by Tom Pitts
They spotted Tremblay immediately. He stood in front of the building and looked out of place among the fresh-faced tourists. He was the only one with a scowl on his face. Without saying anything, Tremblay pointed behind them, up the street, to a smaller coffee shop a hundred yards ahead of the Cliff House.
“I guess he wants to talk there,” Carl said.
“You want me to come?” Steven asked.
“Oh yeah,” Carl said. “I’m keeping you on a short leash.”
Carl pulled the car into a spot. They got out and walked toward the impatient-looking Tremblay.
“You want us to go up there for a bite?” Carl said.
“Right here’s fine.” Tremblay pointed to a spot on a long stone wall that curved along the sidewalk, separating people from the edge of the cliff.
The three of them walked to the wall and stood facing the open air above the Pacific.
Tremblay said, “Who’s the kid?”
“He’s a friend of mine.”
“Well, he ain’t no friend of mine, so tell him to step off while we have our little chat.”
Carl nodded to a spot farther up the wall and asked Steven to wait there. Steven moved beyond it, happy to be out of earshot.
Tremblay lit a cigarette. Carl reached for his mints.
After a moment, Carl said, “I’m here. Where’s Peters?”
“Your partner? I dunno. Probably with Alvarez still. Call him and ask.”
“I can’t, that’s why I’m here asking you.”
Tremblay stared straight out past the wall at the Pacific Ocean. “If they don’t got him, you’ll probably hear from him. If they do got him, you’ll definitely hear from them. They don’t play, these guys. Watch what you tell your pals at SFPD.”
“What is that?” Carl said. “A warning or a threat?”
Tremblay didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled a photograph from his pocket. He handed it to Carl.
“There’s your man. That’s Quinn.”
Carl looked at the picture. It was cropped from an original and blown up. It showed a man who had his arm around someone else who had been spliced out. The man was tan, good-looking, with almost blond hair. The man was also smiling. His eyes were blue and his teeth white and perfect. Movie star good looks.
“This is who did Oulilette?”
“Yep.”
“And the fella we just saw down in that apartment?”
“You got it.”
“And you know this, how?”
“Take my word for it. Why don’t you talk to your friend in homicide? What’s his name? Panzer? See if he’s had any new business in the last few days. This guy Quinn don’t go nowhere without leaving a body count.”
“You already told me his name. Why bring me out here to hand me a photo? I could get his mug out of the system.”
“To give you something you can’t get from his record. Accurate information.” Tremblay looked past Carl to make sure Steven couldn’t hear what was being said. “Quinn’s been one of Alvarez’s boys for years. Hitting clean-up, know what I mean? He’s good at it too, if not a little…overenthusiastic. He hooked up with Alvarez in Mexico some twenty years ago. I think Quinn was on the run down there, just a kid, hiding from something that never found him. They found each other, though. Richard brought him back and started using him. First string, see, ’cause he’s an American. He could get close without spooking people. You only send a team of beaners after someone when you want to scare the shit out of ’em—let ’em know who they’re dealing with. A guy like Quinn you send when you just want ’em dealt with.”
Carl looked at the face in the photo. Smiling, handsome. Prince Charming.
“This guy moved up fast. Soon he was sitting at the grown-ups table. But he had no place there, no mind for it. The guy is a fucking psychopath.”
Carl kept a straight face, but he was thinking, it takes one to know one, huh?
“So he’s just been floating around the city, killing people for Alvarez, and nobody touches him?”
“No,” Tremblay said, “he’s been in prison. Eight years. Homicide. He somehow managed to spring himself with some suppressed evidence and a very good lawyer. Habeas corpus. Free and clear. He’s back to stir the pot. He wants revenge on Alvarez. I’m telling you, this thing goes deep. You’re gonna find out how deep. He thinks the old man stuck him away on purpose. That he left him to rot in a cell ’til the end of time.”
“Why’s he think that?”
“Because it’s true.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Where are we going?” Teresa asked.
Quinn didn’t say anything. He had a pinch-hold on her right elbow and kept them both moving forward at a quick pace. She was panting, out of breath, but he was breathing normally.
“What do you want with me?”
“You’re gonna help me settle some shit with the old man,” Quinn said.
“Who? My father? When he finds out about this, he’s going to kill you.”
Quinn twisted her arm to guide her around a corner. “I’m counting on it.”
They marched onward for two more blocks before Teresa said, “Can we at least stop for a smoke?”
Quinn considered this. He told her to reach into his jacket pocket and take out the pack. “Take two and light them both.”
Teresa did as she was told and returned the pack to his jacket. She took one of the cigarettes and put it into his mouth.
“Not that I don’t trust you, little girl, but I know you’re smarter than people give you credit for. If I set this bag down and let go of you, maybe you’ll make a break for it. If you did that, I’d have to shoot you. Then this little game would be over before it begins.” He blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Believe me when I tell you, it’s your father that I’m after, not you.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Yes, it is.”
***
Richard Alvarez’s voice was the first Peters heard.
“You comfortable, Officer?”
Peters sat quiet. He didn’t know where he was. They’d stuck a gun under his chin and put two rice sacks over his head and zip-tied his hands behind his back. He still felt the gun poking into his jaw. Alvarez wasn’t the one holding it, though. His voice was too far away.
He knew he was in a van. Had to be a van, he’d heard the metal side-door slide shut. From the tinny sound of Alvarez’s voice, he guessed it was empty too. Except for whoever was holding the gun to his head. He heard that person’s labored breathing. That meant two in the van’s cargo area and one behind the wheel. They were moving through the city, weaving through the streets. He’d be able to tell if they got onto a freeway.
Alvarez’s voice again. “You’re going to be just fine, Mr. Peters. We’re going somewhere for a…debriefing. Make sure we really understand what you are doing here, and, more importantly, make sure you understand what we are doing.”
The vehicle bumped along farther. Peters heard the sounds of the city outside, but they were muffled. Even if he knew this city, there was no way to tell where they were taking him.
They had his wallet, his cell phone, his motel room key. What he wasn’t sure of, did they have Carl? Was he back at the restaurant? Did he leave and not return? Or had they already killed him?
The vehicle ground to a stop. Peters once again heard the roll of the side door. Someone exited, then silence. He still felt the gun barrel against his cheek. He wasn’t alone. Including the driver, there were at least two others there with him.
Long minutes passed. Soon he heard voices outside the vehicle, muffled. It was hard to hear what was being said. Finally he made out one of the voices. “I’m not able to go with you, Mr. Allen. I’ve got appointments the rest of the day.”
Peters heard Alvarez say something. He sounded angry, but was hissing his words, they were unintelligible. Someone else in the van was moving. The heavy-sounding door slid open again. There seemed to be a scuffle. Loud thump
s on the metal floor. Someone was dragging something—or someone—inside.
“You can’t do this. I can’t leave here. People are expecting me—”
Then the heavy smack of something hitting flesh. The man with the voice was hit; Peters heard him grunt from the impact. A thud onto the vehicle’s floor. The weight of a body. Unmistakable.
The side door rolled closed again.
Alvarez’s voice now, “As you can see, we have a guest. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your filthy hole shut. I don’t want to upset our friend.”
“But, Mr. Allen—”
Another thick smack. A kick, thought Peters.
“Shut,” Alvarez said.
The engine turned over, the van pulled out. They were in motion again: Richard Alvarez, his men, and whoever the new hostage was. No more words were spoken. No directions given. Whoever was driving knew exactly where they were going.
***
Quinn and Teresa were deep in the Mission now, near 24th Street. Quinn saw Teresa trying to make eye contact with any of the cars that rolled by. It didn’t work, none of them slowed, not one, none of them even looked back. It was as though they were invisible. If any of them did stop, what would they do? Quinn would deal with that when, and if, the time came. He wasn’t worried about it. He’d have the upper hand. He always did.
They began to figure-eight through the short blocks near 24th, streets that were named after states. Teresa asked again where they were going.
“Just a little farther,” Quinn said. His voice was pleasant, patient, as though they were out shopping. In a way, he was.
Up ahead a few houses a short, middle-aged woman was working her way up some marble stairs to her front door. A paper grocery bag hung from each arm. She lived in one of the endless Victorian-style homes sandwiched together in the Mission, but this one seemed to be a single-dwelling.
Quinn slowed their pace. He timed it so he and Teresa arrived at the foot of the woman’s stoop the moment she set her bags down and slid the key into the lock.
Quinn started up the stairs, still clamped onto Teresa’s elbow.
“Do you need some help with those?” He was only a step from the front door.
The woman turned, startled. “No.”
Quinn took another step.
The woman looked at him, then at Teresa. Her eyes lit up, she knew something was wrong. “No, thank you,” she said, as emphatically as possible.
Quinn head-butted her.
She fell backward into her home. Quinn pushed Teresa in front of him and stepped inside, pulling the front door closed behind him.
The woman lay curled with her hands covering her face, saying, “Please, please, no.”
Quinn kicked her in the crotch. “Get up, you old whore. Is there anyone else here?”
“No,” she said, still on the carpet.
He kicked her again and dropped his heavy bag to the floor, relieved to have finally let go of that thing. “Good. I said get up.”
The woman scrambled up.
Quinn cuffed Teresa in the back of the head. Not too hard. “Stand beside her.”
She moved beside the terrified woman.
Quinn squatted down, reached into the bag, and pulled out his chrome-plated .45. He stood back up and held the gun in front of their faces.
“What’s your name?”
The woman was too scared to answer, so Quinn repeated himself.
“Sofia,” the woman said, softly.
“Sofia, this is Teresa. She’s gonna open your front door and grab those groceries. If you move or make a sound, I’m gonna shoot you in the face. This is a .45 caliber. You know what that means?”
The woman shook her head.
“It means if I pull the trigger most of your face will go through the back of your head and end up on the wall behind you.”
The woman whimpered.
“Are we clear on that, Sofia?”
She nodded her head.
“Cool. Me and Teresa are only going to be here for a few minutes, then we’ll be on our way and you can get back to whatever the fuck you do. Okay?”
The woman nodded again.
“Teresa, grab them fucking groceries. Maybe Sofia here can fix us something to eat. All that hiking made me hungry.”
***
Carl and Steven sat in the car. They hadn’t moved. Carl hadn’t even started the engine. He stared out at the ocean, apparently deep in thought. Steven sat quietly while the older man meditated. He was trying to digest all the man had told him. Carl seemed kind and trustworthy, but none of what was happening made Steven feel any safer. His instincts were off—way off—and only seemed to be getting him deeper into a dangerous situation. How did he know that the man beside him really was a cop? He didn’t. The silence in the car amped up Steven’s anxiety. Teresa was missing. He was, from his own life, lost, and now he was getting further involved in something way beyond his control or comprehension.
Finally, Steven asked, “Who was that guy?”
Carl eyed his phone, making sure it was still on, making sure he hadn’t missed a call from Peters. “He was asking the same thing about you. You’ve never seen him, huh?”
Steven said no.
“His name is Maurice Tremblay. And who he is, I’m not one hundred percent sure. He was a cop, sort of. Apparently he’s here to find your friend Teresa.”
Steven looked confused. “Does he know Quinn?”
“Oh yeah, he sure does. Real well. He wants to help me find him. Only he wasn’t much help. It seems everybody wants to find this girl, save her.” Carl turned to Steven to gauge his reaction. “And you’re the only one who’s talked to her. Lately, anyway. Maybe you’re the one that can help me find her before any of these characters do.”
The way Carl said characters made Steven think of the worst thing a person could be. He didn’t say animals, he didn’t say killers, but the way he said characters made them sound even worse.
“What do we do now?” asked Steven.
“I don’t know,” Carl said. “But from what Mr. Tremblay told me about this Quinn, I’d say we better tread carefully. Let me think for a second. That Tremblay is a snake in the grass; I’ve got to decide how much of what he’s feeding me is horse manure. I got a partner who has up and disappeared on me. First things first, I got to make sure he’s all right.”
Carl reached for his phone and it rang the second he touched it. It was Perez.
Perez’s voice sounded small and far away. He said, “We found our boy in Clear Lake.”
“Is he still with us?”
“Nope,” Perez said. “He’s dead. Another homicide. His wife has already identified him. She did give us this tidbit of information, though. Her husband has a .45, chrome-plated. He kept it in the glove box of the truck, and, of course, it’s missing. Strange thing is, he wasn’t shot. We found him with—”
Carl cut him off. “Let me guess. Cause of death: A knife wound in the heart.”
“How’d you know?”
“Some habits are hard to break, I guess.”
Carl was ready to sever the connection, but Perez said, “There’s more.”
“What else?”
“I finally got word back on Oulilette. Found out his real name. It took a while because the change wasn’t legal. He did a good job though, had some help, I’m sure.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” Carl said.
“His real name was Julian Hyde. Ring any bells?”
“No. Who is he?”
“Julian Hyde used to be a San Francisco assistant district attorney. I looked into it; he took early retirement about eight years ago, then disappeared off the map. Oulilette’s finance trail picks up about the same time.”
Carl’s eyes wandered back to the spot he and Tremblay had spoken. The crooked old cop was telling the truth. Alvarez had tried to bury Quinn and he used the DA’s office to do it. Quinn was back for revenge and Julian Hyde was the first on his list.
***
“Who lives here with you, Sofia?”
“My husband,” she said. “He’s at work right now.”
“Let’s hope for both your sakes he doesn’t come home early, eh?” Quinn said this with a smile. Sofia pursed her lips.
“Do I detect some kinda accent, you got there? You’re not Mexican are you?”
“I’m Argentinian,” Sofia said.
“Good, ’cause I’ve had enough Mexicans to last me a lifetime.” Another laugh, then to Teresa, “How ’bout you, girl? You got enough Mexicans in your life?”
Teresa didn’t say anything.
Quinn set his gun on the table and began to dig through Sofia’s grocery bags, pulling out each item and examining it. “What the hell is this thing?”
Sofia said, “Papaya.”
“Papaya, huh? They any good?” Without waiting for the answer he knew wasn’t coming, Quinn bit into the fruit. A line of juice ran over his chin.
“How about these? Mangos, right? You know, you may find this hard to believe, but I’ve never tasted a mango. I heard once that they are the most eaten fruit in the world—in the world. The skin is tough, what do I do? Peel it?”
Sofia nodded her head.
Quinn bit open a flap of skin and pulled it back with his teeth then bit into the yellow flesh.
“Goddamn, that’s good. What is that taste, it’s almost like, I dunno what. Perfume kinda. That’s delicious.” More juice spilled down his chin. “Where I’ve been living, you don’t see many mangos. Or any mangos for that matter.”
Teresa said, “Where is that?”
Quinn smiled at Teresa, but kept his eyes locked on her with an icy glare.
She swallowed. It was audible. Then she ventured again, more quietly, “Where is it you’ve been living?”
Still with the smile clamped on his face, Quinn said, “Oh, you and me are gonna have time later to catch up on my personal history.”
He went back to the bags, setting the items out on the table. Cans of beans, a plastic container of hummus that seemed to confuse him. Avocados, bananas, packaged cold cuts, a loaf of whole grain bread, skinless boneless frozen chicken breasts, coffee.
