American Static

by Tom Pitts

  Quinn turned on his hazards and watched as Tremblay pulled into a bus stop only fifty yards ahead of him. Quinn was tempted to get out of his car and go at Tremblay hand to hand, but, he reminded himself, he had a body in the trunk.

  Then: salvation. A bus pulled up behind Quinn. The driver gave three angry honks and pulled around him. Quinn saw the driver give him a disgusted frown. Quinn smiled back. The bus pulled ahead to the stop and Quinn saw his chance.

  He pulled into traffic. More horns honking. He hit Van Ness and pulled a hard left, starting toward Civic Center, weaving in and out of traffic, keeping an eye out for cops. A ticket now would mean the end of the game for him. Two blocks down he saw Tremblay’s blue Ford coming behind him. Right on Turk, up Franklin, cut across to Gough. Tremblay was sticking right to him. Tremblay glared at him, saying something. Quinn kept moving.

  Tremblay thumbed through his recent calls with his free hand and hit the one titled R.

  “I got him.”

  “Who’s this?” the voice on the line said.

  “It’s fuckin’ Tremblay. Put him on the phone. I got this motherfucker.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Don’t fuckin’ lie to me,” Tremblay shouted. “Put him on the phone, now.”

  The phone went quiet and Tremblay hit speaker and dropped the phone in his lap so he could keep both hands on the wheel.

  After a minute, and a few more blocks, a voice came on and said, “Maurice?”

  “Yeah. It’s me. I got him. He’s right fuckin’ in front of me.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you have him. That sounds like you see him. Are you sure it’s him?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “Does he see you?”

  “Goddamnit, yes. I’m chasing him up Franklin right now. Cocksucker’s in a white Benz. You got a pen? The plate’s two-D-H-C-four-five-seven. You got that?”

  “What are you going to do, Maurice?”

  “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

  “I assume that’s just an expression. Watch what you say. Somebody might get the wrong idea. You may think we’re on safe phones, but you never know. Call me later when you two have settled your differences.”

  The phone went dead. Tremblay threw it down on the passenger seat and it bounced onto the floorboards. Quinn taking rights and lefts, zig-zagging toward Pacific Heights. Finally he pulled a sharp left up a steep one way. Tremblay was about to follow, but he heard a honk behind him, the unique, powerful blast of a police horn. In his rearview he saw a patrol car, the driver shaking his head and holding up his index finger. “One way,” the cop was saying. Tremblay shrugged as though it’d had been a terrible mistake he averted. Just another lost tourist in a rental car. The cop didn’t light up or sound the siren, but the chase was over.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Steven and Teresa sat on the curb on Fulton Street at the edge of Golden Gate Park. The sky was clear, but the air blowing up from the beach was cold and bit right through Steven’s denim jacket.

  “What now?” asked Steven.

  Teresa picked at some crusted mud on the edge of her boot. “I dunno.”

  Steven watched her pick for a moment and said, “You hungry?”

  “No, not really.”

  She didn’t lift her head.

  “How far away are we from the beach?”

  “’Bout twenty blocks. That way.” She extended a finger toward the ocean. “It’s not going to be any warmer there, though.”

  “I’m not cold.”

  “You look cold.”

  “I’m not,” he said, even though he had his hands stuffed in his pockets and his denim jacket wrapped tight around him. “I’m hungry though.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t have any money.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You want a little speed? Just a puff? It’ll warm you up and you won’t be hungry, that’s for sure.”

  “No. I don’t know how you do that stuff.”

  “What? Speed? I don’t do it all the time. I mean, I’m not a full-on tweaker. I just do it sometimes. It’s okay. Just smoking it isn’t too bad, not too intense.”

  “My brother got into speed. Smoking it. Turned him into a total asshole. Ended up in jail.”

  “For what?”

  “Stealing copper wire out of abandoned houses. Dumbass had the shit on him too. Got possession and a charge for stealing or whatever they call it.”

  “Larceny.”

  “Huh?”

  “Larceny. That’s what it’s called.”

  “Yeah, that. And some other stuff too. Some kind of special burglary. He’s still locked up.”

  “You miss him?”

  “Not really, he’s an asshole,” Steven said. The comment hung in the air unanswered, so he added, “I miss the person he used to be. He used to be cool. He used to let me hang out.” His voice trailed off.

  “Yeah. Fucking family. Never fails to let you down.” Teresa looked up from her boot and smiled at Steven. She stood up off the curb and took his hand. He liked the way it felt in his, small and warm.

  “C’mon,” she said. “I still got a few bucks. Let’s go get you something to eat.”

  Something to eat was two Homerun Pies from a liquor store. One cherry, one apple. Steven tore open the packaging and devoured them. He’d never tasted anything so delicious.

  “These are fuckin’ great,” he said, wiping the crumbs from his mouth.

  Teresa smiled at him in amazement. “You’ve never had a Homerun Pie? I used to live on these things.”

  “My parents would never buy this kind of stuff. They were strictly whole-food Nazis. If I wanted a snack, it was always granola or carrots or some shit like that.”

  “Ugh, sounds awful. Couldn’t you just go to the corner store and get stuff yourself?”

  “What corner store? We live in the middle of nowhere. The only time I was in a store was when my dad drove to town to get supplies. There was never enough for anything extra. Or at least that’s what he always said. They figured white sugar was worse than cocaine.”

  Teresa laughed and shook her head. “Hippies, huh? Livin’ the dream.”

  “I guess. It always seemed normal to me. Most of the kids at school, their parents grew pot. It’s what everybody does up there. Everybody but my mom and dad. Fuckin’ idealists, I guess. Then I got into the weed thing on my own, sort of rebelling.”

  “It’s not really rebelling if it’s the same thing everyone around you is doing.”

  Steven nodded. She was right. He felt silly having said it.

  Teresa said, “Sounds kinda nice, actually. Not like how I was brought up.”

  Steven watched her look off across the street to an empty space, expecting her to finish her thought. “How were you brought up?”

  “Like livestock,” she said.

  He wasn’t sure what she meant by that, so he didn’t say anything at all.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so…so…ominous. It’s just that my dad pretty much shipped me off the first chance he got. Montessori, then boarding schools. I saw more of the nanny than I did of him. Not that seeing his face would’ve made shit better. He’s such an asshole.”

  “Yeah, you mentioned that. The king of assholes.”

  “What about your mom?”

  “Shit, don’t ask. She’s not part of the equation, never has been. Dad told me she skipped when I was still a baby. Drugs. That’s all he ever told me. Not even what kind of drugs. Maybe that’s where I get it. You know, my appreciation for substances? Maybe it’s genetic.”

  Steven thought about what Quinn had told him, that Teresa’s mother was lost in a bag of dope. He wondered now if he’d been making it all up, or talking about the same woman.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Teresa said. “Life wasn’t bad at my father’s. It was just, I dunno, not me, I guess. When I saw my chance I took it.” She paused a moment to see if he was paying attention.
“By the time I finally left, I’m not sure he even noticed I was gone.”

  ***

  Quinn crested the hill of Pacific Heights. He kept checking the rearview but saw no sign of Tremblay. He had no idea why Tremblay had stopped following him, only that he was gone. So the old man had brought out Terrible Tremblay to try and stop him. He wasn’t the best out there, but he certainly had balls. Nice that he sicced someone he knew on him. It’d be a pleasure to put that greasy piece of shit out of his misery.

  Quinn thought about what seeing Tremblay meant. It meant that Alvarez knew he was here, on his home turf. It meant he probably knew why he was here. If Tremblay was on his ass, it also meant that he’d have to dump the car. They had the plates, the make, and the model. He’d have to find a new one quick or go it on foot. Quinn took a left on Post Street and rolled down toward the Tenderloin.

  He reached the corner of Polk and Post and someone at the bus stop he recognized. He hit the button and rolled down the passenger window.

  “Hey, Filthy. How’re ya doin’?”

  The scrawny kid’s face went white with fear. Quinn could see he was deciding if it was safe to bolt. The kid nodded back with a nervous grin on his face.

  “It’s all right,” Quinn said. “She was there. I found her, thank God. You were a big help. Sorry ’bout playin’ rough like that. I was just so anxious to find my little girl.”

  Filthy Phil took a half-step toward the car, probably thinking about that fifty bucks.

  Quinn leaned over. “I got a problem, though. She’s not doing too well. She says she’s sick, needs some shit. I’m here to help her, but I got to get her straight first. You know what I mean? I need to get her something. Think you could help me out with that? I’d pay you. You could get some extra for yourself.”

  That was all it took. Without another word, Filthy got into the car. “What do you need?”

  “You know what I need, Phil. I need to get her well. I need to keep her well ’til I can get her out of town. This city ain’t no good for her.”

  Filth nodded. “Tell me about it. I can cop for you, but you gotta have cash.”

  “No problem,” Quinn said.

  They drove a few more blocks and when they were stuck at a red light, Quinn picked up the purse from where it lay between his legs on the floorboards. He opened the wallet with one hand and thumbed loose the ATM card. “Where’s a Bank of America at?”

  “Easy. Close,” Filth said. “There’s an ATM in front of Opera Plaza.”

  They drove in that direction and Quinn passed the young man the card. “It’s her mother’s,” he said. “She wants her home more than I do. She’s gonna shit when she sees what kind of condition she’s in. I told her, though, we gotta do what we gotta do to get her outta here. Am I right?”

  “Yeah,” Filth said. “Definitely. She’s got to want to go if she’s gonna get clean. How much do you need?”

  “As much as you can get. You can keep some, don’t worry. I hope you don’t mind going up to the ATM yourself, I’ll stay in the car.”

  Filthy was shaking his head, he didn’t mind.

  “Let’s see what you can get out of the bank. I trust you.” Quinn was a block away from the ATM. “I’m gonna pull over here. There ain’t no parking. You go to the machine and take a grand. If it won’t let you do a grand try five hundred. If it still won’t go, try three. The PIN is nine-two-two-nine.”

  Filth repeated the number back to himself and got out of the car. Quinn watched him hurry to the ATM. The boy’s hunger for drugs overriding his common sense. The young man not asking why Mom wasn’t here but her purse was, why hubby wouldn’t know his wife’s ATM limit. After a minute or two the boy came back, practically skipping, with a big smile on his dirty face.

  He got back into the passenger seat. “I got five.”

  “Excellent,” Quinn said with his hand out. “Where to?”

  Filth handed him the bills and told him to take a right. He began pointing Quinn toward somewhere in the Western Addition. Filth was giving directions and telling Quinn about the deal they were about to make. How Quinn had to wait in the car, how the dealer was very paranoid about strangers, and how the dealer’s wife was such a bitch. Quinn interrupted to ask if Teresa ever copped from this guy. Filthy said no, she didn’t know this connection, and then he went on about the dealer’s wife again. She’d be in a nod at the kitchen table all day, he said, only open her eyes to snipe at the dealer for doing business. What was her problem? It was the traffic that kept her high all day. What a bitch.

  “You sure Teresa never gets her shit from this guy?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” Filthy said. “I never told her about him. You got to keep a connection to yourself as long as you can.”

  “You know anybody she cops from that we can go to?”

  Filthy said no, but it was okay, the stuff was good.

  Quinn pulled the car over in an open spot on the right.

  “This is too far away,” Filthy said. “We got to go a few more blocks. This is the projects, I ain’t walkin’ from here.”

  Quinn leaned forward and reached around to his left back pocket and pulled the knife. Filthy seemed confused, the danger didn’t register.

  “It’s been my experience,” Quinn said, “there’s only one way to get off this shit.”

  Filth furrowed his brow, still confused.

  Quinn lunged forward with his right hand and stabbed Filthy in the heart. The boy made a terrible inward sucking sound and tried to grab the knife before it went in any further. He sliced his fingers on the blade. Quinn figured he’d missed the heart, so he pulled the knife out and stabbed again. He was sure he’d hit the spot this time and he pushed and twisted the blade. The kid looked surprised, disappointed somehow that the deal fell through. He wouldn’t be getting high today. What little fight remained left him. His features slackened a bit, and he was dead.

  Quinn extracted the knife and wiped the blade on the kid’s jacket. He wiped off the wallet, the car keys, and the purse with the edge of his shirt. He found the ATM card in the top pocket of the kid’s jacket and wiped that off, too.

  Quinn grabbed his bag of tools and got out of the car. He walked away in the direction they’d come, leaving the car, Filth’s body, and the woman in the trunk, behind. He didn’t care how it would look to the police, dead junkie in the front seat, dead woman in the trunk; they’d do their investigation, see Filth on the ATM camera, connect the dots and draw their own conclusions. They usually got shit wrong anyway.

  Quinn walked away swinging the bag in his right hand, whistling a song he wasn’t sure the name of, or when it’d popped into his head. He felt hungry again.

  ***

  Carl and Peters sat in Peters’ Acura South of Market. Carl was behind the wheel this time, giving Peters a chance to take in the scenery. Carl called Perez, who had nothing new to report. He’d heard nothing back on Oulilette, not even a hint of a motive. He was on his way to Clear Lake to take a statement from the woman whose husband went missing. There was no one else to go, so Perez was driving up himself.

  The resources they could draw upon in San Francisco were limited, not without launching an official investigation with SFPD. Carl decided to call Bill Panzer and see what else they could find out about Richard Allen, the smooth-talking Mexican drug lord.

  “Alleged,” Peters said.

  Carl was thumbing through the contacts on his phone. “What’s that?”

  “Alleged. Allen or Alvarez is an alleged drug lord. I thought there was no arrest record under his name.”

  “Under Allen’s name. Panzer didn’t really go into what they had on him as Alvarez.” Carl found the number and hit the call button. “I can’t help but think he’s the key to this thing. Fella was too smooth. That kind of confidence breeds arrogance.”

  Panzer picked up on the other end. The strain of sirens whooped in the background.

  “Bill, it’s me Carl. I was wondering if we could press you more on this A
lvarez thing. We went and spoke to him and—”

  “Shit, Carl, it’s a helluva time. Things have gone nuts in this town since you’ve been here. I can’t remember a time when we’ve had this many homicides back to back. Right after we spoke yesterday, there was a double reported in Bernal Heights, two gunshot victims, fuckin’ mess. Then today we get two more stiffs in a car in the Western Addition. One in the front seat, one in the trunk. Both of ’em stabbed right in the heart. Damnedest thing.”

  Carl immediately thought of Oulilette and the fatal knife wound in his heart. “Lord, sounds like you got your hands full. You have any leads on these stabbings?”

  “Drug shit. Isn’t it always? The shootings too, some kind of dealer who let people shoot up in his house. Needles all over the place.”

  “Connected?”

  “Nah, I doubt it. Still, that’s a lot of business for me and the crew.” Panzer barked some orders to someone securing the crime scene and then spoke back into the phone. “Listen, call me around six, I’ll see if I can’t pull a full sheet on this guy.”

  “Thank you, Bill. You get to work and I’ll call you at six.”

  After he ended the call, Peters asked Carl what the commotion was all about. Carl told him his feeling about the stabbings.

  “You think that’s our guy?”

  “If you mean Mr. Tremblay, no. I just don’t think an ex-cop would be stabbing folks in the heart. Law enforcement officers, present or past, are too firearm orientated.”

  Peters nodded, although he didn’t really know what to think.

  Carl continued, “I can’t help but get the feeling it’s connected, though, this M.O., too damn coincidental. But we’re missing something. A big piece. Maybe this Tremblay didn’t do Oulilette. I think we been leaning that way ’cause we got no other way to lean. We’d better leave him in that person of interest category and broaden our sights.”

  “So what now?”

  “Lunch, that’s what.”

  Peters smiled. He was always ready for a meal. “What’d you have in mind?”