American Static

by Tom Pitts

  “I’m about to clear my name, but I need you to run this guy Friedlander. Can you do it or not?”

  Pino wheeled the car into the center of a parking lot under the freeway that led to the Bay Bridge. He stopped in the middle and turned off the engine.

  “Yeah, I can run him, but that’s it. No more favors. This is putting more than my job at risk; you’re putting my freedom in jeopardy.”

  “It’s all I ask.”

  Tremblay spelled out Seth Friedlander’s name for Pino and waited as he ran it though the computer attached to the dash. The length of the arrest record that came back surprised Tremblay.

  “This guy is supposed to be a reporter? You sure this is the right Seth Friedlander?”

  “He’s the only one that pops. Take it or leave it.”

  Tremblay copied down the most recent addresses beside the name. The last known was an address in Oakland, downtown, near Jack London Square.

  “One last thing,” Tremblay said.

  “No. No more favors. This was the last thing.” Pino pointed at the screen.

  “I need a ride to Oakland.”

  “Fuck. Are you kidding me? It’s rush hour, the bridge’ll be packed. No way.”

  Tremblay sat there, not moving, a blank expression on his face.

  After about a minute, Pino said, “Oh, all right. Let’s go. I’d be happy to dump you in someone else’s jurisdiction.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Carl crisscrossed through the Mission. Every few blocks he would dial Peters’ number, but it sounded like the phone had been turned off. He was acutely aware of the fact the police were now looking for him. He was sure Panzer had remembered the make and model of the car from the other night. It was dusk now and soon it would be night, every minute that crawled by announced to him he’d never see Peters again.

  Steven sat across from him, patient and silent. He’d completely given over to the sensation that his fate was out of his hands. He felt like an old Styrofoam cup bobbing up and down in a turbulent ocean. Playing over in his mind regrets of ever taking the weed and heading out for the city, he went through each detail as though he could have changed his fate. I never should have said I’d move the smoke. I never should have taken Greyhound. I never, ever should have gotten in the truck with Quinn. He remembered thinking at first that Quinn was a cop. He wished he were a cop. He’d be safe in a holding cell in Willits. He was no cop, that’s for sure. He was a monster.

  Carl broke the tension. “Well, son…I don’t think I can stall this thing much longer. I’m going to have to go into the Hall of Justice and have a talk with Detective Panzer. My friend’s life is apparently in jeopardy. I knew this, I guess, I was just hoping against hope.”

  “If that’s the case, why are you stalling?”

  Carl reached for his mints, but they weren’t in their usual pocket. “To be honest, I’m getting a bad feeling about Panzer. I’ve known the man for years, but, really, he’s only been an acquaintance. In this business, you have to rely on your instincts. My gut tells me that my partner is still alive and that my friend on the force may be no friend at all.”

  “I should have listened to my gut and stayed where I was. If I never got on that bus, maybe none of this would have happened.”

  “Ha! No, it would have happened. It just would have happened without you. But you got to look at it from the other side. If you weren’t here, maybe Teresa wouldn’t still be alive. Maybe you’re her only hope, the wild card that puts Quinn’s plan into a tailspin.”

  “But he’s got her. We don’t even know if she’s alive, we don’t know if your friend is alive either. We’re just driving in circles.”

  “That’s the trick to positive thinking, son, it takes a little effort sometimes. You have to forgive yourself for the situation you’re in and have faith in your ability to do what’s right. You have to look at what’s before you, and deal with it the best you can.”

  Steven let that hang for a moment before asking, “Why didn’t you tell your police friend about me? I heard you on the phone; you didn’t mention my name once.”

  Carl sighed as he turned another corner. “I don’t know. I figure there’ll be time to sort all this out later. No need to throw another log on the fire.”

  “Log on the fire?”

  “Sorry, it’s the best I could come up with. Keep an eye out for that Ford now.”

  ***

  The ride across the Bay Bridge was slow. It was rush hour and it seemed the city’s entire population was funneling onto the bridge. Tremblay kept taking small sips from his bottle of Maker’s. When traffic came to a standstill before Yerba Buena Island, he suggested Pino hit his lights and sirens. Pino told him he was getting drunk and to lay off the whiskey.

  Tremblay responded by keying into his bag of coke once more.

  “What are you doing, man? This is a police vehicle. What if somebody sees you?”

  “If they see it’s a police vehicle, they’ll know to mind their own fucking business.”

  “You’re a fucking liability, Tremblay. No wonder they gave you the boot.”

  Traffic began to break up slightly as they traversed the tunnel in the middle of the Bay Bridge.

  Pino asked, “What the fuck do you think you’re gonna do over there, anyway?”

  “I’m meeting an old friend.”

  “At a junkie reporter’s house?”

  “It’s the only place I know where he’ll be.”

  “Who’s the friend?”

  Tremblay smiled. “Some son of a bitch from the old days. Before your time, youngster.”

  “This have something to do with what’s going on with you in the city?”

  Tremblay snickered, a dry hollow sound like an emphysema cough. “Oh yeah. This has everything to do with that.” He patted his jacket for his cigarettes.

  “Why you wanna go poking your nose further in the shit? Why the fuck don’t you just leave town and hide, like you usually do?”

  “Because this guy owes me. Big time. I’m gonna settle this shit once and for all. I’m gonna fix it so I’m outta hock to Richard and sink this fucker at the same time.”

  “Richard? You mean Alvarez? How’s that work? He involved with these killings?”

  They were on the Oakland side now, coming off the bridge. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “I don’t know nothing ’bout it. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

  Tremblay sensed he’d said too much. Fucking whiskey. He looked at Pino and tried to read him. Cops were curious by nature and loved to gossip as much as gangsters, but…

  “Take the first exit here, over on the right.” Tremblay pointed toward the 880 Alameda off ramp.

  “I know where I’m going,” Pino said.

  They got off the freeway and started to move through the streets toward the address Pino had looked up on the computer.

  Tremblay told him to stop.

  “We’re not there yet.”

  “This is fine. I wanna walk, get some air.”

  Pino pulled the car to the curb. Before Tremblay could open the door, he told him, “Look, man, as a friend, I’m telling you: Richard Alvarez is a powerful man. He’s got tentacles on shit you never expected. Forget the police department, he’s got friends all the way up the ladder. The big chair at City Hall and upward. We’re talking mayors, senators, you name it. If what you’re about to do is gonna fuck him up, I seriously suggest you rethink your plan.”

  “As a friend? As a friend? You and me ain’t friends, Pino. We’re associates at best. You’re just another bottom-feedin’ fuck like me. Guys like Alvarez have the power because they got lucky. They got no bigger balls than us, they’re not supermen. Fuck Alvarez and, thanks for the ride, but fuck you too.”

  Tremblay got out and slammed the car door.

  Pino watched him walk away. He waited until Tremblay was one full block away, then he picked up his cell phone and dialed Bill Panzer.

  Tremblay didn’t notice that Pin
o stayed parked, he was making his own phone call.

  “Carl?”

  Carl’s voice sounded far away. Tremblay heard the traffic in the background. This was good; Carl was still in his car and not with the police.

  “I hear you haven’t talked to the cops yet.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “I told you, I’m not without my resources.”

  Tremblay pinched the cell between his cheek and shoulder while he stopped and lit a cigarette.

  “I got some new information for you. You ready to copy an address?”

  “Where are you?” asked Carl.

  “I’m in Oakland, near Jack London. I’m on my way to a reporter’s house. His name is Seth Friedlander. He’s the guy Quinn’s gonna use to bring down the old man.”

  “Alvarez?”

  “Yeah, who d’you think? I’m close and I figure if Quinn and that little girl aren’t already here, then they’re gonna be soon. How long ’til you can get here?”

  “What’s this got to do with my partner? I want to know that he’s safe. You have any word there?”

  “Yeah, I got word,” Tremblay lied. “I spoke to Alvarez. He still has him. He says he’s holding him ’til Quinn is secured, then he says he’s gonna release him to you if you two will fuck off outta town.”

  “He knows we can’t do that. What is he, nuts? There’re bodies piling up. This whole thing will be under scrutiny by a long and thorough investigation. Everything we’re doing is going to come out. Doesn’t he know that?”

  “Of course he does, he’s just trying to play you. Get you to come to him. He wants Quinn back in jail, he wants you and your friend dead, and—most of all—he wants the girl.”

  “Why? What does he need the girl for?”

  “The girl is the key to his secret. He’ll probably kill her too, but he can’t afford to have her die at the hands of someone else. He doesn’t want to leave any evidence around.”

  “Evidence?”

  “The girl. She’s the evidence he needs to hide. Shit, you really don’t know what’s going on, do you? Once he has her on ice, he can move forward.”

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  “It’ll all make sense to you soon. Get your ass over here.”

  “I want to know where my partner is,” Carl said.

  “I know where they’re keeping him. I promise I’ll help you get him out, but you need to come here first. If you go to the cops now, Alvarez is gonna know, believe me. He’s already in touch with his friends on the force. Then he will kill him, stick him in the trash heap, no one will find even a hair on his head. This is what he does; he’s an expert at making people disappear. He’s been doing it for years. Trust me, I’m your only connection to Alvarez. We can do this, you and me. You get your killer, and you get your partner back. It’s the only way.”

  “What do you get?”

  “After we settle up with Quinn and your boy, Alvarez’s world is going to crumble. That’s it, that’s what I get. I get out from under one of the biggest assholes in the history of assholes and I get to start living my life again. I get my freedom.”

  As soon as Tremblay said he was in Oakland, Carl had turned the car toward the Bay Bridge. Now he was at 9th and Bryant. Two blocks from the Hall of Justice; one block from the East Bay onramp. He had to make a decision. He tried to feel his gut, what it was saying, but his mind was racing, rational thoughts and emotions were colliding.

  When he passed the light at 8th Street, he swung the car to the left and got onto the freeway.

  “I’m on the way. What’s the address?”

  ***

  Alvarez was pacing, quietly cursing to himself in Spanish. He’d replaced the rice sack over Peters’ head. Peters sat, slumped forward, with only his zip-tied arms behind the chair keeping him from completely collapsing. In fact, with the sack on his head, Alvarez had no idea if the man was even still alive. He’d worn himself out torturing the poor man, and was now convinced the young cop had no other information to offer.

  Alvarez was debating brewing a pot of coffee or opening a bottle of wine when Manuel walked in and gave him the news. Tremblay was there with Carl and some kid, on Anza and Blake. He must have already been tailing them, said Manuel. They both followed Carl and the kid to the Mission. Then something happened to make them stop, either they spotted Manuel or maybe they got word about Quinn. When he circled the block, he saw them outside on the sidewalk talking to each other. They’d both been on the trail of Quinn and Teresa, he figured. If he didn’t know better, Manuel said, he could have sworn they were working together.

  “You don’t know better, you stupid fuck. Of course they’re working together. That shitheel Tremblay isn’t picking up his phone. Fucking Gutiérrez has fallen off the face of the earth. You don’t bother with calling—you wait until now to tell me this shit? What the fuck is going on?”

  Manuel only shrugged. He knew better than to say anything at a time like this.

  Alvarez’s phone rang. The caller ID was coded, but he knew exactly who it was: Bill Panzer from the SFPD.

  “What?”

  “Hello to you too,” Panzer said. “First off, I thought you’d like to know we got your boy, Gutiérrez, down here at 850 Bryant.”

  “What for?”

  “Right now? Murder. He was found at the scene of a homicide on Alabama Street about an hour-and-a-half ago.”

  “Homicide? Who’s fucking dead? Tell me it’s Quinn.”

  “No such luck. A woman was stabbed to death. Can’t figure out what he was doing there, but he clammed up until he’s lawyered up so we’re gonna have to wait to find out.”

  “Shit.”

  “That’s not all.”

  Alvarez didn’t like Panzer’s tone. The detective always sounded smug when he spoke to him. He’d like to squeeze that smugness out of him one day. Not today, he needed him today. But…one day.

  “What is it?”

  “I just got a call from a colleague of mine. He says he just dropped Tremblay off in downtown Oakland.”

  “You’re kidding. Why didn’t he arrest him?”

  “On what charges? Being a prick?”

  “Do you know where he left him?”

  “I know exactly where. Before he dropped him, Tremblay had him run a name and address. The name was Seth Friedlander. My boy said he’s a reporter at the Chronicle. Mean anything to you?”

  Alvarez’s throat tightened. “What was the address?”

  Manuel stood at attention while Alvarez talked on the phone, stoically awaiting his next orders.

  Alvarez walked into the back office and came out with his PPK .380. His favorite gun. He pointed it at the still rice sack over Peters’ head and said, “I believe everything you’ve told me. You are useless to me now.”

  He fired once.

  Peters’ head recoiled, flipped up inside the sack. His head now hung at an unnatural angle, his obscured face pointing up at the overhead lights behind him. There was an exit hole in the back of the sack, but all the blood and brain matter was held inside. He was still.

  “What now?” Manuel said.

  “I need you to get over to this reporter’s house in Oakland. But first, help me get him into the incinerator. I can’t carry him by myself. Let’s hurry, before he starts dripping.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “So that’s it? I thought for sure there’d be a blood test or something. Shit, I could have done that myself,” Quinn said.

  “They didn’t swab you in the joint?”

  “Sure, but for some reason I thought this’d be different.” Quinn was relaxed now, sitting between Seth and Teresa on the couch, leaning back with his arms stretched around both of them. “What’s next?”

  “Next I wanna ask Teresa some questions. That all right with you, Teresa?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Good,” Seth said, without taking a breath. “I got some stuff worked up. Just to build some emotion. You know, how
your life’s been affected. What you’re doing now to get by. I hear things have been rough on you.”

  She still wasn’t speaking, but her brow became knotted. It was clear she had no idea what Seth was talking about.

  Seth suddenly jumped up from the couch. “So…who wants a drink first? I got some beers just for the occasion. Quinn?”

  “Sure, I never say no to a nice cold one. Or a warm one for that matter.”

  Seth disappeared through the doorway to the kitchen and busied himself with the fridge and glasses.

  Teresa finally spoke. “What the hell is he talking about?”

  “Your story, baby. You’re gonna be famous.”

  “What story?”

  “I guess it’s time to shine a little light here.” Quinn took his arms from the back of the couch and leaned in. His face and tone became serious. “You’re not who you think you are. That is to say, of course you’re you. And everything about you is all you, but there’s some shit about your past you don’t know.”

  Teresa’s expression said get on with it. She was tired of Quinn beating around the bush.

  “Let’s start with this. Your father, that controlling prick you’ve come to know as your father, is not really your dad.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Years ago, when your father—well, not your father—Ricardo Alvarez first came to this country, he was trying to build an empire. He was knee-deep in the drug business and he needed to have a place or two that could make him respectable. He needed legit businesses, not only to wash dirty cash and all that other shit, but because he wanted that respectability. He craved it; he just didn’t know how to go about making it happen. The way he is, he did it the only way he knew how. It’s his nature.”

  Quinn paused as Seth came back into the room and handed him a beer in a frosty pint glass. “Beautiful,” Quinn said and took a grateful slug.

  Seth set a glass down before Teresa too, but she didn’t pick it up.

  “Anyway,” Quinn continued, “first it was the nightclub. You remember the club? Big disco place out in the Dogpatch on Indiana Street. You probably don’t remember. There was nothing out in the Dogpatch then. It’s all built up now, but back then, it was a shithole. He had this big ol’ joint ready to start jumping, but the city was hanging him up. Zoning, permits, whatever. He needed someone at City Hall to grease the wheels. That’s when he got close to one of the city supervisors. This guy, the supervisor, made the deal happen. Once he had the club going, he wanted to branch out. San Francisco is a goldmine for money laundering. An expensive city like this? Easy to move cash around. Some of his friends from south of the border wanted in. Next thing you know, Ricardo wants to open a few restaurants. Again the city hangs him up. Get in line kinda thing. So Richard has this supervisor introduce him to someone else on the board. A Chinese guy, his district was the Richmond.”