The Love-Haight Case Files

by Jean Rabe, Donald J. Bingle

  Dagger slammed his foot hard on the bar, causing glasses to vibrate and tumble over along its entire length. “Think about it. We can’t travel there in wolf-form. And he’ll be there. His case. He discovered this, thank you very much. He’ll see all of us transform …”

  Thomas’ mind whirled at Dagger’s words. “We can’t …” “all of us …” Dagger wasn’t gay … well, maybe he was. But, what he was for sure was a werewolf. His private detective was a werewolf and Thomas had never known.

  “But he’s my lawyer. And if he’s your lawyer, he can’t tell anyone anything about who you are or what you are. Attorney/client privilege. Right, Thomas?”

  That’s why Dagger had brought him here. Thomas not only had the toughest, most street savvy, private detective in town, he had the smartest one, too. Of course, he didn’t even know his new “clients’” names, he hadn’t met them personally, he hadn’t run a conflicts check, or collected a retainer … still, some bar cases had found an attorney/client relationship to exist from no more than a question about legal advice at a cocktail party. And, it was great marketing. Why go to anyone else for your OT legal problems, when you already had an attorney?

  “Absolutely,” answered Thomas. “You are all clients of the Thomas Brock Law Office. Your transformation from human to wolf form is completely privileged information.”

  “Do we have to give you a retainer?” a voice asked.

  “We don’t have time for this bull—” growled Dagger.

  “This one’s pro bono,” answered Thomas. “It’s on the Haus.” Thomas smiled at his pun, even though as a spoken pun, no one would get it. He was glad ghosts still had a sense of humor.

  “Great,” replied Dagger. “But time’s wasting. Transform and get in your cars. Follow me. And if you can’t keep up, meet the pack at Polk and Ellis. We’ll go from there.” He turned back toward the electronics equipment and searched for a moment before de-coupling another cable. Use the fire exits. No point scaring the mundanes with a mass exodus through the main room. Now MOVE.” He stared straight at Thomas. “You, follow me.”

  Chapter 4.9

  “So, now you know,” snarled Dagger as he maneuvered the Dodge Charger with his massive left hand, his right hand working the gears with rapid precision, never letting the car lose speed as it jolted out of the parking lot and rocketed back toward the Tenderloin, leading a convoy of other vehicles striving to keep up. He would have preferred if Thomas never knew, if none of his employers ever knew, his true nature. He wanted to be regarded as a street smart detective with skills and training, not a bloodhound on steroids. Still, a wolf had to do what a wolf had to do to protect the pack.

  He looked over at Thomas, whose eyes were wide, and tried to assess whether it was because of his driving or the fact that the lawyer realized he was sitting next to a werewolf. Neither should matter; the guy was a ghost. Dagger literally couldn’t touch him and neither could a head-on into the delivery van backing out of the alleyway ahead, blocking their path.

  Dagger took his foot off the accelerator, depressed the clutch so the tires would spin from inertia without being engaged by the drive train, then cut hard left, letting the heavy muscle car drift until perpendicular to their direction of travel. Then he popped the clutch and smashed down with his right foot, powering the vehicle down a side street short of the alleyway. His eyes flicked to the mirror and he slowed a bit to let the less proficient—or less reckless—drivers behind catch up, after having to slow for the turn.

  He glanced over at Thomas, still white-knuckling the ride, even though the ghost couldn’t actually hold onto anything. “You’re not afraid of me now, are you?”

  A fleeting grin passed over his passenger’s face, morphing into a tight grimace. “No, at least not any more than I was before. I was roommates with a vampire in school, you know. OTs don’t bother me.”

  “Not even since you were killed by one?”

  Thomas did not reply.

  Dagger pressed. “Nothing to say? About this? About me?”

  The lawyer swallowed hard. “No,” he replied. “Nothing to say, to anyone, ever. You have my word. You have my bond, as a member of the bar.”

  Dagger gave the guy a curt nod. “Then, why so nervous? You look white as a … sheet.”

  “I’m not that fond of fast cars, I guess.”

  Dagger laughed. “Then you better float out when I stop for a moment a block away from the target to let my brothers and sisters catch up.”

  “Why?” replied Thomas. “The ride’s practically over by then.”

  Dagger laughed even harder. “Not by a long shot.” He patted the dash. “Sad to say, but Peggy, here. She’s leading the charge. I’ll be crashing through the warehouse door into the back room—the one with the OTs—at speed. We need a quick way in to keep the element of surprise. There’s no telling what those bastards holding and fighting us might do to cover their asses if they have any time to react.” He stroked the steering wheel with his fingers as he continued to maneuver through the mean streets of the Tenderloin. “Peggy’s tough. She’s hit and been hit before. And she’s powerful enough to break through an overhead door like tinfoil. But she doesn’t have any airbags.” He smirked. “She’s all natural.”

  “Why not just go in the front door, like customers?”

  “Too slow. Too suspicious. These bastards might go pretty far to cover up or retaliate if they get the chance.” He took his foot off the gas and let the car decelerate naturally as he approached a four-way stop a block from the target. “You phase through and watch what’s going on in the arena and dog pen areas. Come find me if there’s anything I need to know. I’ll give you a shout when it’s okay to let Evey know to send the cops and Animal Control.” He fished out the spare cell phone, flipped it open, his thumb hovering over the speed-dial for The Thomas Brock Law Offices. “Any last questions?”

  “Yes,” replied Thomas, his voice a bit cracked and pitched higher than usual. The lawyer bent to look out the window, high into the sky. “The moon’s not full … and there’s no big moon projection like at the club. How do you … I mean … how can you?”

  Dagger roared with laughter. “The projection at the club is just for atmosphere. Privilege still applies, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “The truth is, we can wolf out anytime we want, day or night. We just have to wolf out during the full moon.” He continued talking while the call connected and rang. “Anything else?”

  Evelyn’s voice came over the speaker. She sounded tense, nervous. “Hello? Where have you been?”

  “Recruiting volunteers,” replied Dagger. “You stay on the line. Thomas will tell you when to send your friends to collect the bad guys and take care of the doggies.” Dagger jerked the car to a halt at the four-way stop, idling for a moment.

  “I do have one last question,” said Thomas, still in the passenger seat.

  Dagger gave a hard stare at the phone. Evey didn’t need to know, even if she worked for his lawyer. “Party line, dude.”

  Thomas nodded. He seemed to understand. “What happens if the phone gets lost or disconnected in the crash?”

  “The what?” shouted Evelyn.

  Dagger reached over, his beefy paw passing through Thomas’ incorporeal side and butt to jam the phone in the crack between the seat cushion and the back of the bucket seats, wedging it tight

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that!” muttered Thomas as he quickly began to phase through the door, out onto the street.

  Dagger roared in both laughter and pain as he began his transformation.

  Questions streamed from the cell phone in rapid succession. “What crash? What’s the plan? Should I call an ambulance?”

  “Just hang on Evey. Don’t call the cops until we tell you. They can get pretty trigger-happy with OTs, especially when they don’t understand what’s going on. So just wait, no matter what. You’re going to hear a lot of loud noises, but pay them no attention. I can take it. Peggy can take it.
And Tommy here, well he can take anything, except maybe a joke.”

  “Peggy? Who’s Peggy?”

  The rest of the pack had caught up. Dagger pressed Peggy’s accelerator until she roared even louder than him, then popped the clutch and worked the gearshift with a clawed paw. Peggy bolted forward into the Tenderloin night, leaping into the warehouse and into the unknown.

  Chapter 4.10

  Cars, pickups, and vans streamed past Thomas like he was the starter for a thirty car street race. He leaped out the way of one muscle car, only to pass through a passenger van of eight transforming werewolves. Was that City Supervisor Braddock just beginning to turn? He swiveled to get a look at the three-term official, but the van finished passing through him, the rear door popping into view, blocking his sight of what was inside it and expanding his peripheral vision past the side walls of the van to the stream of vehicles racing toward the warehouse. Just then, a thunderous clang rang out above the roar of the engines as Peggy’s sleek lines met the metal panels comprising the warehouse bay door. A cacophony of high-pitched, metallic rending and screeching noises punctuated the commotion for a few mercifully brief moments before a second, louder clang rang out as Thomas saw the door give way and fall before the assault of Dagger’s Dodge Charger. Peggy raced into the gloom of the warehouse beyond, quickly moving out of sight, as three or four chase cars rushed in behind. Then, it was all squealing tires and slamming doors and shouts and screams and howls and—was that a gun shot?—worse as the assault began beyond the initial shock and awe and moved into close quarters fighting.

  Hand to hand.

  Claw to claw.

  Tooth to tooth.

  Cage by cage.

  Thomas shook his head to clear it from trying to imagine what was going on inside the foul warehouse. He couldn’t do anything there to help and, truth be told, there were probably many things about the battle he didn’t want to know as an officer of the court and didn’t want to see as a mild-mannered member of the human race … even as a departed member.

  Besides, he had a task to perform. He turned away from the tumultuous tangle of were-creatures storming the warehouse and floated with all deliberate haste toward the entrance to the arena section of the warehouse. He phased in through the wall short of the door, which had already been flung open and was disgorging a steady stream of lowlife toughs and wannabes clutching betting slips and cash and yelling expletives and B-movie dialogue like “It’s a raid!” as they fled from the scene of their crimes. Thomas knew that most of them were customers, not ringleaders of the dog-fighting conspiracy—pathetic losers and poseurs, not criminal masterminds—but he hated them just the same. Without pathetic losers who regarded the vicious cruelty of butchering animals … and OTs … a sport, the purveyors of blood porn behind the arena of death would have no customers, no income, no incentive to cater fresh meat to a ravening crowd. Nobody could force a crowd to cheer as one animal tore flesh from the body of another. Nobody. You were either depraved or vomiting on the floor as you averted your eyes.

  Inside, the contrast between the brightly lit arena, where two bloodied dogs licked their wounds at a wary distance from one another, and the surrounding bleachers made it difficult to see. But as his eyes adjusted, he saw this area was deserted¸ so he moved on to the middle section, where the dog pens were located. The sounds of the fight in the third section could be heard here, below the tumult of dozens of barking, howling, frantic dogs.

  A few humans were leaving, but Thomas could see that a group of thugs was gathered near the door to the OT area, including the doorman from their reconnaissance mission earlier in the evening. Most of the toughs already held handguns or Mac 10s and were checking their ammo. One bald, muscle-bound tough in a tight-fitting black T-shirt and loose, camouflage pants handed out additional weaponry from a duffle gripped in one hammy fist. Thomas watched as the guy thrust a .38 Saturday Night Special toward a sweaty hick wearing jeans and a plaid, flannel shirt.

  The hick held his hands up to either side, refusing to take the gun. “I ain’t fighting no gang wars. If someone’s moving in on your turf, that’s your problem. I just bring my dogs, that’s all. I’m here to take care of my dogs.”

  Black Shirt thrust the gun toward the hick again. “Then take this and take care of your dogs.”

  The hick paled. “You mean…?” He shook his head with a shiver. “I ain’t killing my dogs. I got an investment in them dogs.” Thomas watched as the hick looked around at the assembled group, most of whom were ignoring the minor melodrama and clearly laying plans to storm the next room. He gestured at the doorway to the other room. “That ain’t my problem. No way. No sir.”

  Black Shirt snarled at the hick. “You are rapidly becoming my problem, buddy. Assuming anybody messing with us in the next room lives to see another day, I can’t have ’em taking your dogs for inventory. So, you either kill them bitches or bring ’em here to set loose on the gang raiding our set-up.” He motioned at the cages with his bald head. “You got less than two minutes before we go in.”

  Thomas gasped, faded-out completely from view, and immediately started floating toward the wall between the warehouse sections at speed. He didn’t even slow as he passed through the wall.

  While the scene back at the dog pens had been frightening and tense, the dim scene in the OT section was chaotic and violent beyond belief. Ambient light from the street seeped through the collapsed warehouse door and headlights from several vehicles shot beams of bright white light at haphazard angles into the recesses of the warehouse and its scores of filthy cages. Hazard lights from a pick-up truck which angled off to one side of the damaged bulk of Dagger’s Charger, Peggy, flicked on and off, flashing a sickly amber-yellow across the pale forms of the OTs who had been released. Fighting side-by-side the liberated OTs were their rescuers, scores of furred-out werewolves, their teeth flashing, their mouths bloody, their claws rending cages apart by brute animal force. A few guards were attempting to hold off the assault from the far corner of the warehouse, bursts of Mac 10 fire rat-a-tatting from their redoubt and echoing across the cavernous scene of carnage.

  Thomas wished he could just tell Evelyn to call in SWAT, but he couldn’t put the pack, his clients, at even greater risk. He had to trust Dagger. So, instead of going to Peggy, he headed for the gunfire. Bullets couldn’t hurt him and he knew that Dagger would be on the front line of danger. He found him, crouched behind a container near the human’s last stand, drawing with his claws on the dirty floor, obviously explaining to three pack members the elements of a plan to take out the Mac 10s. Thomas materialized in front of Dagger, but behind his companions, in the open aisle.

  “What?” barked Dagger.

  “They’re planning on killing the dogs in the arena,” began Thomas, as Dagger’s companions turned to look at him.

  “They’re already killing us in here,” Dagger stated, the “here” giving way to a low growl. “You’ll have to take care of it yourself. I’ll come when I can.”

  “That won’t be soon enough. They want the owner to do it before they launch their counter-assault in about a minute.”

  “Counter-assault? One minute?” Dagger’s eyes narrowed. “You’d think you might have led with that. Where?”

  Thomas mentally kicked himself for focusing on his own problems when others were in danger. It was obvious he was a man of law, not a man of action. “Doorway to the adjoining room.”

  Dagger stood on his hind legs to his full height for a moment and yelled out “Randy!” at full throttle. “Put your pick-up through the wall at the door in the middle. NOW!”

  As Thomas spun, he saw a juvenile werewolf leap through the open window of the pick-up next to Peggy and jink it into gear. The noise of the engine fought for dominance with clangs and snaps as the four-wheel drive pick-up pushed aside or clambered over debris, picking up speed as it headed for the wall. In the last moment before the collision the lithe junior werewolf leaped out of the window, clear of the crash and e
nsuing wreckage.

  For a brief moment, all the shooting and the snarling and the fighting in the OT warehouse halted as everyone looked at the destruction of the door and the hole in the warehouse wall, where the pick-up spewed radiator fluid over a bevy of arena workers and gangbangers trying to extricate themselves from the debris caused by the crash. In that brief moment of silence for the soon-to-be-departed, Dagger launched his assault on the redoubt of remaining humans.

  Thomas tried his best to ignore the sounds of snarling and screams and breaking of bones as he floated back toward the dog pens. He still had to save the dogs!

  The hick had avoided the tangle of concrete block, bodies, and guns at the doorway, but so had enough of the bad guys, including Black Shirt, that he was still shaking in fear as he pointed the .38 revolver at one of the caged dogs, point blank.

  Thomas was in a panic. He couldn’t grab the gun. He couldn’t chase away the caged dog. He couldn’t do anything. Ghosts were useless in a fight. Ghosts were useless in most situations. Unless someone needed haunting. Somehow, Thomas didn’t think saying “boo” was going to turn the tide on this life and death situation.

  And then it came to him.

  He materialized in the narrow space between the dog and the hick, his translucent body encompassing the hick’s outstretched arm and lethal weapon.

  “Your grandmother says ‘Don’t you dare hurt that dog.’”

  The hick started, whether confused by Thomas’ appearance or words, Thomas couldn’t tell. He pressed on. “She doesn’t like you hurting dogs. She never liked how you treated your animals.”

  “Nana?” asked the hick, his voice high-pitched, cracking as he spoke. “You can talk to Nana?”

  Thomas did his best to put a hard edge to his voice, hovering a few inches above the floor to appear taller, and holding his arms slightly out from his body so to appear bigger, more menacing. “Of course I talk to Nana. I’m a ghost, ain’t I?” He grimaced at his own bad grammar, but the face he made apparently scared the hick even more.