American Static

by Tom Pitts

  The man blanched. “Shit, Quinn. What are—when did you get into town?”

  “Open up and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Joe-Joe, or Joey, or whoever he was, buzzed the gate. As soon as it opened, Quinn pushed it with his hand and started to walk in with Steven right behind him.

  “Who’s the kid?”

  “He’s my protégé.”

  “Protégé, huh?” The man grunted when he talked. He led them inside and down a hallway toward a kitchen. Sports memorabilia lined the walls. Mostly Niners stuff, but some Giants, too. Pennants and framed action shots and souvenirs from the games. They reached the kitchen and the man sat down first, planting himself heavy in an older chrome-plated kitchenette chair with a vinyl seat. Quinn took his own chair and sat down across from him. Steven stood by the kitchen doorway.

  “What brings you back to town, Quinn? I thought we’d seen the last of you.” His tone was conversational, but Steven could tell he was still spooked by seeing Quinn.

  “I’m looking for Teresa.”

  “Can’t help you there. Even if I’d seen her, she’s a flake nowadays. Strung out. Who knows where she’s at.”

  “You do,” Quinn said. His voice was even and void of emotion.

  The man chuckled. Fake and unconvincing. “What makes you think I’d know anything about where she is?”

  “You always liked her. Richard asked you to keep an eye out before you ran into your troubles. I know you still do.”

  “No, man, not me. Her private school days are over. That girl is trouble.”

  “I’m trouble,” Quinn said. “And I’m here. Now, why don’t you tell me what you know.”

  “Quinn, really, I’d like to help—”

  In one deft motion, Quinn reached across the table and jabbed the man in the throat with his flattened hand. The man made a sound that was part swallow, part yelp. He teetered back in his chair, having trouble getting air back down his windpipe.

  “You tell me what you know and I’ll decide whether it’s something I can use.”

  He grabbed the man’s right wrist and twisted it inward. Both of their chairs fell back with a clatter. Quinn wrenched hard on the limb until the man was forced onto his knees.

  “You know what the Marines call this? They call it ‘makin’ ’em pray.’ It’s what they use to convert zealots out there in Iraq.” He kept twisting. “You prayin’ yet?”

  The man whimpered.

  “You better be fuckin’ prayin’ to me. I’m your god right now, ’cause I’m the one deciding whether you live or die.”

  “I seen her. I seen her.” The man could barely get the words out; the pain was so intense.

  Quinn took his free hand, flat again, and jabbed the man in the sternum. A blast of wind coughed out of the man’s mouth. “Spit it out, you piece of shit. Maybe I’ll forgive you your transgressions.”

  Steven didn’t know what to do. It all happened so fast he felt frozen, transfixed. He knew, on some level, he should run out of there. Get out of that flat and keep on going. But he couldn’t move. He gripped the doorjamb and watched Quinn work.

  Quinn applied more torque to the man’s arm and there was a popping sound. The man began to wail. “C’mon, you fucker. You know me better than this. You know what I can do.”

  “I seen her around Powell Station. A few times,” the man said between sobs. “Hanging out with the street kids there. Please. I don’t know them. I don’t know where she is. I swear.”

  Quinn took his flattened hand and curled it into a fist and punched the man hard in the right eye. The man fell back and Quinn let go of the arm. Quinn towered over him now, planting a foot on either side of his body.

  “What else do you know?”

  “Nothing, that’s it, I swear to God.”

  “Steven,” Quinn said. “Grab me a fork.”

  Steven was still frozen in the doorjamb, horrified at the scene unfolding in front of him. Quinn’s request didn’t register.

  “Beside the sink. Get me a fork.”

  Steven saw Quinn glaring at him and he snapped out of it. He stepped toward the sink. Autopilot, moving on impulse without thought. He took a fork from the dish rack and handed it to Quinn. He couldn’t guess why Quinn needed the fork. The whole time the man on the floor was whimpering, “No, no, no.”

  “Thank you,” Quinn said before turning his attention back to the man on the floor. “You like to eat, you fat, hairy fuck?”

  “No,” the man pleaded. “Please, no.”

  Quinn ignored him, dropped to his knees, and stabbed the fork into Joe-Joe’s bare stomach and plucked it back out. Four tiny holes began to bleed. “Stop crying, this ain’t gonna kill you.” He stuck the fork in again, then twice more, leaving it wagging near his belly button. Quinn stood.

  Quinn, his voice calm once more, said to Steven, “You think he’s lying?”

  Steven couldn’t speak. He only shook his head.

  “You’re lucky the kid likes you. I’m going to let you live your miserable life. If I find out you’re lying, that you’re somehow mixed up in this shit, you know I’ll be back for a visit.”

  Quinn straightened up and went to the window sill above the sink. There was a small potted plant there that looked like it was dying. Quinn picked up its terracotta pot and dropped it on the man’s head. It broke wide in a phalanx of dirt and shards of red clay.

  “C’mon, let’s go.”

  They hurried to the car and Steven got into the passenger seat. He knew he shouldn’t have. Shouldn’t have opened the door and climbed in, but he was scared. He wanted to get as far away from the fat man’s apartment as possible.

  Once Quinn was in the car, Steven asked, “Where are we going?”

  “Powell Street Station, where else? See if we can find some kids down there who know something. But first I got some more sleeves to tug on.” Quinn put the car in reverse and pulled backward onto Page Street.

  “Aren’t you worried about that guy?” Steven hooked a thumb back toward the building they were driving away from.

  “Worried? What d’you mean? He ain’t calling no cops, don’t worry.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Just some asshole who used to work for a guy I know. I thought he might know something, and I was right.”

  As they drove away from Page Street, Steven eyed the door handle, its lock, thinking maybe he should jump out. He should have run when he had the chance. Waves of fear kept him from grabbing the handle. He’d go with Quinn, he decided, but if he saw a chance to bolt, he would. He wasn’t sure if Quinn would try to stop him. He guessed he would.

  They spent the rest of the day visiting bars where Quinn thought he’d know the barkeep. At a few places the bartender asked Steven for ID and they had to leave. Other spots they didn’t seem to care. After a couple of beers, Steven began to relax, even enjoy Quinn’s company again. Steven got the impression Quinn wasn’t only looking for information, he was trying to ingratiate himself back into San Francisco. It made him wonder why he’d stayed away so long. There was no denying the man’s charisma. Steven felt bold when he was with him, too. Quinn laughed about sticking the fork in the fat man, and, eventually, Steven laughed along with him.

  They hit several bars. Usually the staff had changed; sometimes even the name of the place had changed. Quinn would launch into a tale about how great the place used to be. At one point Steven asked, “How long has it been since you’ve been to San Francisco?”

  Quinn said, “Too long.”

  After three or four bars and three or four drinks at each bar, Quinn said, “Fuck it. Let’s go back to the motel and watch us some TV. We’ll roust those little shits on Powell Street tomorrow.”

  ***

  “You didn’t think we’d get outta here today, did you?” Peters was talking with Carl in the parking lot adjacent to the police station. They were surrounded by squad cars, a few black Crown Vics, and a smattering of Sonoma County Sheriff’s cars. The light was beginning to
wane. Peters’ shift had ended a few hours ago. He stifled a yawn. “Even though it’s you, I still got to clear a ride-along with the boss. Did you forget about the paperwork?”

  “No, I did not forget about the paperwork. Son, let me tell you, sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night thinking about the damn paperwork. Nightmares that I’m stuck for eternity in front of a typewriter.”

  “Typewriter? Jesus, Carl, you really are gettin’ old.”

  “You know what I mean. Typewriter, computer, whatever. Red tape is just that…red tape.” Carl reached into his pocket and pulled out his tin of mints. He offered one to Peters and, when the younger man said no, he shook a few into his palm and popped them into his mouth. “In fact, I been looking up this character Tremblay on my own computer. Fair number of newspaper articles on him, but they all say pretty much the same thing.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Mr. Maurice Tremblay—I figure him to be about fifty-seven, fifty-eight—dirty cop, missing evidence—both dope and cash—finally kicked off the force in oh-four.” Carl rolled the mints over his tongue. “Now, I can read between the lines, and I can tell there’s a lot more to this fella than what the papers saw fit to print.”

  “Like what?”

  “Sumbitches like this are always in deeper than folks ever know or care to find out. Now he turns up on our front lawn with a dead body at his feet. No way he just happened by that winery. Stands to reason there’s more to Mr. Oulilette than we know, too.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been having Perez dig in there. Hopefully he’ll have some kind of news before we leave tomorrow.”

  “All right then, you’ll pick me up at my place, what say around six?”

  Peters smiled. “How about around nine? I’m a cop, not a farmer.”

  “We don’t want to drag our feet here, son. If Tremblay ain’t our boy, then he can take us right to him.”

  “I’ll be there before nine,” Peters said.

  ***

  That night, after a modest supper of canned baked beans on toast, Carl sat on the couch before a picture of his deceased wife, Barbra. The hound was curled up beside him at the end of the couch. He held the picture in his hand. It was encased in an ornate silver frame that had a crack in its glass running diagonally across the photo. It was his favorite picture of her, taken when she was in her early forties. To Carl, she’d never changed since the photo was taken. She’d never gotten sick, never deteriorated.

  “Sweetheart,” he said. “I’m thinking on doing something foolish. Well, I’m not thinking on it,” he corrected himself, “I’m goin’ to go ahead and do it. I know I promised you when I was out I was out, but I just can’t sit still here anymore. I been cooped up in this house too long. There’s not much that could drag me away from retirement, away from you, but I think this is a good cause, a worthy cause.” The hound lifted his head and put it back down again. “It’s not just that, you know. I want to be of some use in this world. I’m not mistakin’ this for anything it’s not. I know I’m just an old fool, but I think I got a few more in me, honey. I’m not ready to hang up my hat just yet.”

  He sat the picture down on the coffee table in front of the couch. He lay back, adjusted the cushions into a pillow for his head, put his feet up on the dog, and drifted off to sleep in front of the muted television.

  ***

  When Tremblay got into San Francisco he went straight to a motel. He considered calling an old friend or two but decided that he was better off alone. He’d start to focus on his prey tomorrow. Tonight he’d go out for a solitary drink and reacquaint himself with the city.

  The Bay Bridge Motel was a dive, one that he’d visited many times before as a police officer. It’d been a few years since he’d seen the place and the staff had changed. The rooms, too, had been redone, upgraded. He tossed his small bag on the bed and walked out without even sitting down.

  On foot South of Market, he discovered most of the bars he frequented had either disappeared or undergone drastic renovations. The people crowded into them were young and alien to him. Even 6th Street, the city’s longtime skid row, was crawling with young, hip, well-to-do partiers. The sea of youth put him in a funk so he migrated toward the Tenderloin where there was sure to be bars more suited to his mood.

  The faces of the derelicts on the street were more familiar to him. He thought he recognized a few of them, frozen in time. He stepped around carts and beggars, people doing drug deals on the open sidewalk. Some things never change.

  He found himself at the Brown Jug, a joint swarming with barflies on the corner of Eddy and Hyde. It was the kind of place he never would have gone into for a drink in the past, but now seemed perfect for the solace he craved. He ordered a drink, didn’t wait for it to be poured, and headed straight for the bathroom. The stall had no door and the front door had no lock, so he leaned up against it and dug his car key into his obligatory bag of cocaine and dug out a lump for each nostril. No one knocked or pushed on the door, so he did another two bumps before returning to the bar. His drink was waiting for him. He smiled when he saw the two stools on either side of his remained empty.

  The bartender came back over and shouted over the jukebox, “Six dollars.”

  “Six bucks? For a shot ’n’ water? You gotta be kiddin’.”

  “You said Maker’s Mark, right?” The bartender’s eyebrows furrowed. “It’s six.”

  Tremblay screwed up his mouth and threw seven dollars down on the bar. The bartender scooped them up without saying thank you.

  He turned around to survey the meager crowd. Scumbags most of them. They weren’t drinking any six-dollar shots. The coke had woken him up after the drive and he was thinking he should be trying to find Quinn instead of sitting in a bar getting ripped off on drinks. Find Quinn or find the girl. One would eventually lead to the other. Richard wanted the girl safe and Quinn dead. If the timing was right, he could get them both at the same time. Problem was he had no idea how to find either of them. No idea where to even start.

  He stepped out of the bar and onto the sidewalk. He fished in his jacket pocket for his pack of cigarettes and felt his phone vibrating. He took it out and looked at the caller ID. Richard.

  “Hello…I’ve got it on now…I didn’t see any missed calls.”

  The voice on the other end went on for a few moments.

  “I’m here, looking around town…No, I haven’t…I was thinking of going to see that fat fuck Joe-Joe first thing in the morning…Yeah, I remember. I won’t bring it up, I want him to tell me something at least…Okay…I just told you I’m here, I’m on it. I’ll call you back in the morning and let you know what I found out.” He put a finger in his left ear to better hear the voice on the other end. He said, “I’m not losing steam. I’m on the fucking case.”

  The voice went on for a minute more before the line went dead. Tremblay pulled the phone from his ear and frowned at it. He said, “Asshole.” But no one was listening.

  Chapter Seven

  “This is Peters.”

  They were on Interstate 80 pointing toward San Francisco when Peters answered his phone. Peters hadn’t shown up at Carl’s ’til nearly ten o’clock. He’d pulled into Carl’s driveway in his green Acura, a smile on his face and ready for adventure. They stopped for lunch along the way in Vallejo and kept the talk light. Peters talked baseball to Carl and Carl, not being a fan, didn’t say much at all. Finally, they’d gotten back on the road and were now bogged down in early afternoon traffic approaching the Bay.

  After a few okays and all rights, Peters hit the end button and tossed the phone down between his legs.

  “Was that Perez?”

  “Yeah, sure was. Said he couldn’t find out much about Oulilette. The guy popped up out of nowhere a few years back. Bought the winery and fixed it up and started doing business.”

  “He’s legit?”

  “As far as Perez can tell. No priors, no record at all. He owes money on the place, plenty of it. Owed, I guess
you’d say. Probably took some cash to get it up and running, but everything else is on the books somewheres. Used to be Cavot Wines, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember. Old fella named Harrison used to have it. Retired to cancer as I recall. Poor bastard. Did Perez find out anything about Tremblay?”

  “Didn’t say, so I guess he’s still lookin’ into it. Maybe this is some kinda French mafia thing?”

  “French mafia? Never heard of such a thing. Doesn’t mean it don’t exist, but I find that highly unlikely.”

  “Just thought ’cause of the names.”

  “I know what you’re thinkin’. I’m thinkin’ that if there ain’t much paperwork on this Oulilette fella, chances are he used an alias to buy the place.”

  “That’s what Perez said. He’ll check that angle out, too.” Peters added, “Hell of a name to choose.”

  “Sounds expensive though.”

  “Sure does. Good name for the wine business. People love to waste money on stuff they can’t pronounce.”

  “There ain’t no accounting for taste, I guess.”

  It was miles before they spoke again. The car was silent, no radio, only the sound of the wind whipping the windows.

  “When’d you come out here, Carl?”

  “Where? To San Francisco?”

  “No, to California.”

  “Good Lord, seems like a couple of lifetimes ago. I left Oklahoma in sixty-four. Hell of a time to come to this state. Right before the sixties really took off.”

  “You with Barbra then?”

  “Oh, hell no. She was a California girl, born and raised. Whenever I heard that Beach Boys song, I thought it was written just for her. Still do. Of course, I know it wasn’t, but she was my California girl. Let’s see, I met her up in Napa when I was twenty. We didn’t marry ’til sixty-six. World was a different place then, let me tell you.”

  “I bet it was.”

  Peters looked at Carl gazing out the window and was sorry he’d brought up the subject. As they approached Berkeley, Interstate 80 straightened out and the lanes began to clog. They could see the San Francisco skyline across the bay, gray and cold.