by Bryan Koepke
The rooftop was covered in old rusted HVAC boxes and heating ducts—perfect hiding places for bad guys. He didn’t care at this point and was all in, wanting only to see this slimy crook behind bars. Al came around the same air conditioning unit he’d seen the guy dodge past earlier.
Smack! Al ran into something hard and immobile. He was down and a splitting pain throbbed from the crest of his forehead to the top of his nose. Blood filled his mouth and he swallowed tasting its salty signature. He’d been hit, but Al wasn’t sure what it was, or who’d done the hitting. He fought to open his eyes and slid his right hand down his pants leg in an attempt to brace himself and get back to his feet. That was when he realized he was without a gun. Pulsing both hands he knew they were empty.
“You stupid asshole cop. Fuckin’ serves you right messing with us,” someone said in a thick Southern drawl. Al blinked trying to see, but there was waviness to his vision. He went to reach up to clear his eyes and that was when he felt the shoe that was holding down his right hand.
He smelled the tar underneath the half-inch of crushed black asphalt pebbles that covered the roof. He rolled to his right toward the voice and finally peeled open his eyes. There were three of them, all dressed in cheap department store suits, each in their own color scheme. His wondered where his two guns went. Then Al saw the tall blond-haired freak that spoke earlier. His face was more gaunt than the others—not from this part of the world. Maybe Russian or Scandinavian, but definitely not from Missouri. This jerk was close to Al’s right leg and held a two inch black steep pipe about the length of a baseball bat in his left hand. The stench of a cigarette was fuming from this man’s mouth, and as he focused, Al saw the long ash.
The ring of a cell phone pulled at him. Al opened his eyes. The sun was bright, warm, and it instantly made him want to sneeze. He knew such a move would bring pain, so instead of giving in to the urge, he looked down at the floor trying his best to let it pass. The GTO hadn’t moved. It was still in the driveway. A flash of white passed in the rearview mirror behind him, and once he’d brought his head up he knew it was the postman. He came everyday like clockwork at 1:15 p.m.
That was when he felt the vibration of his cellphone on the seat next to his right leg.
“Culver,” he said answering. There was no one there. He’d missed the call.
After setting the phone down, he pulled the tall console-mounted gear shifter into reverse and eased the car back out of the driveway of the house he and his wife, Helen, had saved for and bought the year before their son Reece was born. It was full of memories and now, over the past several years, pain.
Chapter 4
South Broadway Street was anything but busy this time of day as Al followed it along the river hoping he’d spot the blue Corvette. Over on the right several barges floated down the Mississippi and he silently wondered what life as a barge driver might be like. Maybe I could get a job driving one of those—it’s not like I’d need to do a lot of walking or standing. Numbness came to his right shin as he let the knee on that side of his body ease toward the transmission tunnel. He was relaxed here in his green 1970 Pontiac GTO. It was like a second office—a space filled with memories both past and present.
Holy hell, there it is. He spotted the same blue car up ahead of him where the road jogged left and passed underneath the overpass of the freeway. He mashed down on the accelerator, closing the gap, and willed himself closer. With the Nikon in his right hand and the other hand on the steering wheel, he readied himself. The 1967 Corvette had only one occupant. Damn it.
Easing off the accelerator, he counted his options and figured following was his best course of action. The car continued south along the river toward a part of town he used to work in back when he’d just joined the St. Louis PD. Times had been better back then. He and Helen were young, energetic, and in love. There were so many things they wanted and so much time to pursue them.
She’d just gotten her real estate license and with that second income they were comfortable for the first time. A few years later Al got bumped into detective, and with that came more money, more stress, and longer hours, but in his mind things were still good.
The blue car scooted to the left down a side street. Al slowed letting his distance from the car increase while still keeping an eye on its progress. He spotted the driver parking at a cleaner’s and pulled to the curb about a block shy of the business. For all he knew this was a front business. It was tough not being on the force anymore. The instincts and experience were still there, but as a civilian, he couldn’t do more than call his old partner and tell him his hunches.
Chapter 5
With the sports section digested, Al flipped through several ads wondering what was taking the guy from the Corvette so long inside the cleaner’s. He looked down at his right leg, bent his foot to the left, and in doing so tried to lose the odd lightning flashes of nerve pain he’d always felt when sitting too long in the car.
The rev of the other man’s engine caught his attention, and he looked up just in time to see him tear out of the parking space three cars over and roar off into Soulard, a neighborhood located a couple miles south of downtown St. Louis. Al knew the area well and wondered what its attraction was for this guy. He’d been told a couple of weeks back in Eagleton’s office that this guy had a reputation for more than pizza.
The attorney hadn’t gone as far as to mention the mob, but he did say that he’d been under the impression that this guy’s wife hired him mostly as a form of protection. Al remembered Ralph saying she’d be lucky not to end up facedown in the river, but he was glad to represent her in the divorce case and would do his best to advise her on how to stay out of trouble.
The cars opened up and Al stepped on it, taking off into the two lanes of heavy traffic running north on his side of the divided highway. He looked over at the old wooden soda pop crate he’d brought along as a way to keep the new camera safe. It sat on the passenger’s seat with the Nikon and his pair of department-issued binoculars sitting shotgun.
After a few blocks the guy in the Corvette got onto the interstate and Al followed doing his best not to be made. Most of the traffic was newer and fancier than his 1970s vintage muscle car. It wasn’t long before the blue car took the far right lane for Hampton Avenue, and Al took his foot off the gas pedal and coasted down the off ramp, braking as he watched the car hang a left. It was in situations like this where a driver is slowing and changing scenery from the buzz of an interstate that he’d be most likely to notice a tail.
With the car out of view, Al sped up and followed onto Hampton wondering if this might lead him to the guy’s apartment where he kept his mistress. That’d be a lucky break.
It wasn’t long before they’d made a left, a couple of right turns, and then slowed considerably as both cars cruised up a street in Lindenwood Park. He knew the area well from the times his oldest boy, Ray, played baseball games here. About five hundred yards ahead, the blue Corvette slowed as it came south and pulled into the driveway of a single-story ranch.
It was a relatively nice area of town with some older wood-sided two-stories and a handful of newer brick ranches. From his spot two blocks north, Al pulled to the curb on the west side of the street and took a peek through his binoculars. Both sides of the road held large trees spaced evenly on the five- or six-foot section of grass between the sidewalk and the asphalt street. The driveways were concrete like the sidewalks and the narrow footprints told Al they’d been poured decades earlier when cars were smaller.
With a flip of the key the car’s engine ceased. The binoculars felt heavy in his right hand, something he’d never thought about in the past. Al eyed the front of the house. At this distance he was far enough away, yet close enough to see. It looked like the front door spilled out onto an elevated concrete porch with the same kind of decorative white scrolled steel railing all houses had when they were originally built back in the late 1960s. The walkway ran to the right, toward the driveway, and it w
as there he spotted the blue ’67 Corvette, and a late model black Camaro.
Al pressed back and forth on the binocular’s top mid section trying to zoom in on the license plate of the Camaro. He pulled his notebook out from the crate and jotted down the license number.
The buzz of his cell phone caught him off guard and he spooked, smacking his knee against the door.
“Hello?”
“Ah, Helen, how are you doing?”
“Good, why are you not home? Did you go to run an errand?” She said.
“No, I’m working on the job I told you about for Ralph,” Al said.
“The one you and Reece took care of last week?”
“Yeah, turns out we didn’t get everything we needed.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yeah, I’m up here in Lindenwood Park.”
“I hope you’re not taking any risks, Al.”
“No, I’m just sitting in my car observing. Honey, it doesn’t get any safer or more boring than this.”
“Good. Hey, while I’ve got you on the phone, what do you feel like for dinner tonight?” she said.
“How about steak?”
“Wow, sometimes you’re spooky, Al Culver.”
“Yeah, how so?”
“I just spotted a sign for rib eyes and I was thinking we could have Haisley and Mavis over next weekend,” she said.
“You mean have a cookout like we used to?”
“Yeah, and if you wanted we could invite some of the other guys. Didn’t you say Mike Mobley had a new girlfriend?”
“Did I?” Al scratched at an itch on the back of his neck.
“So how many should I get?”
“Make it ten. That way we’ve got it covered,” he said.
“Okay, honey. Don’t stay out too long. You know how your legs get when you sit in that car.”
“Yeah, I’ll call you when I’m done here and on my way home.”
“Love you,” she said.
“Love you too, honey.”
Just then, Al spotted movement around the house. He stuffed his phone into his pants pocket and picked up the binoculars. Two men, the one from the Corvette, and a taller blond-haired guy were out on the front porch. Al counted himself lucky. He’d spent hours with binoculars on the seat next to him sipping cold coffee on other jobs. It was the world of a detective and on this day it could have been the world of this private detective.
Chapter 6
The front door of the distant house opened and out walked a squatty fatheaded fireplug of a guy. From this distance Al figured the guy might be five foot five at tallest. He brought the binoculars up and watched the shorter man puff on a cigar and point his finger at two men as they joined him on the front porch of the house. He panned their faces. There were four of them.
The first was the same guy he’d followed all day long on Broadway. He had thick black hair, an athletic build, and was of Italian decent. This guy was probably in his mid-thirties. Behind him stood an older man with a pronounced hunch in his shoulders. His hair was wispy gray and white and was formed in a sad excuse for a comb over. Never seen that guy.
Al could feel the cold in the car’s floorboard as the day came to an end. It was stiffening his legs and he knew he needed to start the engine and get some heat going, but he didn’t want to send a message to the men he was eyeing. If he was lucky, they’d be too busy with their own business and they’d never notice him. He pulled the tip of his right foot back toward his shin, trying to stretch.
Looking ahead again he spotted the garage door of the ranch as it started opening. Inside was a silver Bentley. Wow, nice car. That was when he saw something that filled him with excitement and dread all in the same instant. It was a tall white-haired man. The guy had a distinctive Nordic look. One that Al had dreamed about seeing again ever since that day on the rooftop back in Clair County. It’s him. Holy fuck, it’s that freakish bastard.
That was when Al realized the first man with the cigar, although he looked fatter now with less hair, was the guy he’d been after that day back in the warehouse with his partner, Haisley Averton. The big fish.
Al watched the man that had nearly taken his life that day four years earlier. The binoculars were wholly focused on the face, on the eyes. He felt his left leg shaking with nervousness. The white-haired man waved his hand at one of the others, turned, and walked down the porch steps toward the cars in the driveway. That same man opened the side door to the black Camaro.
Al turned the key to his car and started it. He felt the rumble of the big V-8 out front and he reached into his coat to feel the heft of his pistol. A smile came to Al’s face. I got him.
He reached down into the crate on the seat beside him, moved a stack of mail to the side, and eyed the full box of .357 Magnum ammunition he’d brought along. Something he never left home without. Just in case.
The others on the porch fanned out. The wispy haired guy got into the right side of the blue Corvette. The squatty guy with the cigar went back inside the house. That was when Al watched as both the Camaro and Corvette backed out of the driveway and came down the street toward him. Instinctively he fell sideways toward the passenger’s seat so they wouldn’t spot him. In doing so, his ribcage collided with the wooden crate and he coughed. Al highly doubted they’d place his face if they did see him, but now that he’d finally found this freak that beat him so badly he wasn’t going leave anything to chance.
Chapter 7
Al Culver drove down the onramp onto Highway 44 heading west. In the far distance he spotted the freak in the black Camaro weaving in and out of traffic on the roadway. Driving like the idiot Al knew he was.
Up ahead the sun was fading into the horizon, painting the partly cloudy sky a hue of purple and orange. He bit his lip with excitement as he thumbed the keys of his cell phone.
“You’ve reached the voicemail of Haisley Averton. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back.”
“Fuck, where the hell is he when I need him?” Al said, ending the call and searching his contacts for another number.
He dialed a second number.
“Mobley,” the man said, answering.
“Mike, it’s Al Culver. What’s going on?”
“I’m fixxxxin to get me sommmme,” Mobley said slurring his words.
“I saw him,” Al said excitedly.
“You sawwww whoooo?” Mobley said, obviously intoxicated.
“I got those fuckers that jumped me up in St. Clair County. I’m on 44 west following them now. I need your help. I need some backup.”
“Backup? What the hell for? You still playing cops and robbers games in your head? You’re not on the force anymore. Whaaaaat kind o backup you want?” Mobley said. “I got lots of booze here if you want that kind.”
“Okay, they’re turning off the highway—looks like they’re heading up toward Manchester, or at least in that direction. You know where Haisley is? I need both of you to come give me a hand,” Al said.
Mobley was talking in slurred speech now and the call was going in and out. Al pulled the phone from his ear hating the man. Of all the days he’s got to be drunk, just when I need him most.
Chapter 8
Al Culver’s youngest son, Reece, stood in the cleanroom of building seven at Caulder Space Systems in Centennial, Colorado. He and four others were hovered around a two-foot high section of yellow honeycomb panels elevated on an expensive-looking stainless steel work stand that was bolted into the brown concrete floor. Every inch of their bodies was covered in the white fabric of a cleanroom bunny suit. Their faces were covered in light blue masks similar to the type that surgeons wear in medical operating rooms.
Everyone’s eyes were on the lead electrical technician as he meticulously connected six flat cables to a milk crate-sized black box. It was the central command and control box for the satellite they were building. They’d been working in this same cleanroom for the past six months and would continue until they finished building and integrati
ng the entire bus and multiple payloads for the Inter Crater Explorer Platform (ICEP). It was a multi-national spacecraft destined for a mission to the moon.
Reece looked up, then turned his head toward the right and looked through the glass wall that separated the cleanroom from the control room of area seven. Something was buzzing on the other side of the glass. He looked back toward the interior of the spacecraft bus. A second man looked out past the glass as if trying to connect the noise to the object that was making it.
Just then the second door for the entrance to the cleanroom opened and a woman dressed in similar attire poked her head out. “Sorry to interrupt you, Reece, but it’s your phone.”
“Let it go to voicemail,” Reece said.
“I did, but you just got a second call something like ten seconds later,” she said. “It might be important.”
“Did you answer it?” Reece said.
“No, I couldn’t get to it in time.”
“Okay, I’ll be right out. If it rings again, grab it for me,” he said, walking over toward the door where she was standing. He turned back toward the others.
“Tony, you ready for a little break?”
“Yeah, I guess so. I could use another look at those drawings for J53 and J54. These damn Micro-D’s are a bitch.”
“Okay, lets take ten. I need to make a call,” Reece said.
He took a seat on a four-foot-long bench with his knees facing the south wall on one side. Reece stepped out of his cleanroom bootie for his left foot and pulled that foot over to the opposite side of the stainless steel bench before letting it touch the ground. Then he pulled off his other cloth bootie and brought that foot over the bench so that both of his shoes were on the dirty side of the bench. He pulled off his hood, rubbed a hand on his matted hair, and then pulled off his latex gloves before depositing everything into what looked like a laundry hamper.
