the back of the restaurant.

  On the chart at the host stand, Jack had seen that of the three private rooms, only the two on the left were in use. He can see them now, the kind with rice paper walls and dark wood framing, sliding doors. He has a fifty-fifty chance of getting Junius Ponds’ room on the first try, knows that’ll probably be the one chance he gets before they have him escorted out, or at least he has to deal with the suit that’s following him. Jack chooses the room on the end, the far left.

  He climbs two stairs to reach the private rooms, slides open the rice paper door to find a number of people sitting around a low table, the kind where you take off your shoes and there’s a space for your feet sunk into the floor. At one end of the table is a large black man, bald, wearing a white shirt open at the collar. He’s got women on either side of him, nice-looking Asian girls in silk dresses.

  “Jun—” And that’s all that Jack can get out before he’s flattened to the floor by something he didn’t even see, something from back against the wall beside the door. He feels the weight of something heavy on top of him, something that knocks his wind out, and looking up, it seems to have gone fully dark in the room. Then the weight is gone and he starts to raise himself with his hands. The people at the table look nonplussed; they watch him struggle to breathe with only moderate interest. One woman lifts a piece of sushi with her chopsticks and offers it up to the large man at the head of the table. He takes it in his mouth and, chewing, holds up one hand.

  “I’m a friend of Ralph’s,” Jack manages to get out. Suddenly he is dragged up off the floor and held partly off the ground. He’s face-to-face with one of the biggest Samoans, probably the biggest person, he’s ever met. The guy has a tattoo over half his face and long black hair hanging down below his shoulders. He’s holding Jack above the ground with Jack’s toes just brushing the floor.

  “Damn,” Jack says.

  The restaurant’s bouncer comes in, and Jack hears a deep voice say, “It’s all right, thank you. We will take care of this.” The suit nods, takes a short bow with his hands pressed together over his chest, and leaves, sliding the door closed behind him.

  The same voice—Jack realizes it belongs to the man at the head of the table—says, “Freeman, he’s okay.”

  The big Samoan puts Jack down, and Jack takes a step back to get a complete look at him: He’s got on jeans and a big short-sleeved button-up, a more tasteful print than the Hawaiians Ralph used to wear, something in blue with a samurai on its right half, standing holding a sword. The shirt has to be 3XL at least. The guy’s arms bulk out of the sleeve holes and his chest, which looks like two huge muscles that could make up the hood of a car, fills out the shirt to where it looks like it might split.

  Resisting the urge to put his hands on his knees and cough something up, Jack stands tall, holds his hand out, and introduces himself.

  The guy nods, doesn’t take Jack’s hand. “I’ve seen you in a movie,” he says.

  “Right.” Without turning his back on the big guy completely, Jack turns to where he can see the rest of the room. It’s just Junius and the two ladies at their e
nd of the table, two guys at the other end: a black guy with sunglasses and a black Kangol hat turned backward, and another guy with a dark blue suit on.

  Junius says, “When’s the funeral?”

  Jack doesn’t get it for a moment, thinks it’s a comment on his clothes—but he’s not wearing black—and just looks at the man he assumes is Junius Ponds.

  “Ralph’s,” he says.

  “Oh. Good question. Soon, I would guess.” Jack straightens his shirt, does his best to get his breathing back to normal.

  Junius Ponds finishes off a shot of sake, and one of the girls next to him refills his glass. “Jack Palms,” he says, as though he’s introducing Jack to the room. “Friend of Ralph Anderino’s. The former friend and acquaintance of ours. This guy was in a movie. He’s a actor.” He says this last word with a noticeable disdain in his mouth, his lips turned down. “A little tall today, aren’t you?”

  “Huh?” Jack says, just as the big guy, Freeman, hits him in the back of the knees. Suddenly Jack finds himself kneeling on the floor.

  Junius nods. “That’s better. No offense, but we don’t like looking up while we talk.”

  Jack looks up and sees Freeman looming over him. “Right,” he says.

  Junius tilts his chin in Jack’s direction. “You’re lucky that you arrived after we finished eating. It would be rude of you to show up during dinner, don’t you think?”

  “Sure,” Jack says. “It’s not my aim to be rude here. I just want to talk.”

  “You talk numbers, man?” the guy at the other end of the table, the one with the sunglasses and the Kangol, says to Jack.

  Junius holds up his hand for him to keep quiet. “Turner. You see we’re talking here?”

  The guy raises his hands in front of his chest. “Apologies, Mr. Ponds.”

  Junius pushes his plate away and turns to Jack. “So what’d you need to say with such urgency that you had to barge in here and disturb us?”

  “I just wanted to talk about Ralph.”

  “Oh.” He shakes his head. “You just wanted to talk about a dead friend of ours and you came down here during dinner?” He exchanges a look with Freeman that Jack hopes doesn’t mean more punishment. Junius clicks his tongue, scolding. “That was not a good idea.”

  Jack tries to explain. “This is the only place where I knew to find you.”

  “That’s a shame. I’m afraid there’s not much to say either. I would like to talk with you, Jack, seeing how I’m a fan of your movie and all, but I don’t know what I can tell you. Ralph’s dead, my man. That’s the final word.” He holds up his hands, then stands and offers them to the two women, who rise with his assistance.

  Jack starts to get up, but Freeman puts a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place. “I mean, can’t we just talk about how you knew him? What kind of relationship you two had?”

  Junius frowns. “That wouldn’t be so good right now,” he says. “You can see I’m entertaining, and when I’m entertaining I don’t talk about business.” The men at the other end of the table stand up and start over to where their shoes are lined against a wall. Junius slips into a pair of brown loafers. One of the women removes his suit jacket from the coatrack. She holds it up for him to put his arms into.

  “Perhaps we should talk first before our next meeting,” Junius says. He shakes his head, slipping his arms into his jacket. “I’m not that interested in sudden meetings or this kind of surprise. I prefer to plan my discussions.” He waves the back of his hand at Jack.

  The women start to head toward the door, followed by the other guy in the suit. The guy with the Kangol on backward smiles at Jack and says, “Loved your movie, man. When can I expect the sequel?”

  As Jack watches the others, they seem to be waiting, curious to know the answer. Not wanting to disappoint them, Jack finally says, “Comes out next year. It’s called Shake It Up.”

  Kangol nods. He smiles wide and makes a clicking noise with his tongue against his teeth. “That’s the shit, my man. Like I said, I loved that picture.” He holds out a fist toward Jack, and Jack touches the front of it with his own.

  The women start to exit the room, followed by the guy in the blue suit. Turner and Junius pause to look at Jack one last time. Jack takes a shot in the dark, guessing at what might get Junius to talk. “I wanted to talk about the Russians,” he says.

  Junius stops. He looks at Turner and motions for him to keep walking. “Meet you outside,” he says. Then, when the other man is gone, he looks at Jack. “What you say?”

  Jack looks up at him, wants to ask if he can get up off the floor yet, but, remembering Freeman, he doesn’t. “I said, let’s talk about the Russians you know. That’s my interest.”

  Junius nods at this, looks like he’s thinking it over. “You wait here,” he says, and goes out of the room.

  Jack looks up at Freeman, says, “What am I going to do?” For a moment, the big Samoan appears as if he might laugh, but then doesn’t. Alone with the giant, Jack would love to lighten the mood, but Freeman stands cold, arms folded.

  Jack waits a few breaths. Then he asks, “Mind if I just get up now?”

  Freeman unfolds his arms and stares at Jack. “Mr. Ponds will be back soon.” Then he shrugs just slightly. “He won’t mind if you’re standing.”

  Jack puts one foot in front of himself and braces his hands on his knee. He pushes himself up to standing slowly—it isn’t that he’s getting old, but he’s getting tired of being knocked down and having to pick himself up. Looking at the Samoan, he figures he’s shorter by at least four or five inches, a state of affairs he’s not used to. “You played for the Jets.”

  Freeman nods. “Four years. All-Pro twice. But when I blew out my knee, that was that.”

  “But still.”

  “Right, man. Still. Those were some good fucking years.”

  Jack wants to shake his hand, pat him on the arm—something—but doesn’t. “You know,” Freeman says. “That picture you did. All Hollywood, but it wasn’t that bad.” Jack nods. “You must’ve had some good times there, on the LA. scene and shit.”

  “Yeah,” Jack says. “It wasn’t bad by any means. But All-Pro is something to be proud of. Playing in Hawaii.”

  Junius comes back into the room carrying two chairs and sets one down next to Jack. The other he puts back a few feet and sits down on himself, crossing one leg over the other. “Sit,” he says motioning at the chair with an open hand. Jack does. “So what about the Russians?”

  “Who sent them?”

  “Right. That’d be what you’d want to know.” He shakes his head and checks his watch. “Listen, man. I got my people outside in the car waiting. You have about five minutes, tops. Make the most, as they say.”

  Jack takes a stab at putting the pieces together. “How’d you know about The Mirage?”

  “Mirage,” he says. “That don’t have nothing to do with this.”

  “But you told the Russians to go there.”

  “What the fuck with you and the Russians? Stop. I did not send any Russians to The Mirage. What you’re trying to find out involves someone else.”

  “Who?”

  Junius looks at Freeman with pronounced disdain. “What’d I just say to this motherfucker?”

  “You said enough about the Russians.”

  “Right.”

  Jack shakes his head. “Did I miss something?” When neither man answers, he starts at the beginning. “What was your relationship with Ralph?”

  “Easy, man. He rolled a bit at the clubs for me, moved some product. Mostly small-time.”

  “I was a friend of his. That’s why I want to know. I’m trying to find out why he got rubbed.”

  Junius nods. “That’s real cute, you saying ‘rubbed’ like that. You learn that from TV?”

  “So who popped him?”

  “Yo, popping Ralphie was almost a community service out here, man. I mean I did business with the fat fuck, but he was not what you’d call the most above-deck
motherfucker, if you get me.”

  “Then just tell me why he stopped doing business with you.”

  Junius looks upset at this, as if Jack’s brought up a bad memory, or made him think of something he didn’t like. He shakes his head. “That motherfucker stop? Shit. He couldn’t stop buying if he had to.”

  “Okay,” Jack says. “So you don’t know anything about the deal he was working with a Colombian named Castroneves?”

  Junius shakes his head. “I fucking hate Colombians, man.”

  Behind him, Jack hears Freeman say, “Scarface.”

  Junius points at the big Samoan. He laughs. “No,” he says to Jack. “In seriousness. I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Or who hired the guys to drop by his house and leave a hole in his head?”

  “Here’s what I can tell you, Jack Palms. And I tell you this out of a friendly gesture, not anything more.” He holds up his hand with his pointer finger extended. “The Russians you talk about? I know them, and have worked with them. But if they’re the ones who put a hole in Ralph’s head, and I’m not saying they are, it was not me who sent them. I just did some business, made a few trades to see what their supply line was worth, and then I backed off it. Truth is, they’re more headache than they worth.”

  Then, from inside his jacket, Junius’ cell phone starts ringing. He takes it out and looks at it, and then holds up one finger to Jack. He pushes a button, holds it up to his ear. “Yeah.” Junius nods, listening to the other end. “Really,” he says, nodding again. “No shit?” Then he looks at Jack. “I’ve got Jack Palms right here in front of me now.” He listens. “No, for real.” More listening. “No, just big Free and myself. Sure. Sure.” Then he listens and looks at Jack, laughs, and hangs up the phone.

  “That’s the man Vitelli,” Junius says. “He say he got Alex Castroneves with him right now. That Colombian motherfucker you just spoke of? Tony tells me that you two just did size business for Ralphie boy’s visiting friends. Is that true?”