Liars in Love

by Ian Bull

  “Shit! Get him out of there!” Paul yells.

  Paul shoots up at the ceiling and the bullet zings around the inside of the elevator. Sam’s feet disappear up into the elevator shaft.

  “You said no shooting!” Kath screams.

  Inside the elevator shaft, Sam steps from the top of one elevator to the next and jumps back down inside the front elevator. Its doors open, and the brunette receptionist with the purple jacket with the padded shoulders steps on the elevator. Sam glances at his watch. It’s quarter to six, time for her to open Kearne Securities, and she’s got her Hello Kitty keychain in hand.

  She looks at his name tag, then at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be on the loading dock?” she asks, then stares longer at him. “Hey, you’re the messenger who follows the Grateful Dead!”

  She then looks at his dirty uniform, his messy hair, and then glances up and sees the open trap door into the ceiling. Her eyes widen in complete understanding.

  “Guard!” she yells as she steps off the elevator.

  Sam hits all the buttons. The doors close and the elevator rises. The elevator passes the first, second, and third floor, skipping every floor that Sam pushed. The guard is sending all the elevators to the top floor and locking them in place. He keeps punching the buttons, but the elevator doesn’t stop, and the doors don’t open.

  At the back of the building, Paul and Cliff drag Kath down the steps and off the loading dock. Dozer darts ahead and opens the back door of the Lincoln.

  “Let me go!” Kath yells.

  “Cops are coming. We can find Rose in Truckee without him.”

  “I’ve got to see downstairs,” she yells, and yanks herself free.

  She runs down the ramp into the underground garage, weaving between the arriving brokers in their BMWs and Porsches. They honk at her, as she darts in and out of their car headlights. It’s ten minutes to six and they are arriving right on time.

  She makes it around the cement curve at the bottom of the ramp and sees it – a 1964 blue convertible Porsche Roadster, with the driver’s side open. She falls to her knees.

  “You bought me my car,” she whispers to the sky.

  The Town Car pulls up. Paul and Cliff jump out, grab her by each arm and toss her in the back. The Town Car tears back up the exit ramp and turns into the street, twenty seconds before the squad cars arrive.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  D etective Stone feels a rush as he walks into the lobby of the Flood Building. The breakthrough in the burglary team case was a jolt of excitement yesterday, and now they may be getting something on the hard-to-catch lowlife Paul Barnes. Then this morning he gets called for his first live burglary case in months. His work slump, magnified by all that computer hassle, may finally be over.

  He weaves through a dozen street cops in the lobby, all of them dressed in blue with their hands resting on their Sam Browne gun belts, and reaches the marble reception stand and guard station.

  All three of the Flood building guards are under thirty, muscular, with pencil-thin mustaches and curly brown hair, like they're trying to be the "Meet the Turk" guy in the cigarette ads. They're all shaking, however. This is the only action any of them has ever seen on the job. He looks at the oldest one, who seems to be shaking the least.

  “What happened?” Stone asks him.

  “We heard shooting coming from the loading dock. The receptionist from Kearnes Securities thinks there was a break-in. We sent all the elevators to the top floor.”

  “Anyone leave the building?” Stone asks.

  “Not that we can tell,” the guard says. “We don’t have great cameras on the loading dock or in the garage, though.”

  "Call the building owner and ask him to come down here," Stone says, then turns to the Lead Sergeant on duty. "Hey, Hank. Is a perimeter set up?"

  “All exits are covered,” the Sergeant says. He’s fifty, but with the physique of a super fit thirty-year-old.

  Stone steps behind the guard station and looks at the grainy black and white security monitors. He sees no movement. There are four lines of vertical red LED lights that indicate where the four elevators are – all on the top floor. This is cutting-edge security technology, but it reveals nothing.

  “Let’s bring them down, one by one,” Stone says. “Start with the front left.”

  Officers line up in front of the elevator, crouch, draw their weapons and wait for the elevator to descend. The doors open – and the elevator is empty. So is the next one.

  They move to the loading dock. It turns out the morning guard still hasn’t shown up, which is a bad sign. Either he’s been hurt, or it’s an inside job.

  They bring down the first loading dock elevator, and it’s empty as well – but the last one has a laundry cart. They put on gloves and pull the cart off the elevator and use bolt cutters to cut the lock. They lift the wooden lid, and inside the cart they find a Honeywell Steel Security Safe, a black canvas bag, and clothes for a man and woman.

  Stone’s back stiffens as a jolt of electric clarity runs up his spine. Sam Webb did this job. He didn’t leave town like Hal thought. He and his female partner could be in this building right now.

  He turns to the Sergeant. “I need to get a message to Hal Weinstein in Parole.”

  “We’ll find a phone. Is he at Bryant Street right now?”

  “He may be rolling,” Stone says. “Try dispatch too.”

  Sergeant Hank nods and walks away. Stone knows it still may be an hour before they track Hal Weinstein down. In the meantime, if Webb is in this building, he’ll find him.

  Sam climbs down a ladder high in the elevator shaft; its rungs are made of bent rebar and it’s set into the interior wall of concrete. He made sure to close and lock each trapdoor on each elevator before it began to move, which bought him some time.

  He stops descending at the fourth floor. This is the floor with all the accounting offices, and since it’s six months before tax season, they won’t be coming in until ten. He reaches out with one hand and tries to pry open the elevator doors with his fingers, with no luck. Sam feels a vacuum suck at him. The duct that pushes cool air out of the elevator shaft and pumps it into the hallways is right in front of him. A wire mesh screen covers the outside edge of the duct as it curves and enters the fourth floor. Sam pulls his “Bob” pin off his shirt and slides the edge into one of the flathead screws that secures the square mesh screen in place.

  It fits. If he pushes hard and twists, the metal name tag is a tolerable screwdriver. It takes him three minutes to remove one screw. It takes him three minutes to remove another screw.

  He hears voices on the floor above him. The police have gone to the top and are going down floor by floor. If they think to open an elevator door and look down into the open shaft, they’ll spot him.

  He twists the nametag into the third screw – and it breaks.

  The voices are close.

  Sam pushes with his hand on the metal screen. It’s made of aluminum and tin, and it folds inward when he pushes hard enough. He leans out from the ladder and presses hard against the mesh, dangling over the four-floor drop -– and the bottom breaks and bends in, opening a six-inch crack.

  He saves himself from falling and catches his breath. Rats can shrink their bodies down to the size of a quarter to fit through a hole, and this is what Sam must do. He crawls into the duct head first, pushing hard against the screen until it bends in and up even more, giving way against his body.

  As he crawls through it rips the shirt off his back, the pants off his legs, and leaves long bloody scratches on his shoulders where the edges of sharp metal sliced through his skin.

  He moves forward until he is over another metal grate that looks down into the fourth-floor hallway. He rests, breathing slowly, letting the pain flow through him. When he got his butt kicked in prison boxing matches, he would breathe slowly and try to meditate. His whole body would be screaming in pain, but if he cried out it would betray weakness, so he would lie on his bu
nk and just breathe, sometimes not moving for days. He can do the same thing here if he must. His legs and arms are bare, his clothes are in tatters, his back is bleeding, but he stays quiet. The police officers move below him, going from office to office.

  It’s still early. The garbage trucks come at 9 a.m. That might be his best chance.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  K ath is in Paul's office at the Mission Bay Health Club, watching Paul, Dozer, and Cliff stare at a map of California spread open on his desk.

  “Truckee is south of here, I know it,” Cliff says.

  Kath knows exactly where it is, but she’s not saying anything.

  She hates Paul more than ever right now, but she hates herself even more for not trusting Sam like he asked, and mad at Sam for not telling her everything. They could be in her blue Porsche Roadster right now, zooming up to Truckee. And that briefcase Sam left in the office…what was it? Something that would incriminate Paul? She should have asked him, instead of going to Plan B so fast and radioing these jerks. But why didn’t Sam just tell her? Only Sam knows that answer, and he’s trapped in the Flood Building, the stupid fool…

  The door opens and Inge steps in with a stack of towels and massage lotion.

  “Not now Inge!” Paul yells.

  Kath watches Inge’s face shift from radiant love to black sadness. Inge then locks eyes with her, and the two women stare at each other, each shocked in her own way.

  You actually love him? Kath asks Inge with her bitter look.

  He’s picking you over me? Inge asks Kath her icy stare.

  “Found it!” Cliff says. “Truckee is by Lake Tahoe! The town is right off Highway 80!”

  “Kath, you ride with me. You losers follow me and try to keep up,” Paul says.

  “I have to go somewhere first,” Kath says.

  “We don’t have time, the police are coming,” Paul says.

  “I have to see Aunt Bella in San Mateo before we go,” Kath says and crosses her arms.

  “Why are you still dealing with her?!” he screams.

  "Half the money you ever fronted me went to her and you know it. We're seeing her. Otherwise, I run away from you the first chance I get and tell the police everything."

  Paul shakes his fists in her face and grits his teeth like he wants to punch her…but doesn’t. Kath sees Inge out of the corner of her eye, standing in the corner still holding her stack of towels. With one micro-glance she can see that Inge is smiling.

  Hal arrives at work. He's the first one there at seven-thirty in the morning, and he turns on all the lights for the entire floor. He hears a phone ringing, and as he gets close to his office, he realizes it's his phone. He runs in and answers it, knocking it off the desk and onto the floor.

  “Weinstein,” he says, catching his breath.

  “Hal, it’s me, Alden. Get a squad car and get to the Mission Bay Health Club now. There’s been another robbery with Webb, and Barnes is involved,” Stone says.

  At eight-thirty a.m., Sam uses the top of the copper zipper from his ruined pants to twist the last of the screws off the screen mesh covering the duct opening to the fourth floor. He moves the screen to the side, and drops down feet first through the hole, catching the lip with his hands and hanging for a moment before letting himself drop.

  He’s naked except for torn underwear, half a torn t-shirt and his shoes and socks. The back of his thighs and his back are scraped and bloody. The floor is quiet. They haven’t let anyone upstairs yet.

  Sam darts down to the end of the hallway and finds a building benefit from when the building was constructed in the 1950s: a trash chute. He opens the lid and puts his left foot inside. Keeping his foot in place so the chute stays open, he twists his body and falls to the floor with his arms extended. His foot stays inside. He then does a push-up and gets his other foot inside the open lid of the chute as well. He then walks his hands backward in push-up position and eases himself backward through the opening.

  It’s like crawling inside a slime-covered mail slot. He props his feet against the inside of the chute, then gets his hands inside. The chute door closes, sealing him in darkness, except for the light coming up from the chute opening four floors below. He must push with both arms and legs against the opposite sides of the garbage chute to keep from tumbling down.

  The chute also stinks, but no worse than San Quentin did, and the fear of going back doubles his strength. His years of weight-lifting in prison is paying off right now, as he locks his feet and hands into place. If he pushes hard enough, he can move one hand, then one foot, then the other hand, and the other foot, inching down slowly, like a mountain climber descending a chimney. The burn from the lactic acid building up in his muscles makes his legs and arms tremble. He inches his way down, getting closer to the trash bins at the bottom.

  At eight-thirty in the morning, Hal Weinstein enters the Mission Bay Health Club and looks at all the fit young people in their track suits and bandana headbands, jumping around to music. Hal can’t believe how dumb it all looks.

  "Interested in a membership sir?" the petite brunette woman in white behind the counter asks him. "We have aerobics, free weights, and the latest Nautilus machines if you'd like a tour."

  Hal opens his jacket and points to the police badge on his belt. “San Francisco Police. I’m here to see Paul Barnes.”

  “You’re a police officer?” she asks, as if she doesn’t quite believe him.

  Two uniformed officers walk in behind him. "Believe me now?" Hal asks, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at them. "Again, where is Barnes?"

  “He just left with his two assistants, Mr. Cliff and Mr. Dozer.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “I don’t know. They said they were taking the rest of the week off.”

  “Was this man with them?” Hal asks her, and shows her a photo of Sam.

  “No. But there was a woman with them. Pretty, with curly brown hair. She and Mr. Barnes had a big fight in his office before they left.”

  “Is she Mr. Barnes’s girlfriend?”

  “No, that would be Inge.”

  “Which one is Inge?” Hal asks.

  “She’s tall and blonde, like a Viking. But she drove away in her own car right after Mr. Barnes did. She drives a grey Datsun 610. Barely fits in it,” the woman says.

  Hal Weinstein writes it all down in his notepad, wondering if any of it is useful.

  Back at the Flood Building, the police finish searching every floor, with no luck. The building tenants are outside, making noise, banging on the doors, demanding to be let inside.

  Sergeant Stone brings over balding Mr. Smythe in his blue suit with the red tie and red suspenders. "This is the CFO of Kearne Securities, Mr. Ed Smythe. He says there is nothing of value in the safe," Hank says.

  “In fact, it’s empty. The only thing we lost this morning is two hours of trading. Will you please let my people go to work?” he asks Stone. “We’re losing money.”

  “Let them in,” he tells Hank, who motions to the guard across the lobby that they can open the doors. A stampede of young urban professionals rushes through the glass doors and crowds around the elevators. They stamp their feet and sway from side to side, moaning and complaining about being late, ready to get to work buying and selling.

  Still in the trash chute, Sam hears the echo of people walking above him and the roar of an engine below. It’s the garbage truck backing up to the loading dock, ready to dump the contents of the debris box into its belly.

  Sam hears a creak above him and a shaft of light cuts through the dark chute – and a pile of wet garbage hits Sam on the head. His hands are slipping on the greasy walls…and he falls two floors down, out of the chute and into the metal debris box, right as the metal tusks of the front-loading garbage truck lift it into the sky and flip out its contents. The trash for the week tumbles into the open back of the garbage truck, Sam included.

  At nine in the morning, the truck drives up Columbus Avenue and stops a
t a red light in front of Washington Square Park. The playground is full of moms and kids, enjoying a sunny morning, along with older Chinese men and women doing tai-chi.

  Sam crawls out of the top of the garbage truck and climbs down the metal rungs on the side. He reaches the asphalt just as the truck pulls away, then dodges traffic until he gets to the park.

  Everyone in the playground freezes as the almost naked man limps past, wearing only torn underwear, a ripped t-shirt, and shoes. The green slime covering his skin can't hide his bloody scrapes and bruises.

  He limps to a line of sprinklers running over a section of the grass. He falls on the ground and lets the jets of cold water run over his body, washing away his putrid outer coating. Everyone returns to their tai-chi and their playing.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  I n the Parole Department at the Hall of Justice, Hal stands behind his desk, Stone paces, and Hiram Valosek won’t stop talking.

  “The program will work. We notify every motel with Magic Massage within one day’s drive of San Francisco to be on the lookout for a man and a woman who ask for a room with Magic Massage near the ice machine, and then pay in cash,” Valosek says.

  His desk phone rings. Hal answers. “Hello?”

  “Hey Hal, it’s me, Sam.”

  Hal gestures for quiet, waving his arms. Everyone turns to him. “Sam, you’re in a lot of trouble. Where are you?”

  “I can’t tell you that. But I do want to tell you a long story about Paul Barnes, so get a pen,” Sam says.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  T he parking lot for Bay Meadows Race Track is empty except for a Lincoln Town Car and Paul’s blue Cadillac. Dozer and Cliff sit in the Lincoln, wearing their dark glasses and their 49er football jerseys. Paul paces in front of his car, stopping every twenty steps to look at the retirement home across the street.

  “How long is this going to take?’ he says.