Hungry? No, not exactly. If Johnny had just been hungry he would have had his law degree well under way by now. It was more. A depth, a kind of knowing.
Johnny would not be a paralegal all his life, Killinger knew that. He would move up or out. Even with his fame and his wealth, Armand Killinger felt there was a lot Johnny Gray had that he wished he had. But he knew it was inside, it was born in you, and there was no way to learn it. He sighed and went back to work on the double murder case.
Outside the door, Johnny stopped at Nel's desk. The chunky blond woman in her forties handed Johnny a sheet of paper.
"Johnny, take it easy in these dives, okay," she said. "People can get hurt in them. If you drink one beer in each place you'll be drunk before noon. Concentrate on peanuts." She handed him sixty dollars expense money and told him to keep track of his spending.
"Yes, ma'am."
Johnny drove home and changed into a California T-shirt, jeans and his green Nike running shoes. Then he walked to the only bar on Nel's list on Kettner Boulevard, the one that was just around the corner from where he lived.
* * *
Karl Darlow gripped the wheel of his boat with callused and weathered hands. He had been a fisherman all his life, and at last had put together enough cash and credit to buy a used forty-five-footer called the Flying Fool. She had a solid hull, rebuilt diesel engines and a great heart. For the past twelve years he had made his living plowing through the U.S. and Mexican sportfishing waters.
Karl stood an inch over six feet and had been a power weight lifter in his younger days. He could still show some of the punks in the gym how to hoist iron even though he was a hair more than fifty.
His boat mainly worked the half-day, three-quarter-day and overnight runs for sportfishing, especially when the yellowtail came into the close waters and the albacore were running. Then he would jam forty-five tourists and locals on board and head for the hot spots with bodies lying all over the decks.
When the catch totals began to fall and the tourists went for the bigger boats with better galleys and more comfort, Karl dropped his sportfishing guise, bolted on the twenty-foot outriggers and repaired the winches. Then he went out as a commercial boat with one crewman, and they trolled for whatever they could get, usually yellowtail, sometimes some yellowfin. Now and then they would tie into a bunch of big-eye tuna and go at them with rod and reel.
Today he had the Flying Fool on a commercial run. They had worked the feeding grounds around the Mexican Coronado Islands, only sixteen miles off the coast, and had made a fair catch. He would be able to make the payment on the boat with no sweat this month.
It was a half hour to sunset. For the past hour he had been watching the slow progress of a rusty freighter chugging along up the coast. Karl figured the old tub was not doing more than five knots. She appeared to be in no hurry to get to the next port. Maybe she was going to stop in San Diego and did not want to dock until the following morning.
He came up on her as he angled north toward the bay entrance, still six miles away. Poke, his only crewman when he went commercial, was below tinkering with the twin diesels. They had been running a little rough. Karl swung farther seaward to miss the freighter by a quarter of a mile. He had not noticed the small powerboat glide up to it, but now saw ropes passed, and the thirty-footer tied up to some lines dropped over the side.
Almost at once lines came down from pulleys overhead. They were off-loading something. Karl picked up his ten-power binoculars and focused on the scene.
Boxes, maybe forty pounds each and all double-wrapped with plastic and securely tied, were being passed down. Karl stood in the sun on the open bridge with the glasses, then shrugged and put them away, turned deeper toward the horizon and jigged the throttle up to twelve knots, his top speed. For a moment there he thought he recognized the powerboat, but he wasn't sure.
Poke came up and lifted his brows at their speed.
"You late for a date or something, Karl?"
"Yeah, late. You got something against getting the outriggers hoisted and this tub cleaned up before we get to the channel?"
Poke grinned. "That sounds more like the old sea-dog son of a bitch I work for. When the hell am I going to get shares on this rotten scow?"
"Forget it, Poke, let's get home. You take the wheel, I want to put up those outrigger arms before I forget how."
They were a mile off the first channel-marker buoy when the white-and-blue powerboat came past them. There was no name on the side of the thirty-footer. A pair of chilly-looking bikini-clad girls sat on the bow, just in front of the closed cabin. They waved, then vanished inside. On the small flying bridge a well-muscled man in white shorts and mirrored sunglasses stared back at Karl. He made no move to wave.
Karl caught the last four numbers on the craft, 7475, then the vessel was past. A crewman in white shorts moved to the stern and emptied the last of the live bait in the plastic tank that hung off the back.
Four sturdy sportfishing poles sprouted from holders along the sides and back of the craft, making it look like a typical privately owned sport boat back from a day of fishing. The more Karl thought about it, the more he decided it looked too damn much like a casual sportfisherman.
He throttled back a little for the channel and worked past Point Loma, along the side of North Island Naval Air Station and past Ballast Point.
He slid into his berth at the foot of Scott Street, near the Fisherman's Landing docks, and tied up. He had radioed in and there would be a truck in the parking lot from a small fresh-fish cooperative where he sold his catch. He was not big enough for a top price, but at least he had an outlet.
Together he and Poke pulled the fish out of the big bait tank and tossed them in a cart Poke had rolled alongside on the dock. The cart was a four-foot-long wooden box with one pair of wheels amidships and a push handle. Karl figured they had caught six hundred pounds of yellowtail.
They pushed the loaded cart up the steep ramp from the floating dock to the embarcadero and on to the parking lot.
They transferred the fish into a box in the truck, and the driver said he would mail Karl the weight receipt. As the extended van pulled away, Karl saw a big Cadillac sitting in a space reserved for the handicapped. A man was leaning against the fender of the limo. He wore mirrored sunglasses and white shorts, with a pale-blue knit shirt. For a moment Karl wondered if it was the same man he had seen on the powerboat coming in. He shrugged and rolled the cart back to its parking spot and went down to finish cleanup on the Flying Fool.
He was not naive. He knew damn well what was happening when those boxes were transferred from the freighter. Any time a small boat meets a big one off the coast, you can be damn sure it's for only one purpose — smuggling.
He had kept well away from that problem, and he sure wanted it to stay that way. If anyone asked, he had seen nothing, he knew nothing. He was just a fisherman trying to make a living. They would have to believe him.
But still Karl Darlow shivered.
7
There was going to be trouble. Johnny could feel it. Most of the clients who sought assistance from the Free Legal Aid Center came to the office on Kettner and were advised what to do, helped with forms, or sent to small-claims court. Sometimes the staff was able to exert pressure over the telephone. Now and then an in-person visit was in order as the best way to resolve a problem.
This was such a case, and Johnny knew it was going to be a tough one.
Landlords could be vicious. They almost always held the upper hand. He knew that the managers often had to use pressure to get rent when it was due. But lots of them went too far.
Like this one.
James Sylvester was the manager at the Alamo apartment building, a sixteen-unit in southeast San Diego. It was just off Logan Avenue and that meant a black neighborhood. Johnny knew that was a tough part of town no matter the color of your skin. A solitary white in there even in daylight was not the smartest move.
But Priscilla Monroe
needed help.
She was twenty, black, single, had a baby and worked two jobs to stay off welfare. Johnny liked her spirit and the fact that she held down two jobs was reason enough for him to try and help her. A neighbor had told her about the center. She phoned and was advised to visit the clinic in person.
She had moved out of the apartment three months ago. There had been a two-hundred-dollar security deposit and cleaning fee. It was all spelled out clearly in the rental agreement she showed Johnny. If there was no damage, and if the apartment was left in reasonably clean condition, the money would be returned to the tenant two weeks after vacating. Otherwise the cost of repairs or cleaning would be deducted from the deposit.
Priscilla had a signed statement by Mr. Sylvester that the apartment was clean, there was no damage and the deposit would be refunded by check within two weeks and mailed to her new address.
She never got the money. She had phoned the manager four times and each time he said the check would go in the mail the next morning.
Johnny had phoned him once and said if the refund was not in the former tenant's hands the following day, they would take legal action. Sylvester had laughed at him over the phone.
Johnny followed the usual procedure. He filed a complaint with the Better Business Bureau against the apartment owners and registered another complaint with the Fair Housing Commission and the Better Renters' Forum. He had tried to call the owner of the building but was told by his answering service that the absentee proprietor resided in Palm Springs and would not be in his office for the next four weeks.
Priscilla Monroe needed the money. Johnny had arranged for her to meet him at the center that afternoon and they would go have a person-to-person talk with Sylvester.
Now, as they walked up to the sixteen-unit, Johnny saw that the building was not in good repair and showed no maintenance. They entered through a front door and found the first-floor manager's office.
Johnny rang the bell and a speaker blared at him.
"Yeah, whaddya want?"
"Mr. Sylvester. My name is John Gray and I represent Mrs. Priscilla Monroe. I think we should talk."
The door jerked open at once. The man was six-four, wide as a coal car and fat. His torso was bare and he wore only boxer shorts. Kinky black hair was cut short and his face was broad and sneering.
"Goddamn, you did come. Sheeeeeeet! I never thought you'd have guts enough. What's this all about?"
Priscilla stood behind Johnny and looked the other way.
"You know what it's about. You owe this lady two hundred dollars. You have promised six times to pay and you have not. We'd like to pick up the check now."
"Man, you are one crazy mutha, you know that?"
"We'll wait while you get dressed, if you like."
"Hell, don't bother me none, asshole. You ain't comin' in, you ain't gettin' no goddamn refund, and I'm gonna break off your arm and ram it down your throat you bother me one more time!"
"Fine with me. We'll sue you right back into jail. How much hard time have you done?"
"None of your damn business. Now get the hell out of here!"
Johnny stepped inside the apartment. "We're not leaving until you give us a check or cash for the refund."
Sylvester took a step toward Johnny, shaking one huge fist.
"Go ahead, hit me," Johnny said. "Just once is all I need with a witness and you and your boss will be on the stiff end of a half-million-dollar lawsuit for assault and battery. And with your record we'll get three times that much and you'll be back at Soledad for five to ten."
"How you know about that?"
"Just write the check, Sylvester. I know you have the authorization. Save yourself one hell of a lot of trouble, pain, court hassle and hard time."
"Bluff. Goddamn bluff!"
"Try me," Johnny said, his soft blue eyes quickly hard.
Sylvester looked around. He realized this young white dude wasn't going to back down, but Sylvester decided to continue his scare tactics. He growled and cocked his fist two inches in front of Johnny's nose.
"Now that, Mr. Sylvester, is assault, the threat or indication that force is going to be used. The battery comes when your knuckles touch my skin. Do you want to try for a million, or three million? And the thought of you back behind bars really makes me feel good."
"You little bastard!" Sylvester exploded. "Nobody hires a damn lawyer to collect two hundred. Lawyers cost more than that."
"Not this lawyer. I'm from the Free Legal Aid Center. We don't charge a thing. I suggest you get your checkbook and write the lady her refund."
The big black man belched, stared hard at Johnny, then turned "Hell, be worth it to get you off my back!"
The manager moved out of sight and came back a few moments later with a check. Johnny looked at it, saw that it was properly filled in and signed.
"You are authorized to sign on this account?"
"Damn right! Now get out of here, both of you."
Johnny took a step back, Sylvester slammed the door and Priscilla Monroe kissed Johnny's cheek.
"Wonderful," she said. "I didn't think I would ever see that money again."
Johnny let the woman off at a bus stop, then drove back to the center. For just a minute he paused and relaxed. He had wanted to wade into that big baboon and punch his face in, but he had held his temper and he had won the fight. There was more than one way to beat the bastards out there who ground people down. It was not Mack Bolan's way, but this time it worked.
His brother was alive! Johnny jumped out, slammed the VW bug's door and ran into the office. He was going to call Leo Turrin again at Justice and demand to meet Mack.
* * *
Karl Darlow did not make his regular half-day run to the Point Loma kelp beds that morning with the tourists. The roughness in the engine he had felt the day before had demanded attention, and he had spent most of the morning with Poke on it. He came out of the hold sweating and with grease all over his hands and shirt.
A man in a white suit and mirrored sunglasses stood on the dock. When he saw Karl come on deck he walked over next to the rail of the Flying Fool.
"You Karl Darlow?"
"Right, but I'm not going out this morning. Maybe this afternoon if I get this cleaned up, and if the fish report looks good on the morning boats."
"How did you do yesterday?"
"I was commercial yesterday with the outriggers down. Went straight west and then north a little. Ran into a school of yellowfin and did pretty good."
"I hear you went south."
"No way, fishing ain't good down there when we have a hot spell like this. You got to work north. South, maybe, if you want to try the albies, but them damn things might be anywhere out there and that's a mighty big ocean. Just luck if you run into them. I remember once I had a full load of passengers out looking for yellows. We were on an overnight and I put out the usual lures on the trolling lines…"
The man in the white suit shook his head. "Darlow, I'm not here to listen to fish stories. I'm with Star Insurance and we have a problem on a powerboat claim that was about six miles south of the bay entrance. Claim they saw a boat like yours, with the outriggers down, trolling. They say you can substantiate that they were in trouble and fired a flare gun just before they were carried onto the beach."
"No way, they got the wrong boat. I wouldn't have been close enough to the beach anyway. I'm usually about five miles out and working the north area. Lots of times on half days I run all the way to the La Jolla kelp. I go where the fish are, and yesterday they were north."
The man with the white suit stared at him.
"Our client may still want you to testify," he said at last. "By the way, it looks as if your boat name is getting a little faded on your bow. Our client said he had to use a pair of field glasses to read it. I'm sure we can expect your complete cooperation on this matter."
"Hell, I was north, and I didn't see anyone in trouble, or hear no Mayday call. Lots of folks know the name of
my boat. Hundreds of folks been out fishing on her. Now, if you want to help me put a diesel engine back together again, you're welcome to come with me, because I got to get below."
"Mr. Darlow, I'm not a mechanic. But I am happy to hear that you saw absolutely nothing yesterday. I'm sure that everyone will be happy with that kind of response. Be sure that you keep thinking that way. Is all of this perfectly clear?"
"Told you, I was north. Didn't see a damn thing."
"Right." The man looked at Karl for a moment longer, then turned and walked away. As he turned, Karl saw the clear outline of a gun bulging under his left armpit.
Karl wiped new sweat from his forehead. He had been right. Somebody was smuggling yesterday and he had come too damn close. They got his boat name from that thirty-footer when she overtook him coming in.
Karl knew that from now on they'd keep their eyes on him, probably tap his phone, too.
He felt a cold menacing shadow moving toward him, and he knew there was no way to avoid it.
8
Johnny had to move his loan-sharking research to the afternoon and evening. There was simply no action mornings in the drinking spots and small markets that he had to cover.
It was past 9:00 p.m. when he slouched onto a stool at a small bar near the Tenth Avenue Marine Terminal. A lot of working men used the place to let off steam. Some of the stevedores were just off a long shift, relaxing with a beer. Their talk was raucous and reminded Johnny of his Navy days.
One voice came through to him. It was lower, more serious, and Johnny caught the tension creeping in. The man sat two stools down, talking with a friend.
"I told him I'd pay, but I didn't have that kind of money until payday. So on payday he showed up, grabbed my check and threatened to hurt my family unless we went to the bank. He waited for me and left me fifty bucks for two weeks. What can I do?"
The pair moved off the stools and headed for the door. Johnny heard two more complaints about the "instant money services" that made loans without collateral, but nowhere did he find any mention of a connection with the Mafia. It was a blind lead. He decided to call it quits for the evening because he had promised Sandy they'd visit her father. It was his birthday and she had baked a cake and arranged a small party.
Resurrection Day Page 6
