American Static

by Tom Pitts

  “What’s this got to do with me?” asked Teresa.

  “I’m getting’ to it. Hang on. So this new guy, the guy in the Richmond, he was already a crooked fuck. In with the triads or tongs or whatever you call ’em. He and Richard understood each other and they started a partnership.”

  Quinn stopped and lit a smoke and offered Teresa one. She took it and let him light it for her. Then he went on, “The Richmond guy, he had a wife, white girl—hot piece of ass. He didn’t know it, but she was fucking around behind his back. Richard was fucking her, I was fucking her. Who knows who else. So the wife, she gets pregnant—not by her husband, the supervisor. She tells the guy that Richard is the real father. This is all real hush-hush. This guy is a powerful man, all ego, you know. He don’t want nobody to know, figures it’ll be too damaging to recover from—politically speaking. He thinks the baby is gonna come out half Mexican, not half Chinese. So Richard helps her hide out and have the baby. I have a hand in that, too, and while she’s hiding out—gestation hibernation, I called it—she tells me, guess what? Boom—I’m the real father. This shit blows me away. I’m trying to figure out what to do. ’Cause when the baby comes out, the truth is gonna come out, too.”

  Teresa’s eyes are welling up. She knows where this is going.

  “When the kid is born, Richard gets all hot under the collar. He can’t stand I fucked her, even though she’s somebody else’s wife. He knows what’s up and he has the mother taken care of.”

  Quietly, Teresa asks, “Taken care of?”

  Quinn puts his index finger to his temple and pantomimes pulling a trigger.

  “Yeah, taken care of. The chick is history. The poor politician has to scramble to find a way to explain why his wife disappeared. Nobody ever found out; it’s still a cold case file.”

  Teresa felt a pang in her stomach, a sickness welling up. The story she’d been told about her mother had been a lie. It’d all been a lie. The idea she’d clung to, no matter how far-fetched, was now crushed. Her mother was not out there somewhere lost in a bag of dope. Any hope of a distant reconciliation was now gone. The terrible feeling in her gut was the punch of truth.

  Quinn continued, the shock blanching Teresa’s face not slowing him down. “Anyway, while he’s doing this, the first guy I told you about, the first guy from the Dogpatch, he figures it out. Soon he’s holding it over his fellow supervisor. It’s like he’s got two votes on everything because the Chinese guy has to do whatever he says.”

  “I’m that girl?”

  “You got it, kiddo.”

  “And…he had my mother…killed?”

  “Yep.”

  She looked at him a moment. Looking at his blue eyes, his white skin.

  “And you’re…” She let it hang.

  “Yes, again. I’m the guy. I’m your real father.”

  Teresa looked as though she’d be ill. Her face became more blanched than it already was.

  Seth said, “Take a sip of your beer. It’ll be all right, just hang on.”

  “Hang on?” Teresa said. Then to Quinn, “Hang on to what? You’re telling me that you’re my father. After all the shit you dragged me through today, the shit I saw you do? I’m supposed to be happy about this?” She finally broke down and started sobbing.

  “Sssh, it’s all right. Let ’er out.” Quinn tried to comfort her by patting her on the back but she pushed his hand away.

  “Why? Why now? Why are you telling me all this?”

  His voice grew more stern. “Because your father—Richard—is a prick. I fucking hate him and it’s time for him to pay. He kept me from you. He stuck me in a hole. He wanted me to die in prison. Fuck him, that’s what I say. Look what he did to you. Did he ever treat you like his daughter? Like flesh and blood?”

  Teresa silently shook her head.

  “I didn’t think so. When this comes out, it’s going to bring him down. He’ll be finished.”

  “Why would anyone care now?”

  “Tell her,” Seth said.

  Quinn stubbed out his smoke and took a long slow pull off the pint glass.

  “Because, that wasn’t the end of it. This supe in the Dogpatch, he knew the score, and he held it over the other supervisor’s head. This went on for years. About nine years ago, this Chinese guy has finally had enough. He wants out from under this guy. So he goes to Richard, wants it taken care of. So this prick that calls himself your dad has me and another one of his lackeys take out this politician. It was a big deal when this guy went missing. The story went on for months. Fingers were pointing every which way. What was never suspected, was that the guy that put the hit on him, made him disappear, was another supervisor.”

  Teresa looked confused.

  “That guy, the guy who was married to your mom and helped cover up her murder, the guy who had his fellow supervisor whacked and reaped the benefits, the guy who’s been in bed with the bad guys since he was in short pants, his name is Ronald Woo.”

  It took a second for the name to register with Teresa.

  “The mayor?”

  Quinn sat smiling. No teeth, just a tight upturned smile. “One and the same.”

  ***

  It wasn’t hard for Carl to find Tremblay. He was the only one out on the deserted streets of the rundown neighborhood. Tremblay stood on a corner a half-block up from the house. He was smoking a cigarette and had something in his hand. At first Carl thought it was a weapon, but as he pulled up he saw that it was an odd-shaped bottle. Tremblay took a short sip off the neck as Carl pulled to the curb.

  Tremblay flicked his butt into the street and leaned into the driver side window. “Hey, how’re you doin’? I see you still got the kid with you. Hey, kid.”

  Steven didn’t say anything back. He could smell the alcohol on Tremblay’s breath from where he sat. The booze didn’t make him seem any less evil. More so.

  “What’s the deal?” Carl said. “They in there?”

  “Not sure,” Tremblay said. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  “What’s going to happen? Do you think we can just walk up and knock on the door and say, we’re not cops and we don’t have warrants, come with us?”

  “I was thinking something a bit more, ah, proactive.”

  “I think it’s time we called the police in. Past time.”

  “Too late for that. We go in like cops, arrest Quinn and hold him for your murder up in Calistoga. Shit, he’ll get hung up on any of the stiffs he’s left around the last few days. While we’re waiting, we free the girl.” Tremblay noticed Steven’s eyes perk up. “Yeah, she’s in there too. She’s at risk, time’s a wastin’.”

  “What about the reporter?” Carl said. “What’s he got to do with this?”

  “That’s a little more complicated. We need to make sure he stays alive. He’s the one that’s got the goods on Alvarez.”

  “Stay alive?” Carl was wondering what Tremblay was really planning. “What goods?”

  “Look, we don’t have time to go into all this now. You brought a weapon, didn’t you? You got cuffs and shit in the trunk? How about a badge? Tell me you got a badge.”

  “What are these goods? What the hell’re you dragging me into here?”

  Carl was getting annoyed, Tremblay could feel it. He decided to give Carl a little more of the story. “Open up and let me in.”

  Tremblay got into the back seat and asked, “Mind if I smoke?”

  Ever since he quit, Carl hated to be in close proximity to tobacco smoke. He said, “I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

  But Tremblay was already lighting up.

  “This all started years ago,” began Tremblay. Tremblay told the story from his perspective, leaving out the details implicating him in any crimes. To him, the equation was simple. Go in, get Quinn, free Teresa, save the reporter and the story. Once they’d secured Quinn and the story, they’d call Alvarez and get him to release Peters. If the cops got there first and arrested Quinn, the story would surely come out, but Pete
rs’ fate would be in question. At least this is what he told Carl.

  Carl was having trouble believing it: the story about the San Francisco mayor, the motivations of his new de facto partner, and, if any of it were true, that they could pull it off.

  Steven sat in awe of the two men. Most of what Tremblay told them happened when he was a baby and then a child. He had no idea what a supervisor did or what money laundering was. It seemed that Tremblay spoke partially in code and partially in the jargon of old black and white movies. And yet, the man seemed completely comfortable divulging these secrets in front of him. Steven felt an odd sense of fraternity. He was being treated as an equal in the car, a part of the machine, the plan.

  When Tremblay’s story was done, Carl asked him, “Why didn’t you tell me who Oulilette really was?”

  “We weren’t sure if he had a copy of the tape.”

  “What tape?”

  “The evidence. The thing Alvarez had him keep outta the trial. It was a time-stamped security tape that had Quinn at the restaurant at the time of the crime. Air-tight alibi. Quinn woulda walked.”

  “And for that you get a vineyard up in wine country?”

  “It was an important piece of evidence. If Quinn got off then Alvarez was going down. But it wasn’t just that. There was a lot of other shit, too. Julian had been in Alvarez’s pocket for a long time. He helped quash a bunch of cases. You can’t do what Alvarez does without having friends on both sides of the fence.”

  Tremblay paused to let his words sink in. He took one last pull from his bottle of Maker’s and said, “Gentlemen, let’s fuckin’ do this while we still have the choice.”

  Steven wasn’t sure what that meant.

  Carl wanted to say something more, too. He wanted more information, more details. He wasn’t ready to commit himself to such an obviously rogue plan. But before he could say anything, Tremblay opened the door and got out of the car.

  He leaned back in through the open door and handed Steven the nearly empty bottle of Maker’s. “Here, kid. Hang on to this. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Tremblay stood up straight and slammed the car door harder than he intended. He started down the block toward the house.

  Steven looked at Carl, who watched Tremblay barrel down the sidewalk.

  “Damn it,” Carl said. He got out of the car, too. He went back to the trunk and got out his revolver and cuffs and whatever else he could find in the few seconds he had. He shut the trunk, but before chasing after Tremblay, he came round to the passenger window and leaned in.

  “Stay here,” he told Steven. “Don’t move a muscle. We’re going to be back in a few minutes. It may seem like longer, but I’ll make it as fast as I can. Hopefully I’ll be coming back with your girlfriend, so…” Carl felt the urge to tell the kid that he loved him, that somebody loved him. He didn’t know why, he only wanted the kid to know that he was a good kid, that all this wasn’t his fault. “Just stay put.”

  The old man looked scared. It scared Steven too, but there was something about the way he called Teresa his girlfriend that made him feel warm and okay. Steven nodded and smiled.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be here.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Tremblay was already at the broken wooden gate that separated the house’s sidewalk from the city’s. It hung off its hinges, pushed inward. It looked as though it’d creak if it were touched, so Tremblay slipped around it, squeezing his bulk though the open space without much finesse.

  It gave Carl time to catch up. “Tremblay, what in the hell? Slow down. What are you doing?” Carl slipped past the gate with much more ease.

  Tremblay turned and held up an index finger to his smiling lips. He waved for Carl to follow him. Before climbing the two short cement steps that led to the front door, Tremblay reached to his right side and pulled the police-issue 9mm Glock he had tucked into a belt holster. He held it behind his back.

  “Wait,” Carl said. He tossed him one of the pairs of cuffs he’d taken from the trunk of his car. “If you’re going to do it, do it right.”

  Tremblay took them and tucked the cuffs into the side pocket of his suit jacket. He whispered to Carl, “You ready? You got your piece?”

  Carl reached into his own pocket and drew the .38 revolver that had served him so well during the past thirty years.

  Then Tremblay knocked. He didn’t use the heavy police knock; he tapped lightly with his left hand. Carl guessed he wanted it to sound like it might be friends at the door.

  Teresa had asked Seth for some privacy—and a glass of water. Seth looked at Quinn to see if that was okay. Quinn nodded and said, “Sure. I guess it’s been a while.”

  Teresa asked where the bathroom was and Seth pointed down the hall.

  “Anyway out from there?” asked Quinn.

  “Not unless she’s as small as a rat.”

  Quinn called after Teresa. “Leave the door open.”

  When she was out of the room, Seth asked Quinn, “She fixin’?”

  “You judgin’ or jonesin’?”

  Seth looked embarrassed.

  Then came a knock at the front door.

  “Who’s that?” Quinn said.

  “Shit, I dunno. Maybe it’s my friend Paulo. Let me get rid of him.”

  “Make sure you do. What the fuck you got friends coming over for at a time like this?”

  Seth held his hands out, palms up, gesturing for Quinn to stay calm and stay seated. “Okay, okay, okay. It’s all right. I’ll take care of it.”

  Seth walked toward the front door as Quinn fixed an eye down the hall where the bathroom was. Before he reached the door, Seth heard another light tapping.

  He cracked the door just a little and said, “Paulo? Now’s not a good time.”

  As soon as he saw the doorknob turn, Carl watched Tremblay point and ready his weapon. When light from inside fell through the crack, Tremblay shoved the door with his shoulder and fired low, at the knee or thigh of whoever was behind the door.

  The bullet traveled through the wood and hit pay-dirt; they heard a painful howl from the entrance to the house. Tremblay shoved the door harder and knocked the injured man to the floor. He stepped inside over Seth’s feet.

  Seth was writhing on the floor with both hands squeezing his wound, a nasty hot hole above his knee.

  “Cover him, Carl.”

  Tremblay didn’t point the gun down or even look at Seth. He held the 9mm up at eye level and kept moving inside. He was searching for Quinn.

  He moved up the short wall that separated the entrance from the living room. He turned the corner slowly, poking the barrel of the 9mm out first. He could see the couch now—empty. There were three beer glasses on the coffee table and a pack of Marlboro Reds. The glow of a silent TV flickered and shifted onto the couch cushions. He listened. Nothing but the sound of the skinny little fuck groaning in the foyer. Tremblay saw a staircase behind the couch that led upstairs. There had to be a kitchen to the left, but he couldn’t see it without exposing himself.

  With the barrel of his gun going first, he nosed around the wall into the living room. From there he could see the kitchen. Stove, fridge. No shadows, no movement.

  Carl entered the house now and saw the man rolling on the floor with a pool of blood gathering below him. Thigh wound. Artery maybe.

  “Ssh. It’s going to be all right. Sit tight, there’ll be help on the way. You’re going to be okay.”

  But help wasn’t on the way. Although he’d probably heard the shot, Steven had no cell to call 9-1-1 and Carl didn’t want to chance lowering his weapon to make the call either. He stayed behind Tremblay, nearly straddling the injured man, but still covered behind the wall separating them from the main room. He watched Tremblay take another step forward.

  He heard one word. A joyful—Maurice! A friendly greeting. A warm white flag.

  Then a booming gunshot. Heavy caliber. Bigger than a .38. A .44 or a .45 at least.

  He saw Tremblay fold
in front of him. Gut shot. Instinct forced Carl back against the wall, although a wall like this was no protection from a gun like that. Somewhere in the rear of the house, a door slammed. For a moment, he thought Quinn had fled, that he was safe.

  Then he heard Quinn’s voice say, “Goddamnit.”

  And another boom accompanied by a bullet tearing through the wall inches from Carl’s head. It shattered a small window beside the front door. Carl squatted down, out of breath with fear. The injured man was grabbing at his leg, pleading for help.

  “Is your name Seth?”

  “God, please. Help me.”

  “Keep squeezing your leg above the wound, Seth. Use both hands, that’s it. I’m going to go get help. You just sit tight and stay awake. Can you do that?”

  Seth nodded yes, but made a sound like a whimpering dog.

  Carl rolled over and peeked around the entrance wall once again. Tremblay was still heaped on the floor. The room was empty. He heard footsteps going up the stairs, heard them clomping on the second floor. A couple of doors opening and closing, then the footsteps came bounding back.

  “Seth? Seth?”

  It was Quinn’s voice. Carl glared at Seth. He didn’t want him to make a sound, but that was impossible for a man in that much pain. He pointed his revolver at him and put an index finger over his lips.