Tin Man

by Dale Brown

  catch your ass out on my streets again, you're

  dead."

  "I advise you to listen to these guys, Sandman,"

  Bennie said. "They mean business."

  "Oh, I'm sure they do," Harrison said, talking to

  Bennie but facing Townsend. "I'm sure the Angels,

  the Riders, the wetbacks, and the slopes meant

  business too. But they're not in control around here

  either. The Brotherhood is in control of this state."

  He shook his head. "You're a piece of work, limey.

  I First you kill two of our brothers and steal our

  chemist, then you off one of our recruits, then you

  set up meetings and want to be the big boss. We

  don't need no foreigners trying to muscle in on our

  operation."

  "You are going to produce more methamphetamine

  in one month than you previously could in a

  year, Mr. Harrison," Townsend said. "Easy, safe,

  and guaranteed to make us all rich in a very short

  period of time."

  "And this deal includes hosing off a couple of

  cops, Townsend?" Harrison asked angrily. "You

  cost us plenty with that holdup of yours."

  "I see Mr. Mullins felt free to talk about our operation

  with you," Townsend said, his confident

  smile dimmer. "It seems our decision to terminate

  Mr. Mullins's miserable life was a sound one."

  "Mullins was a Brotherhood recruit, asshole,"

  Harrison said. "He was one of ours, and you knew

  it. He gave us plenty of access to businesses, warehouses

  , and events. Killing him was like attacking

  all of Satan's Brotherhood. You owe us."

  "Mullins was a weasel who would sell his

  mother to make a dollar," Townsend said angrily.

  "He did the Sacramento Live! job for five thousand

  lousy dollars. How much was he supposed to pay

  you out of that?"

  At Harrison's blank face, Townsend added, "Or

  perhaps you didn't even know he was doing this

  inside job? The latter, I suspect. So Mullins was cutting

  the Brotherhood out of your share of his action.

  He was a lying, cheating bastard. You should have

  had him killed long ago."

  "Maybe so, Townsend. But I got one message for

  you shitheads: Get out of town now, and stay out,

  or we'll fuck you over real bad. Capish?"

  "Aren't you even interested in my proposal?"

  Townsend asked.

  "Does it involve you making or selling meth?"

  "Fortunately, no," Townsend said dryly. "Manufacturing

  drugs, especially methamphetamine,

  seems to be a very hazardous undertaking, best left

  to you and the Mexicans."

  "If I find out you doin' any deals with the fuckin'

  Mexicans, asshole," Harrison said, "I'll kill every

  last one of you myself. Your hard-ass German

  friends won't be able to help you one fucking bit."

  "Major Reingruber would like nothing better

  than to go to war with you, the Mexican cartels, the

  police, and anyone else who opposes us," Townsend

  said sternly, affixing his one good eye squarely on

  Harrison. "But I prefer cooperation to war. Since we

  have somewhat similar political and cultural views,

  shall we say, we prefer to work with you."

  "But you got Bennie the Chef," Harrison argued.

  "That means you're cooking. You cook crank in

  Brotherhood territory, you die."

  "Mr. Reynolds is serving as my technical expert

  and adviser to streamline methamphetamine production

  ," Townsend said. "We have devised a

  means to manufacture meth in vast quantities with

  safety, security, and profitability in mind-but we

  do not wish to do it ourselves. We will leave that up

  to you. Care to see what we have in mind?"

  By this time, Harrison's curiosity had taken over.

  He nodded his assent. Townsend led the way into

  the barn behind the house, which was guarded by

  four heavily armed soldiers. There, lined up like

  barrels in a brewery, were twenty black steel drums,

  mounted on small trailers. "What the hell's this,

  Townsend?" Harrison asked. "This your idea of a

  joke?

  "This is the core of my new operation, Mr. Harrison

  ," Townsend replied. "These are meth hydrogenators

  ."

  "Say what?"

  "Hydrogenators," Townsend repeated. "Thirty

  gallons each, with built-in agitators' pressure monitoring

  , leak detection, air filtration, and productpurification

  apparatus. The trailer contains a power

  unit and vacuum-pressurization equipment."

  Harrison still looked confused, so Bennie clarified

  it for him. "Big bucks, Sandman. We're talking

  two, three hundred thousand dollars a day from

  each one of 'em. Fully portable, fully selfcontained-you

  can practically set one of these

  things up in your backyard next to your barbecue

  grill and no one would know you're cooking. It's as

  easy to use as a Suzy fuckin' Homemaker oven."

  That kind of information Harrison understood.

  He walked over to one of the units and ran his hand

  over the dull black steel surface. "Cool. I'll take

  'em. How much?"

  "They're not for sale, Mr. Harrison," Townsend

  said. "But you can have them. All of them, if you

  like."

  Bennie looked thunderstruck. Harrison's bearded

  face broke into a wide grin. "Wrap 'em up, limey."

  "All I ask is that you pay my organization a modest

  sum of one thousand dollars a pound for every

  pound you produce," Townsend said. Harrison's

  grin vanished as he tried to do the math in his head,

  so Townsend did it for him: "That's twenty percent

  of the wholesale price but only eight percent of the

  retail price per pound. You can buy the chemicals

  and catalysts, from us if you wish, or you can supply

  your own. We even provide the security for each

  unit, courtesy of the Aryan Brigade."

  "But I get the cookers for free?" Harrison asked

  incredulously.

  "Absolutely free," Townsend said. "Each unit reports

  every time a hydrogenation cycle is completed

  ."

  "Does this asshole ever speak plain English, Bennie

  ?" Harrison complained.

  "What he means, Sandman, is that the unit can

  tell us when somebody cooks up a batch," Bennie

  said, falling back into his prerehearsed script even

  though he was still in a state of shock. "The colonel

  gets paid by the pound you cook up. just so everyone

  stays on the up-and-up, the unit tells us how

  much you cook."

  "Precisely," Townsend replied. "The unit can tell

  us how much was made, and when. Each cycle can

  produce up to thirty pounds of product. You pay us

  thirty thousand dollars every time you make a full

  batch, and whatever else you earn is yours to keep.

  We even provide maintenance for the units-if they

  ever break down, we will fix them without charge.

  We will become the Microsoft of the methamphetamine

  trade."

  "The what?" Harrison grunted,
still running his

  hands lovingly across the surface of the hydrogenator

  .

  "Never mind," Townsend said. "Is it a deal,

  then?"

  Harrison was clearly impressed. "I'll take this

  deal to the chief," he said. "I think he'll like it."

  "Good," Townsend said. "Then you'll be off."

  Again Harrison looked at Townsend as if he were

  speaking a foreign language, but when Townsend

  headed for the door, he understood the tour was

  over.

  Bennie Reynolds was absolutely speechless.

  When the five Brotherhood bikers had left, he

  turned on Townsend and asked, "What the hell are

  you doing? You're going to give away thirty hydiogenator

  units? We just spent a quarter of a million

  dollars building these things! They're worth millions

  of dollars a month4"

  Townsend shrugged off the protests, "It's a good

  deal for us as well as the Brotherhood," he said. "Of

  course, we'll give a few to the Mexican gangs and a

  few of the other biker gangs as well. After all, Satan's

  Brotherhood isn't the only gang in the West."

  "You're going to do this deal with other gangs?

  That's suicide! If the Brotherhood finds out, they'll

  go to war."

  "I don't think there'll be a war, Bennie," Townsend

  said with a confident smile. "There's too much

  money to be made. We have another ten hydrogenators

  to build, and then we can start scheduling

  training sessions for each chapter that will get one.

  My plan is to distribute and train all of the Brotherhood

  and Mexican-gang chapters in one night, all

  throughout California, Nevada, and Oregon. Let's

  get started, shall we?"

  MARRIOTT-INTERCONTINENTAL MARINA,

  SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

  SATURDAY, 14 FEBRUARY 1998, 1915 PT

  H elen Kaddiri glanced briefly at the good-looking

  guy who opened the hotel door for her before she

  walked out toward the docks. She had been born

  and raised in San Diego, but she hadn't been down

  to the waterfront in years. It was much more

  crowded than she remembered, but still just as

  beautiful. The weather was perfect, dry and mild,

  with just enough of a breeze to bring in the salt air

  but not enough to require a coat.

  She allowed herself to enjoy the weather and the

  scenery for a moment before her mind returned to

  the situation at hand: Namely, what in hell did Jon

  Masters want? His phone call the day before yesterday

  was the first she had heard from him since the

  BERP demonstration up in Sacramento. The rest of

  the board of directors and every one of the senior

  officers and managers had either spoken or met

  with her, pleading for her to return-everyone but

  Jon Masters. Pig-headed as usual.

  She had tossed a grenade on their picnic by having

  her attorney draw up a proposed three-milliondollar

  settlement agreement. The deal included

  cashing in some of her preferred-class stock, converting

  the rest into common stock, and transferring

  ownership of some of the patents and other

  technologies still in development that rightfully belonged

  to her. She wasn't looking to gut the company

  , although she certainly could if she wanted.

  "Helen?" She turned. To her astonishment, she

  realized that the young, nicely dressed man who

  had held the door open for her was Jon Masters. It

  was practically the first time she had ever seen him

  in anything but jeans and tennis shoes. His hair was

  neatly trimmed and combed in place, and-this was

  almost too much to believe-he was wearing a

  necktie! She never imagined he would even own

  one, much less wear one!

  "I I'm sorry, Jon," she said, completely

  taken off guard. "I didn't recognize you. You look

  so . . . so

  "Normal?"

  Helen smiled. "Something like that, yes." That

  was unusual too-Jon never made fun of himself.

  just the opposite, in fact-he thought he was God's

  gift to the Western world. Helen looked down at her

  slacks, casual blouse, and plain jacket. "I feel underdressed

  standing next to you, Jon, and that's certainly

  something I never thought I'd say. It feels

  weird."

  "I'm very glad you're here, Helen," Jon said. He

  held out a bouquet of red roses. "Happy Valentine's

  Day," he said, looking into her eyes.

  A puff of wind could have knocked Helen Kaddiri

  over. She accepted the flowers with a stunned expression

  . The most he had ever given her in the past

  was a hard time. "Thank you," she said in a tiny

  voice. "I'm flattered. Now tell me: Who are you,

  and what have you done with the real Dr. Jonathan

  Colin Masters?"

  "No, it's me, all right," Jon said. "We're this

  way." He motioned toward the marina.

  "We're not meeting in the hotel?" said Helen.

  "I've asked my attorney to join us. He'll be here in a

  few minutes." Jon looked confused. "I assumed this

  was in response to my settlement agreement, Jon."

  "No. I hadn't planned on bringing any lawyers,"

  Jon said. "You can bring him if you want, but it

  might spoil . . ."

  "Spoil what?"

  "Spoil . . . the mood," he said, a little embarrassed

  .

  "The mood?" Helen retorted. She had been

  intrigued at first, even titillated by what Jon was

  doing; now she was getting angry. This sounded like

  yet another Masters prank. But it wasn't the fact

  that he was pulling another prank that made her

  angry-it was her sense that this wasn't a prank,

  and then realizing that she had deluded herself.

  "Jon, what is this? What's going on? If this is some

  kind of gag, so help me, I'll brain you!"

  "It's not a joke, Helen," Jon said. "Follow me."

  "Where are we going?"

  "It's a surprise," Jon said. He led her down the

  steps to the hotel marina. A man in a white waiter's

  outfit smiled, bowed, and opened the wharf security

  gate for them. "I'd ask you to close your eyes," Jon

  said, "but the thought of you closing your eyes on

  this dock makes me dizzy."

  "Jon, where are we going?" Helen asked irritably.

  "This is crazy. If we can't discuss our differences

  like rational human beings, we should just . . ."

  "Here we are," Jon said. He had stopped beside

  the most beautiful yacht Helen had ever seen. It had

  to be sixty-five feet in length-it looked as big as a

  house. A waiter in crisp white was standing in the

  aft cockpit, ready to help them board, and opposite

  him was a violin player. Up a short ladder was the

  covered aft deck, on which Helen could see a table

  laid with a gleaming white tablecloth and place settings

  for two. The yacht's engines were running,

  and dock crews were holding the lines, ready to get

  under way.

  "Jon, what in the world are you up to?" Helen

  asked
.

  "We'll talk on board," Jon said. "Let's go."

  "Where are we going?"

  "Oh, I thought we'd go to Catalina for the weekend

  ," Jon said. "Depends on the weather. Or we can

  go to Dana Point, or Mexico . . ."

  "Mexico?" Helen asked. "Jon, what is all this?"

  "Helen, we can talk on board," Jon said again. He

  looked up and down the wharf.. Attracted by the soft

  violin music, a small crowd of gawkers had stopped

  to watch, which was making Jon uncomfortable.

  "Your chariot awaits, madame."

  "We're not going anywhere until you answer

  me," Helen demanded. "What's going on? Is this another

  one of your elaborate pranks? If it is, I haven't

  got time for any of it."

  "This is no prank, Helen," Jon said. His face was

  beginning to show the dejection of someone realizing

  his grand plan maybe wasn't going to work.

  "This is a night out for both of us. A chance to be

  together, to talk, to have a nice dinner, to see the

  coast at night."

  "No one else?"

  "No one else."

  "What makes you think I'd fall for any of this,

  Jon?" Helen asked.

  " 'Fall' for this? There's nothing to 'fall for/

  Helen," Jon responded. "We have a lot to talk about.

  There's so much I want to tell you . . ."

  "This isn't about the settlement agreement,

  about the buyout?"

  "No, it's not about any of that," Jon replied.

  "Well, what then?"

  "It's about . . . it's about you and me, Helen.

  About us."

  "Us? There is no 'us,/ Jon.//

  "I want there to be an 'us/ Helen," Jon said sincerely

  . "Can't we go on board?"

  "Talk to me right now, Jon," Helen insisted.

  "What are you saying?"

  Thankfully, the crowd had started to go on its

  way. The violin player stepped inside but continued

  to play. "Helen, I sensed something in you during

  the. BERP demonstration up.in Sacramento," Jon

  said. "I don't know if I'm right or not, but I know

  what I sensed. And when I thought about it,

  thought about you, I felt really good."

  "You mean ... you mean, you like me?" Helen

  asked, sounding perhaps a bit more incredulous

  than she meant. "As in, romantically like me?"

  Jon took her hands in his. "Yes, Helen. Romantically

  . I want to see if there's anything there, you

  know?"

  Helen paused, looking into Jon's eyes. This was