“Fuck you, asshole.” Brin.
The Afghan man’s voice continued to rise and Jarvis could feel the fury, the exultant victory the man felt. The cheers of the others were those of a mob watching the guillotine in 18th century France. They were calling for death, for vengeance, for a good old-fashioned beheading. Jarvis flicked the setting to single shot on his rifle. He took a deep breath, slowing his racing heart and ignoring the light-headedness that tried to embrace his brain from blood loss. He stood and turned the corner, aiming more from memory than the sight of what was before him. As he pulled the trigger the first time, he took in the movement of the man’s arm as it began to pull across Brin’s throat. It would take several strokes, more of a sawing motion, to complete the act. But the first slide of the blade would sever Brin’s carotid artery and seal his fate before the horror of the beheading could be complete. Jarvis’ shot found its mark with almost comical accuracy. The man’s forehead seemed to cave in slightly. The momentum of the movement of the sword across Brin’s throat was inevitable and unstoppable, but the backward force from the shot lessened the pressure. Blood seeped but did not gush.
Hoping more than assuming his shot had been accurate, Jarvis flicked the gun into semi-automatic. The other men in the room were stunned for only an instant and turned toward the stairs. Each held a gun. Jarvis strafed the men hitting three almost instantly. Two died before they could point their weapons at Jarvis but the third was mortally wounded and bent on killing Jarvis as his final act. Jarvis pulled the trigger again and the man’s torso ripped open and his gun flew out of his hand. Jarvis turned to the one man he had not hit and saw the muzzle of a Russian rifle flash. The wall next to him splintered and the next sound was of the Afghan’s weapon being switched to automatic. Jarvis pulled his own trigger and nothing happened – he’d spent his final rounds. He dropped the M-16 and reached for his sidearm but it was too late. The Afghan raised his gun and uttered a final expletive. He pulled the trigger as Jarvis raised his gun, knowing it would not matter but unwilling to give up. The spray of bullets, though, missed Jarvis wide to the left as the man flew forward in an explosive rush as though hit by a truck. Brin, launching himself like a torpedo, bleeding, bound, and beaten, landed on top of the Afghan. He began to bang his head against the man who struggled and tried to turn to push Brin off. The American smashed his forehead against the man’s neck and ear, then against his nose and mouth as his former captor squirmed around to face him. The gun was still in the Afghani’s hand and he brought it up to shoot Brin whose arms were uselessly tied to his side. One shot rang out and the man laid still. Brin looked up into the barrel of Jarvis’ service revolver. Still on top of the dead Afghan, Brin smiled.
“Hey, thanks, man. Tried to stay calm, but guess I sorta lost my head.”
Jarvis’ heart raced and he began to feel faint. He smiled, or thought he did, and as he crumpled to the ground and almost onto Brin, he heard shouts – American voices – and feet running across the floor above. The voices got louder and as he passed out he looked down again and the grin of the bleeding soldier grew larger and broader until it filled his vision like the Cheshire cat.
Chapter Two
Present Day, Los Angeles
Jarvis sat loosely in the driver’s seat, the radio filling the car with low sounds of a KCRW late-night talk show. The topic was troop withdrawals from one of the countries where America was at war. He fiddled with the controls on the steering wheel and took it down to a murmur. Nothing was open at 2:15 a.m. so the flashlight beam playing back and forth in the alley ahead and to his left screamed for attention. The main street where he’d parked more than seven hours ago was deserted. The strip mall abutting the alley contained a Quizno’s, a check cashing place, a liquor store masquerading as a convenience market, and a small pharmacy. It was the last that held Jarvis’ attention.
The door of the BMW was virtually silent as it opened and Jarvis slid out. No oncoming traffic threatened and he stepped quickly and quietly to the curb. The eighteen-inch section of pine 2-by-four was almost invisible as he held it to his side. He reached the alley just as the beam from the flashlight widened, signaling its owner was nearing the mouth and about to reach the sidewalk. Jarvis paused for a moment and a dark shadow emerged from the alley and turned to its right, away from Jarvis and toward the banged up mini Toyota truck a hundred feet up the street. Jarvis resumed his walk, just a few steps behind the figure, unnoticed. Five steps and Jarvis was immediately behind. Hooded sweatshirt, baggy pants, and a large green Hefty bag slung over the figure’s shoulder. Without breaking stride, Jarvis swung the makeshift club up with a turn of his hips. The force caught the burglar precisely as aimed, almost dislocating his shoulder and forcing the bag to drop. A grunt flew from the man’s mouth and before his body could hit the brick wall, Jarvis hit him again – not as hard, just a stunning jolt, on the side of the head. The man bounced off the wall and was on the ground, too confused to know whether to grab his shoulder or his ear where a lump was already forming.
Jarvis made the decision for him, grabbing his collar and dragging the man backwards in the direction they’d both just come. Still no one in sight. The captive moaned and then started to complain as the discomfort of being slid along a cement sidewalk pierced his shock and surprise.
“Who the…what the hell are you doin’, man? Get the hell offa me!”
He struggled as if getting away from Jarvis were an option. Jarvis shifted his grip and gave him a tap on the other ear with the club and the complaining was replaced by a yelp of pain.
They reached the car and Jarvis opened the back door, half picking up the man and shoving him in.
“Don’t bleed on the seat.” He shut the door and used the remote entry key to lock the doors. Without looking back, he returned to the spot where the trash bag had fallen. Its contents had started to spill out. He spun the bag with one hand while holding it in the air with the other, then tossed it over his shoulder like a knapsack and headed back to the car. Unlocking with a press of the key, he opened the front passenger door and tossed the bag on the seat. The protestations from the guy in the back were starting to become more coherent and easily drowned out the radio. Jarvis closed the passenger door and opened the back door. The guy scrambled further back into the seat, but still mouthed off.
“I’m gonna kill you, man, you know who you’re messin’ with?” The threat was softened by the guy’s back pressing up against the opposite door as if that would spring it open.
Jarvis pulled a plastic handcuff from his back pocket and dragged the man closer to him by the ankle.
“Yeah, I know who I’m messing with.” He jerked the guy’s hands together and looped one end of the plastic through the locking mechanism on the other. Cheap, short-term, effective.
“Goddammit, this is kidnapping you prick! You better…” He stopped when Jarvis showed him the piece of 2-by-4.
In a pocket in the back seat, a roll of duct tape created a circular impression. Jarvis pulled it out and the man’s eyes grew wide. He pulled off an eight-inch strip and tore a few millimeters with his teeth and ripped the rest. Jarvis grabbed the guy by the hair and pulled him close, pressing the duct tape over his mouth and sliding his hand back and forth to make sure there was a tight seal. Any objections were muffled.
The guy’s eyes widened further, comically, as he looked down and noticed the plastic on the floor and dark towel on the seat. Jarvis followed his look and shook his head.
“Nope, you’re doing all the bleeding you’re going to do. That’s just to keep it clean.” He waited. “Unless you keep squirming.” The man settled down.
Jarvis shut the door and climbed in the driver’s seat. With the press of a button, the engine started. He looked both ways before pulling into the empty street and didn’t turn around as he spoke to the space in front of him.
“Let’s go have a chat with your father.”
Chapter Three
Jarvis pulled into the driveway on a
tree-lined street in Brentwood. The house was dark, mimicking all the others. Motion-activated floodlights flicked on as he stopped at the front door halfway around the circular drive. Jarvis cut the engine and pressed a button on his phone. The ringing reverberated over the car’s speakers. Half a dozen times before a groggy male voice replaced the ringing.
“What? Yes, hello? Who is this?”
“It’s Jarvis. I’m out front.” The sound of sheets rustling came over the line, then an incoherent woman’s voice mumbling something.
“Nothing, shhh, dear. Go back to sleep,” in a whisper.
Jarvis disconnected just as the young man in the back started to moan in emotional agony. Jarvis ignored him and waited. The front door opened as a hallway light clicked on behind the figure. Robe open, large belly protruding, the man was almost as wide as he was tall. Olive skin absorbed the light from the outside lamps. He gestured quickly, angrily, furtively toward the car. Jarvis got out and opened the back door, pulling his passenger out with a handful of shirt. The only sounds the previously obstreperous young man made was a snort that hovered between contempt and fear.
One hand on his charge, the other carrying the twisted bag filled with pharmaceuticals, Jarvis dragged both to the front door. The father opened it wide and ushered them in. The look on his face was of fury waiting to be unleashed. His mouth trembled and he was unable to speak. He pointed to the living room off to the right, enveloped in darkness. The size of the house from the outside promised rooms further back from which sounds would not escape. Jarvis pushed the son in that direction but did not follow. The son was breathing heavily now, dried blood on his face. Shame and indignation battled; the former won. The father looked ready to explode and in the momentary silence that balanced the three men, he gave in to his rage and slapped his son hard and solidly across the face. The retort was like a shot and the son was surprised and broken.
Jarvis watched without reaction. “Here. It’s mostly narcotics. Some meth makings.” He tossed the bag onto the floor between the father and son. “Don’t rough him up too much. He wasn’t born an asshole.”
It was the father’s turn to register indignation. Jarvis ignored it. “I used about $3500 of the retainer. I’ll send you a bill for the balance.”
Jarvis left through the front door, his walk to the car triggering the outside floodlights again. He heard the urgent, hushed tirade begin as the door closed off the sounds from the house. With his back to his client, his mind was on home and an hour of sleep before starting again.
Chapter Four
The open window sent a cooling breeze through the room. Ocean sounds buffeted the darkness. Jarvis flipped on the bedside lamp, a low-watt bulb giving just enough light to read by and leaving the rest of the bedroom shrouded in black. He propped a pillow against the headboard and picked up the leather journal. Lying on his back, he opened to the page about a quarter from the end, held by an old laundry ticket he’d used for years as a bookmark. He didn’t need to look at the clock to know it was within a couple minutes of 3:15 a.m., his internal circadian keeping eternal synch with the hour. The last entry was the previous night’s, identified only by time, not day or year. He scribbled 3:15 a.m. below it and began to chew on the end of the pen. Events of the day and evening ran through his mind, some parts at high speed like the fast-forward button on the DVD player, others almost comically slow. He scratched out a few lines, hesitating only occasionally.
The hand of the father
Falls heavily on the shoulder of the son.
It is a burden, a gift, a curse.
And it is there long after he is gone.
Jarvis closed the book without reading what he’d written. Tossing it onto the nightstand along with the pen, he killed the light and rolled onto his stomach. A flickering image of his father, decades old, flitted across the palette of his closed eyes before he fell into an immediate, deep sleep.
The clock showed 4:18 a.m. when Jarvis quickly, steadily emerged to consciousness. A few rays of pre-dawn light bent around the house and snuck into the bedroom. Refreshed, fully alert, he rolled out of bed and headed to the garage. Ten minutes later he was hitting the heavy bag and sweating freely, cobwebs gone, another full day ahead. After forty-five minutes of punching, his breathing heavy and rasping, he stopped just as the cell phone perched on one of the shelves lining the garage vibrated violently. Wiping his hands against the only dry spot on his sweatpants, he picked it up. He recognized the digits as those commonly used in movies where they never gave a real phone number– 555.555.5555. Only one person he knew punched that into their cell so it displayed when they made a call. Someone who cracked open a new cell phone burner every week and reached out to Jarvis sometimes just as often, and sometimes not for six months or longer. Brin.
Jarvis answered. “Hey.”
The voice that responded wasn’t Brin. And there were sirens in the background.
Chapter Five
“Who is this?”
Jarvis ignored the question. “You’ve got three seconds tell me who you are and then you’re going to hear a click.”
There was a two-second silence, and the man’s voice continued. “This is Detective Lance Rayford, LAPD. You want to explain why you’re the only number programmed into a disposable phone I found on a guy slumped in a booth at Nate and Al’s, no ID, not a spec of paper, and fingerprints no one’s ever recorded?”
Jarvis’ heart jumped into his throat. He croaked out his question. “How’d he die?”
The cop snorted over the line. “He ain’t dead, not yet. Just close. And I’ll ask one more time: who is this?”
“Detective, I’ll assume the man is in an ambulance or at a hospital and you’re still at the scene. Tell me where he is and I’ll met you there.”
Silence on the line again. Waiting.
“My name is Jarvis. The man is a friend of mine.” Only the sound of a fading siren came over the connection.
This time the cop sighed, knowingly. “Okay, Jarvis, meet me at Cedars Sinai in an hour. And plan on being a lot more talkative.” The line went dead before Jarvis could kill it himself.
The cold shower lasted no more than two minutes and Jarvis was in the car, hair damp and hand gripping the steering wheel harder than he wanted to. The NPR news played quietly over the speakers as he raced along an almost empty Sunset Blvd toward the hospital.
Chapter Six
Jarvis pulled up to the valet outside the emergency room at the Beverly Hills hospital. He snatched the ticket from the guy in a red vest. It was late and the Sunday night troublemakers had already been stitched up and sent home. Jarvis walked across the linoleum and only had to wait a few seconds for one of the nurses to ask him what he needed.
“Guy came in half an hour ago, followed by a cop – probably plain clothes, probably pissed, definitely waiting for me.” He gave her a smile that was half as effective as it would have been if it weren’t Brin behind the double doors. She didn’t need to check her admission chart. Instead she nodded and walked back into the unseen warren of curtains and private healthcare. Less than a minute passed and the detective Jarvis had spoken to came through the automatic doors. There was a weary look on his still-young face and Jarvis could tell the cop may have been on the job no more than a decade but he’d seen a lot.
Rayford pulled a notebook out of his jacket pocket and looked Jarvis over once, thoroughly. He didn’t shake hands or introduce himself.
“Your pal’s in pretty bad shape. What’s the nature of your relationship?” He pulled up a couple feet from Jarvis, pen poised over paper.
“He’s a friend. Long time. What happened to him?”
Rayford weighed going tit-for-tat or demanding this witness just answer his questions. He read something in Jarvis that told him which way to go.
“Not sure yet. Breathing is shallow, he seems comatose, but no outward signs of violence, not a heart attack, not a stroke. They’re running tests.”
Jarvis nodded and waited.
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“Your friend doesn’t carry a lot of stuff with him. Like a wallet or ID. How about a name?”
Jarvis hesitated and Rayford formed a look of disappointment. “Brin. Jerome Brin, but I’ve never heard anyone use his first name.” Rayford wrote it down. “You won’t find much, no records, at least not for the past few years.” Jarvis paused. “Not since he got out of the Rangers.”
Rayford looked up from his notebook and fixed Jarvis with a deeper stare this time. “How ‘bout we go back and you say hello.” He signaled the nurse and the doors opened.
Jarvis followed the detective past a couple of gurneys, mostly empty but one with a very old, seemingly dead man who nonetheless breathed noisily through his mouth. At the end of the corridor they turned left and went into a small room filled with equipment. One doctor bent over the bed in the middle and Jarvis could see only the hand of the man lying on the blue sheet, but he recognized it instantly. Slender palms, fingers tapered, covered with calluses. Jarvis sensed the room had been buzzing with activity only moments ago. The doctor turned his head and looked back and forth between the two men standing in the door.
Dead East Page 2
