Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set)

by Robert P. French

  I follow him and the hairs on the back of my neck become erect. It is the same alley I woke up in almost a week ago, the day Kevin died. I don’t know why it has always been a place of dread for me. Even when I was a cop, with a badge and a gun, I was terrified of it. My skin creeps as I follow Nelson into its maw.

  I would turn and run right now, except for what I see: a lone figure about three quarters of the way down. He is standing beside two green dumpsters which are overflowing with garbage bags.

  Roy.

  Nelson stops. I stop. He jogs on the spot for a three second beat and then turns and hares out of here.

  We look at each other over the forty yards that separate us and I wonder what was the source of Nelson’s fear. I am rooted to the spot. Something is wrong. Different. It is the silence. This time of day, the alley is normally teeming with crack-heads, one of their many spots, but right now it is empty, quiet, unnatural.

  I shake off my rising panic. It is, after all, just Roy and me.

  I force my shoulders to relax and I smile. “Hey Roy,” I call and walk slowly towards him. He does not move an inch. “I just need to talk to you… about Kevin.” I keep my voice even and reasonable, as much to calm me as to calm him. I check the recessed doorways of the buildings that back on to the alley. They too are empty, no one sleeping in them, no one shooting up or on the pipe.

  Roy stands frozen until I am about half way towards him.

  Then, as if on command, he turns and dashes down the alley. His wiry frame was built for speed and despite his age, he is fast. I am going to have to go hard to catch him.

  As I accelerate after him, four men step out from between the dumpsters.

  One is dressed in black and has his arm in a sling; another is a giant on crutches. The other two are big and tough looking. I weigh the odds, one against two and two halves. My chances are about fifty-fifty but I must not discount Goliath’s crutches or his colleague’s feet. I need to talk to Roy, not deal with these bozos.

  I shall side with Tacitus. He that fights and runs away, may turn and fight another day. A tendril of my mind wonders if I am using this logic to rationalize my fear of the alley. I spin around to dart after Nelson and stop dead.

  Blocking the end of the alley, are three more men, big, hard, fit looking men, making their way toward me. I remember the rest of the quotation. But he that is in battle slain, will never rise to fight again. The revised odds may make those words prophetic.

  I turn back the other way. Two of the four are advancing, leaving Goliath and his buddy as full backs. Behind them, standing at the far end of the alley, is Roy, wearing an unreadable expression. He fishes in his coat pocket and pulls something out. I can’t see what it is. Thirty pieces of silver perhaps? He looks up at me for the briefest instant and then runs off, out of my line of sight.

  I walked into this one. Maybe I’m not as street smart as I thought; no cop goes in without backup. That’s it. Think like a cop, Cal. I remember the words of my combat instructor at the Justice Institute, a canny old Scot. Let your training conquer your fear. Act and react. Don’t think. I centre myself and although I’m outnumbered seven to one, my blood starts to sing with the anticipation of battle.

  I have just about three seconds to act. I throw my garbage bag of possessions into a doorway; if I survive this encounter, I may be able to get back and retrieve it before it becomes the property of some crack-head.

  The first group is split two and two. Attack the weaker front. I would love to have the advantage of a weapon but a quick glance around reveals nothing. Except for one small item…

  I take three steps towards the advancing pair and drop to one knee, a genuflection to my attackers that gives me a brief element of surprise. I hear running footsteps behind me. My right hand darts down, grabs the discarded needle and, in one fluid motion, I surge up and forward and bury it in the neck of the smaller, but far more dangerous looking man on my right. For a tiny fraction of a second, I realize the enormity of what I have done. I may have set this man on the road to his death with an infected needle. I remember shooting up with the dirtied needle at the Lion Hotel and I wonder who might die first. Him or me?

  My victim yells out and his hands claw up to his throat.

  For an instant, his partner glances towards him, diverting his attention away from me; it is just enough time for me to jab my left fist into his nose.

  It is not much of a punch but it is accurate. He is blinded long enough that he doesn’t see the powerful right uppercut that snaps his head back and fells him like an ox.

  Less than three seconds have passed since my first move and all that stands between me and the far end of the alley are two injured men. I feel a burst of elation at my two fast-won victories.

  I leap over the fallen body and race forward.

  Footsteps are on my heels.

  Snap decision: take out the one with the sling. His injury is the easiest to attack and it is better to disable the more mobile of the pair. A piece of cake. I feint towards Goliath but, at the last moment, veer towards the man in black. I approach him from his injured side and move in close.

  I push down on his elbow while grabbing his wrist and wrenching it up and away from his body. He shrieks and spins away, trying to escape from my grip. I give a victory whoop as I push him towards Goliath and leap past.

  I made it! Home free. I’m sure I can outrun my pursuers and, if I really push it, I can catch Roy.

  And all the air explodes out of my lungs as I hit the ground.

  I hear the crack of a breaking rib an instant before the pain lances through my chest. Goliath is keeping his aluminum crutch pushed hard between my legs and, try as I might, I cannot writhe away from it. I grunt in frustration as I try to roll on my back to give me a shot at his injured leg.

  Then it’s all over.

  Hard hands haul me to my feet. They slam me against the stone wall of one of the old buildings that back on to the alley.

  I take stock of my situation.

  Two of the three who followed me into the alley have iron grips, one on each bicep; they have me pinned to the wall. In front of me is the third man, clearly the leader. On his left is the man I stabbed with the hypodermic; he has his hand cupped over his throat and is wearing a very unpleasant look. To the right is Goliath with a broken-toothed grin like the battlements of a medieval tower. The man in black is leaning against the far wall, nursing his elbow and whimpering. The last member of the somewhat less than magnificent seven is still unconscious.

  As fast as it came, my battle lust is gone. Now I need to use my brain.

  I know why I’m here and I know how they got me here but what are their plans for me?

  Drug gangs do not have a tendency to leave their enemies alive.

  The leader of the group is in no hurry. He stands silent and immobile staring at me. He knows how to use silence. In most cases his victims will fold under his scrutiny and start blabbing, confessing or begging. It’s an old interrogation strategy and a good one. I have used it myself with great effect and, despite knowing I’m being played, it still daunts me.

  However, every second that he waits is a second in which I can recover and regain my strength, a second more in which I might be able to seize an opportunity. Remember to find the advantage hidden in the disaster, laddie, a Scottish voice in my head says.

  The leader is wearing a crisp, white t-shirt under a soft leather jacket that must have cost a couple of grand. I do not recognize the brand of his jeans but I am betting that the designer is a household name in West Van. I do recognize his shoes. They are Ferragamo loafers. Once upon a time, I splurged half a week’s salary on a similar pair. He is tall, about my height, and has long, well groomed, blond hair. He looks more like a movie star than the leader of a drug gang. He is worrying some object in his jacket pocket and I have a nasty feeling I know what it is.

  He guesses that I am not going to be the first to speak.

  “So… Cal Rogan? Right?”
<
br />   How the hell does he know my name? He got to me through Roy so I guess Roy told him. But ‘Cal’… Roy never calls me anything other than Rocky.

  I would shrug but his boys have me too well pinned.

  “Do you know why we’re all here today?”

  “Because last time you sent two brainless morons to do a man’s job?”

  Goliath’s grin turns into a scowl. I am probably going to pay for my smart mouth.

  “No, not exactly.” He chuckles but I do not find it encouraging. “You see Mr. Rogan, I can not have junkies, especially junkies who are ex-cops, stealing from my associates and therefore from me.

  “I know for a fact that you attempted to steal from my friend over there and from one or two others. I am even wondering if you might be the bad boy who has been relieving some of my colleagues of their hard earned dollars from all over the city.

  “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Your short career as a thief has come to an end.”

  He takes the object he has been fondling from his pocket and slides it over the fingers of his left hand. Brass knuckles rip open skin and deform bone. My skin crawls at the image of what my face will look like after his ministrations. He steps forward with a big smile on his face and I know I have just one chance to get out of this, one chance to save my life.

  My right leg jacks up and my foot buries itself in his solar plexus. It’s not as debilitating as a kick to the groin but much easier to deliver accurately; a kick to the groin rarely connects.

  As he doubles over and staggers backwards, I try to twist out of the grip of his henchmen. My arm pulls away from the one on my right and I swing my free fist towards the one on the left. The dangerous looking thug, the one I stuck with the needle, steps in from the side, blocks my punch without any difficulty and jabs a fist hard into my face making my head slam back against the wall.

  I spit out bits of a tooth, weakened by five years of heroin use.

  A punch to my solar plexus empties my lungs and makes me retch. A second punch to the chest connects with my newly broken rib and I scream.

  I am thrown to the ground and from a distance I hear a different type of scream. A scream with which I am familiar. Feet and fists pummel my body as the sirens get louder. I know now that my fear of this alley is prescient of my death here.

  Then the pounding stops and Blondie is kneeling beside me. His cohorts have backed off. He bends down close and whispers to me through the pain.

  “Your kid’s next. Pretty little thing… but not for too much longer.” It’s the last thing I hear as his brass knuckled fist descends.

  23

  Roy

  I shouldn’t be here. Rocky’d fucking kill me if he knew. Plus I feel real out of place. I always wanted to come but now I’m here, I’m worried that she’ll take one look at me, dirty and dressed like this, and be scared or something.

  The door looks real expensive. The knocker is a friggin’ great brass lion head with a ring in its mouth. It’s gleaming in the sun; someone puts a lot of time into polishing it, that’s fer sure. I better not touch it. It will take a fingerprint real easy and you gotta be careful. I press a knuckle on the bell and hear a shriek from right on the other side of the door, “Mommy! Daddy’s here.”

  The door swings open and there’s Ellie standing on her tippy toes, just managing to reach up to the latch. This is the closest I ever seen her and she is even prettier than I thought. She don’t seem the least bit frightened. Maybe Rocky has told her about me.

  I crouch down to her height. She smells of Johnson’s baby shampoo; I haven’t smelled that fer a while, eh. “Hi Ellie. I’m Roy. I’m a friend of yer Daddy’s,” I wanna give her a bigger smile but I might frighten her with my rotten teeth. “He told’ja about me, right?”

  She looks at me, real serious, the way kids do. “Are you a junkie, like Daddy?” she asks, just like that. It makes me sad for Rocky that she thinks of him like that. But it means I was right to come here; now I know I’m doing the right thing fer him and not just fer me.

  “No, Honey, I’m just a good friend of his. I’m Roy… y’know… Roy?”

  She frowns and shakes her head. So… despite what he’s always said, Rocky never told her nothing about me and that makes me sadder and, I gotta admit, a bit angry at him too.

  “Do you know where my Daddy lives?”

  “Yeah,” I say. I wonder where she is going with this.

  “Will you take me there? I miss him on school days and I want to go see him. Mommy won’t take me.”

  The door opens wider and everything changes. Sam takes one look at me and her face takes on a scared look. Ellie’s part way out the door but Sam grabs her and pushes her behind her back, real protective. Sam pushes the door almost all the way closed. “Can I help you?” she asks.

  Ellie peeks out at me from behind her mom’s hip; she’s looking scared now. I hate that I am frightening her but I got no choice, I gotta be here, fer Rocky and fer me. With my knees creaking, I stand back up.

  “Hi. I’m Roy, Rocky’s friend.” Sam’s face is blank. “Cal’s friend, that is.”

  “How can I help you Mr…?”

  “Jus’ call me Roy, eh.” I give her a big smile but this seems to scare her even more. The door closes a fraction and I can’t even see little Ellie now. “It’s like this, Mrs. Rogan, Roc—, I mean Cal, uh, can’t be here to take Ellie out today, eh. So I thought I better come over and tell you.”

  “Why? Is something wrong?” The door opens a sliver and I can see that she’s real worried about Rocky. Maybe she still loves him or something.

  “I don’t wanna say nothin’ in front of…” I indicate Ellie with my eyes and Sam gets it.

  “Ell, why don’t you go upstairs and see Rosa,” she says.

  “Mommee-ee!” Ellie don’t wanna go. She pushes past her Mom and looks up at me. “Why isn’t Daddy coming?” she asks me.

  I smile at her. “You go on upstairs, honey. I need to talk to yer Mommy first and then she can tell you, OK?”

  She thinks a bit then gives me such a big smile that it brings a grin to my own face. “OK, Roy,” she says and runs off down the hall.

  Sam softens. “You have a way with kids,” she says. And that makes me even sadder, knowing that I was never a father to a little kid, growin’ up like Ellie. Still, no time to think about that, I’m here fer a reason.

  She looks long and hard at me and makes a decision. She opens the door wide. “Why don’t you come in Mr., uh, Roy.” I’m impressed. Most people in this neighbourhood would be scared to let the likes of me into their fancy homes but it gives me another thing to worry about.

  I rub the soles of my boots hard on the doormat before walking in and then again on the mat inside the door. I’m praying she don’t ask me to take my boots off inside the house. My socks are full of holes and prob’ly pretty ripe.

  She glances down at my feet and starts to say something but she guesses what I’m worrying about. Bless her, she decides not to embarrass me.

  “Come in,” she says again and I follow her down the hallway, hopin’ not to get her carpets dirty. She calls upstairs, speaking in Spanish to someone but I don’t know what she says. “Why don’t you come into the kitchen, Roy.” Sam leads me into the biggest friggin’ kitchen I ever seen. “What happened? Why isn’t Cal here?” she asks.

  “I’m sorry to tell you but he’s been in an accident.”

  “An accident? Is he hurt?”

  “Yes, he is. He got into trouble with a gang of drug dealers and they beat the f—, uh, beat the heck out of him. He’s in St. Paul’s. I don’t rightly know how bad he’s hurt but it’s pretty bad. It happened midday yesterday and he was still unconscious this morning.”

  Her face is pale and I can see that she’s starting to tear up. I hope she don’t start crying. “Why did they…” She stops. “I have to go see him,” she says. “Will you come with me? You can tell me what happened in the car.” She heads out into the hallway. “Wait a sec while I
get my keys,” she says.

  This is good. Now I can be alone with her; get her round to my way of thinking. Together we can get Rocky off the street, which’ll be good fer him, and make him drop his goddamn investigation into Kevin’s murder, which’ll be good fer me.

  I let my eyes wander around Sam’s kitchen; it’s bigger than some apartments I’ve been in. There’s a heavy wooden table in the middle of the room with piles of photos on it. Rocky told me that Sam’s a photographer so I can’t resist having a quick look at them.

  They’re all black and white and they’re of people on the downtown east side. As I go through them, I recognize some of the folks in ’em: a coupla heroin addicts that Rocky knows and some of my drinking buddies. Somehow Sam has given ’em, I dunno, a kind of beauty, like she caught ’em in a good mood or something. Then I see one that gives me a start. Smiling straight into the camera is my old buddy Tommy, looking at his most cheerful. I know when this photo was taken. It was a few days before he died. Right after he was given the—

  “Who the hell…?” Strong hands grab me and my legs are kicked out from under me. Suddenly I’m on the floor with all the wind knocked out of me, looking up into a hard face. Bastard’s got one knee on my chest and has me by the throat; one fist is drawn back ready to smash into my face. If he hits me that’ll be my teeth gone. I can’t breathe. “What are you doing in my house?” he asks.

  I try and answer but it just comes out as a gurgle.

  His fist pulls back another six inches. I know he’s gonna nail me and with my head on the ground it’s gonna hurt bad. I’m between a rock and a hard place, as they say, and I’m gonna take another goddamn beating on account of Rocky. Why the fuck did I have to come here?

  Then Sam comes into the frame and grabs his arm. “For Christ’s sake, George, he’s a friend of Cal’s. I invited him in.”