The man called Ben Fry was allowed an hour in the excerise yard each day. His cell door would open electronically and he would walk to the yard alone, watched on monitor by the CBO. He was alone—watched on monitor—once he arrived. The yard was only a little larger than his cell, twelve feet by twenty-six. It was a concrete box with a wire mesh ceiling. Just enough sunlight came in to make it hot as an oven. The man called Ben Fry would pace there for an hour or do push-ups and jumping jacks and then return. He was also allowed out of his cell three times a week for showers.
But for the most part—twenty-three hours a day—it was the cell. The cell and the time. The plain of empty time stretching on and on in front of him. Twenty-three hours a day, the man called Ben Fry lay on his concrete bunk. Lay there and climbed into his tower and looked down across the plain of time without caring. Some hours, some endless white hours, the tower felt so real to him he was afraid he was going mad. But it was better than what he felt when he was below, in the world, not thinking, just staring at the vast emptiness in front of him. It was better than the red, crawling, laughing world of his dreams.
He lived through a week like this. Then one day, two guards came to his cell. They handcuffed him, forced him to his knees and shackled his ankles. With a guard gripping each of his arms, he was led shuffling down the corridor toward the control booth.
This was an important moment for him. For about twenty-five seconds, as he was led along, he could see two of the video monitors through the control booth’s windows. He watched a picture of a cell come on and counted in his head. He counted ten seconds before the picture changed. Then the guards moved him past the booth and down another corridor.
He was brought into a room. There was a metal chair here, bolted to the floor. The metal chair faced a wall of clear, bulletproof Lexan. The guards sat the man called Ben Fry down in the chair. They fastened his shackles to iron rings in the floor. They cuffed his hands to the chair arms. Then they stood behind him.
On the other side of the Lexan wall, a door opened. A man came in. He was a slender man in an expensive charcoal gray suit. He wrinkled his nose at his surroundings. He kept his hands clasped in front of him, his elbows pressed tight to his sides. He seemed a fastidious and disdainful character.
The slender man sat in a chair facing the man called Ben Fry. He spoke—and his high, nasal voice was carried through a microphone, one of those voice-activated microphones that shuts down between words and makes speech sound brittle and robotic.
“How are you today, Mr. Fry?” said the man.
The man called Ben Fry nodded, his eyes stupid, his face dull.
“I heard that you were here,” said the man. “I wanted to make sure before we proceeded with our arrangements. But now I will.”
The man called Ben Fry nodded again.
“I’m glad to see you looking so well,” said the man. Then he said, “Anyway…” and he stood up to go.
The guards unchained the man called Ben Fry from his chair. They led him back down the corridor. He watched the video monitors through the control booth windows as he passed. He saw a picture of his own cell come up on one of them. He had arranged the blanket on the bunk so he would recognize it. When the picture appeared, he glanced up at a clock on the wall.
Back at his cell, the guards unshackled him and ordered him to strip off his clothes. When he was naked, they searched him, nuts and butt.
Then it was the cell again. The cell and the time. The seconds, the minutes, the hours. Silent, isolated, observed.
It would go on like this for a while yet, he knew. Few diversions, little pleasure. No freedom, no gentleness. Caged days, caged nights. The cell and the time and the tower.
Exactly as he had planned.
Eighteen
Mousey Guy lay dead on the alley pavement. His little corpse was sprawled prone, the right arm reaching out past his head, the left bent awkwardly back against his side. His face was turned, the profile visible, one jug ear, the outline of the long nose, one eye. The eye, open, still looked frightened as it had in life, staring, glassy. He’d been gut-stabbed and the blood pooled out around his middle.
Weiss and Inspector Ketchum of the SFPD stood at his feet, looking down at him. They stood shoulder to shoulder, their hands in their pockets.
“Okay,” Ketchum said, “so you’re telling me an imaginary killer stabbed this dead fuckhead in revenge for a fantasy rape of a woman who doesn’t exist.”
Weiss nodded. “Yeah.”
“But the dead fuckhead’s real, right?”
Weiss cocked his head uncertainly.
Ketchum snorted. “Jesus.”
He was a small, thin, wiry black man. He had a deep, muttery voice taut with anger. His face was generally set in a scowl, except sometimes when it was set in a snarl. As far as I could ever tell, he hated everything and everybody. Except Weiss. He liked Weiss. I think.
He nodded now at the coroner’s man standing off to one side. The coroner’s man knelt down and began to put Wally Spender’s body in a plastic bag. Weiss and Ketchum turned to walk away. Ketchum shook his head, disgusted.
“Mousey little bastard wasn’t even robbed,” he said.
“Well,” said Weiss, “he was murdered though. I mean, that’s something. I mean, at least it’s not all fantasy: Someone must’ve done it.”
“Hey, thanks,” said Ketchum, as they came to the end of the alley. “I’m glad he had your card in his pocket. Otherwise, I couldn’t’ve called you, you couldn’t’ve come here and illuminated me on that point. ‘Someone must’ve done it.’ Why didn’t I think of that?”
They stepped from the shade into the sunlight on Mission. Walked together, two rumpled suits, hands in the pockets, big man and small. They passed a line of boarded shop windows. The boards were covered with bills. The bills were ripped, unreadable, black with graffiti.
“So who’s your witness?” Weiss asked.
“You kidding? One of the most honest, observant, reliable crack-heads ever to pick an old soda can out of the gutter. Swears he saw the perp running out of the alley. Swears he saw the knife in his hand.”
“He give you a description?”
“Yeah. Says the guy was Latino. Light-skinned. Twenties. Black shirt.”
“Well, that’s him, all right. That’s the imaginary girl’s imaginary brother. That’s a dead solid ID.”
“Except imaginary.”
“You can’t have everything.”
They sat in a donut shop on seventh. They drank coffees at a table by the storefront window. Weiss looked out through the glass. A small woman went by, bent and old, lugging a bag, what looked like a ton of groceries.
“I got something else going,” Weiss said.
“If it’s real, I can’t help you,” muttered Ketchum. “I’m working strictly fantasy homicides here on in.”
“Bishop’s on a case up north.”
“Good. Anytime that motherfucker’s out of town it’s a positive thing for the city of San Francisco.”
Weiss ignored this. “My client has part ownership in what’s called an FBO up there—a fixed base operation—a small aviation company, does charter flights, cargo and so on. My client thinks his planes are being used by his partner for something illegal, but he’s afraid if he goes to the cops, his partner’ll whack him. He tried a local agency, but they felt he needed a flier and referred him to me.”
“Great,” said Ketchum. “What’s Bishop’s plan? Fuck every woman in sight till someone tells him something?”
Weiss manged to ignore this too, close to the truth as it was. “I’ve got three names of people who might or might not be involved,” he said. “The trouble is so far they tend to be dead. One, a gardener named Harry Ridder, shot himself. The other, a mystery woman named Julie Wyant, threw herself off the Golden Gate Bridge.”
“Must’ve neglected to read the NO JUMPING signs.”
“The third name I got is Whip.”
“Whip?” said Ketchum. “W
hip what?” Weiss turned over an empty hand. Ketchum rolled his eyes. “Wonderful. Every tattooed fuck who’s been anywhere west of Philadelphia’s been AKA’d Whip at some point. That the best Bishop can do? Christ. The only thing that bastard knows how to investigate is poon.”
“You remember…?” Weiss started.
“You oughta dump that fuck, you ask me,” Ketchum said. “Belongs in prison. Shit, he’d be in prison if you hadn’t saved his psycho ass.”
“You remember…?”
“You know he’s not the son you never had, Weiss. He can’t go out there and live your life for you, live your wild side or whatever the hell you think he’s doing.”
Weiss sipped his coffee Set his cup down. Said, “You remember Cameron Moncrieff?”
“Sure. The fag smuggler. Wore turtlenecks.”
“You know he’s dead.”
“Hell, yes. It’s the best thing about him.”
“Okay, well, the other two names were connected to him, so I’m thinking this Whip might be connected to him too.”
“You know what it is with Bishop?” Ketchum answered—answered as if Weiss hadn’t spoken at all. “It’s like he’s some kind of zombie rottweiler. You know? It’s like you’re his master because you kept him out of Pelican Bay. But you’re it, you’re all the conscience he’s got. You tell him to fetch the paper, he’ll fetch the paper no matter what. Some poor bastard gets in his way, he rips his throat out. Some poor bitch gets in his way, he humps her. Get the paper, that’s all he thinks about; Weiss told me to get the paper. He’s a criminal piece of shit, man, I mean it, he just happens to be on your leash, that’s all. You can’t teach a man like that to know right from wrong. You can’t teach him to have a soul.”
Weiss waited, drumming his fingers on the Formica tabletop. Ketchum seethed.
“And what is this shit he’s working on anyway?” the cop burst out finally. Again, Weiss showed him his empty hand. “’Cause you get yourself mixed up in something federal I can’t protect your sorry Jew ass, you know that.”
“C’mon, Ketch, what’ve you got?” Weiss said.
It was a moment or two before Ketchum could answer him. First he had to mutter curses under his breath while shaking his head disgustedly. Then he had to look around the shop as if searching for a witness to the sort of bullshit he had to tolerate. Then he had to sigh with a resignation only a fucking saint could bring to this miserable world of ours. And only then, finally, did he say, “All right. Jesus.”
Weiss rested his cheek against his fist. Waited.
“There’s a guy named Lenny Pomeroy,” Ketchum went on. “Pled out on three counts of accessory to murder a couple months ago. Sometimes he’s AKA’d Whip. Whip Pomeroy.”
“Any connection to Moncrieff?”
“Well, yeah, why the hell do you think I mention him? See, Pomeroy was an Identity Man. A good one too. Kind of an artist at it. The word was when Whip AKA’d you, you stayed AKA’d. Fresh name, fresh face, fingerprints, social security number, job—the whole package. And no one who’s trying to find you—like, say, your friendly local constabulary—is ever gonna be able to locate your sweet ass ever again. That’s where he got the name Whip. Short for Witness Protection. He’s the Witness Protection Program for the bad guys. Once he gets ahold of you, that’s it, man, you disappear.”
Weiss nodded. “What’s the link to Moncrieff?”
“Well, that’s the thing. Pomeroy was Moncrieff’s boy, his in-house asshole. Lover, assistant, all-around Igor.”
“He lived with him?”
“Sometimes. Stayed with him a lot anyway. Moncrieff was the only friend he had, the only anything he had, family, friend, anything.”
“Was he with Moncrieff when he died?”
“I don’t know. How the fuck should I know?” Ketchum said. “The point is: Along with sinning against God and man through his biblically forbidden sexual practices, Pomeroy’s just kind of an all-around weirdo. Liked to hunker down. Never dealt with his customers directly. Anyone who wanted to get a fresh identity from him, had to go through his auntie Moncrieff. That’s how we got him on accessory charges. Moncrieff died and the second Whip went out on his own—end of story. He’s a nutcase.”
Weiss went: “Hmpf. Sounds like it could be my guy. Where is he now?”
Ketchum hesitated, shaking his head. Cursing again. Sighing again. “This is on the way down-low, okay? You never heard this from me. You don’t even know who you never heard it from.”
“Sure.”
“Apparently, they’ve got this scumbag PC’d up somewhere but big-time.”
“Protective custody,” said Weiss, shifting in his seat. “Why? And who’s got him?”
“I don’t know. The feds, the state. It’s one of those everybody-with-his-head-up-everybody-else’s-ass type deals. But on the way down-low. Way.”
Weiss sat quietly, the gears in his brain turning. “So that means he’s got something, right? Whip, I mean. He’s offering something to the feds and…Oh, I get it: He’s rolling on his AKAs.”
“Buh-bingo. That’s what I hear anyway. Law enforcement’s stepping on their tongues ’cause the guy seems to have a line on every missing criminal fuck in the country. Remember the Salmon River killings fifteen years or so ago?”
“Sure. They busted the guy for that just last…Oh.”
“Right: oh. Pomeroy gave up his AKA. And next month I hear they’re going after Johnny Guardo.”
“Johnny Guardo.” Weiss let out a low whistle.
“I shit you not,” said Ketchum.
“What is he, doling them out one by one?”
“One by slow fucking one,” Ketchum said. “Feds think he could keep going for years.”
“In return for what? What’s he after?” said Weiss. “A knockdown on the accessory raps?”
“Oh no. Oh no. He wants the accessory raps. He loves the accessory raps. It’s his favorite fucking thing. As far as Whip’s concerned, they can keep him inside till Jesus comes again. Protective custody, that’s all he wants. Deep PC. If they could dig him a well, he’d sell his soul to live at the bottom of it.”
Weiss let out a short laugh. “That doesn’t make any sense. He could go undercover. He could go WITSEC, get protection.”
“Not good enough. He wants slam. The deepest prison bucket he can get.”
“Come on. That’s crazy,” said Weiss.
“Well, I told you: He is crazy. All that cocksucking drives you mad, man.”
“No, no, no,” said Weiss. “To stay in prison? When he could bargain his way out? He must be fucking terrified of something. Of somebody. Somebody must be after him. Who the hell is it? Godzilla?”
Weiss had spoken quietly enough, but Ketchum said, “Shit. I knew this was gonna get you all frantic.”
“I’m not frantic.”
“Oh, yeah, you’re frantic, Weiss.”
“I’m not fucking frantic.”
“You are. You’re frantic, you just don’t know it yet.”
Weiss snorted. “Why? Go ahead. What’s this Whip guy afraid of? Who the hell is he so afraid of?”
Ketchum’s snarling eyes met his. “He’s afraid of the Shadowman,” he said.
Nineteen
It was sweet to have her in the summer dark. He liked the play of her heavy breasts in his hands. He liked the way her lips hunted hungrily over him. He liked her strong fingers grasping at his shoulders and his back. He lifted up on his arms. He looked down over her belly to see her sturdy thighs parted for him. She was very wet inside and it was good to feel it. He liked the sound of her short, soft cries.
At the end, they locked together, a single held breath. Then he rested on top of her. He listened to her breathing. He felt her body lifting and falling under him. Minute after minute, it was good.
Finally, Bishop rolled off her. Kathleen tucked herself under his arm. She toyed with the hair on his chest and said nothing. He rested with her in the shadows. The noise of the air conditioner cut off t
he sound from outside. The room felt to him like an island of silence in the whispering sea. Minute after minute, he felt the way he did in a plane or on a motorcycle going fast: clear and straight instead of coiled up and tense with his mind worrying at him. He lightly kissed Kathleen’s soft hair. He liked a woman who could be quiet for a while.
The minutes passed. She stirred against him. “Hey,” she said, “can I tell you something?”
Bishop drew a deep breath in through his nose, let it out through his mouth slowly. Back to work. “Sure.”
“Well, it’s just…I dunno. Maybe I’m getting paranoid or something.” She tilted her face up to his. He kissed her forehead. “It’s just things are getting kind of scary, that’s all.”
“Scary how? About Chris?”
He still had his lips to her brow. He felt her nod. He felt her warm breath on him when she sighed, when she spoke again. “I think someone’s following him.”
Pressed against her like that, Bishop had to keep his own breathing slow so she wouldn’t feel his excitement. This was something. This could be important. “Yeah?” he murmured.
“The last few days? I keep seeing this car outside the house at night. This dark car, real nice, like a BMW I think. I just sort of noticed it, you know, ’cause it’s not the kind of car people drive around here. Whenever Chris is home at night and I look out the window? The bastard’s out there. Then if Chris is out on a late flight or something, he’s gone. I don’t know. Maybe I’m crazy. You think I’m being crazy?”
Bishop’s lips moved on her warm skin. “I don’t know,” he told her. He was lying. He knew. “Have you mentioned it to Chris?”
“No. Christ. I don’t wanna get him started, you know, make him any more tense than he already is. He’s already acting nuts lately. Never goes out anymore. Just paces around the house like some kind of animal in a cage. That’s why I’ve been having such a hard time getting over here to see you. Unless he has a night flight like tonight, he’s just around.”
Dynamite Road Page 8
