Counterblow (A Rogan Bricks Thriller Book 2)

by Steve Richer

  “Stop kidding around, Rogan. What happened?”

  “You want the long version or the short version?”

  “I want the version that will get me the most amount of truth in the least amount of time.”

  “Why do you have to be so precisely British all the time?”

  “Answer me, please.”

  He shrugged. “I’m investigating this case. I had to go to Kodiak and as I was talking to a witness these two hooligans showed up with dastardly designs. We scuffled to death. I’ll let you figure out yourself to whom the death part applies.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine, I promise. Now will you tell me what’s going on? I see a suitcase, I see a taxi outside. Are you leaving me for another man? That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve become a vegetarian?”

  “An old colleague from Hong Kong called. He’s in New York right now and wants me to consult on a project he’s working on.”

  “Security?”

  She put up her hands defensively. “It’s nothing risky, I assure you. It’s strictly logistics, something about an Italian billionaire visiting New York to speak at the UN. I shouldn’t be more than a day or two.”

  “New York, uh? And you need your passports for that?”

  “I’m connecting through Vancouver,” she said.

  She was lying, he could tell. She had hesitated only a fraction of a second and most people wouldn’t have noticed, but he had. That’s how much he knew her.

  Still he replied, “Oh, okay.”

  He didn’t want to call her out on it. Mostly he felt guilty. He knew that she was made for action, the kind of life he wanted to leave behind. The only reason she was playing housewife here in the butthole of the world was because she loved him.

  He wanted to be strong enough to tell her to do her own thing, to follow her dreams, as cheesy as this sounded. Yet he couldn’t. He selfishly wanted her for himself and he was convinced she was okay with this as well, for now. Them being together again was still fresh after five years of being apart.

  Eventually she would leave him though.

  He tried not to think about this but he knew it was coming. She was staying for him and he pretended everything was right in the world. One of these days pretending wouldn’t be enough. She would either leave or he’d have to live with the fact that she was in constant danger. Both prospects terrified him.

  “I see the worry in your eyes, Rogan. Don’t, all right?”

  “Sure, sweetheart,” he said weakly.

  He came closer and kissed her tenderly on the lips. She gave in and closed her eyes. At this moment, the cab honked.

  “I have to go. My flight is in an hour, I’m cutting it close as it is.”

  “Sure. Besides, I have to go to Seattle myself. I’ll leave tonight to get it over with.”

  “Seattle? Don’t they have their own field office there?”

  “That’s what I said. Anyway, it’s just your routine, run-of-the-mill wild goose chase.”

  “You be careful, Rogan.” She was the one who kissed him this time as the taxi’s horn blasted once more. “I have to go.”

  Rogan sat on the floor and put his arms around Glut, watching Shiloh leave. The passport thing bothered him. She was leaving the country.

  And that meant she was going toward danger.

  Chapter 11

  It was just shy of 11 o’clock when Rogan parked his rental car in front of the Pink Octopus Room. It was located just off Yesler Terrace in Seattle’s First Hill neighborhood. From what he knew, this was supposed to be one of the worst places in town, but it certainly wasn’t that bad compared to what passed for bad neighborhoods anywhere else.

  It was pitch black yet the area seemed clean enough. Or maybe it was that Rogan was getting in a good mood after all. The weather certainly helped. It wasn’t raining and it was in the high 50s, quite mild after Alaska.

  The road wasn’t getting much traffic but there were a few pockets of individuals on two street corners. There were talking, laughing, but mostly on the lookout for surveillance. These guys would have been better served wearing a Buy Drugs Here sign around their necks.

  Looking at the strip club with the garish neon sign, he wished he had his dog with him. Glut was a terrific stakeout partner because he talked very little. Unfortunately, right after Shiloh had left he had taken the dog to a neighbor. She was a cat lady at heart but she had a soft spot for the golden retriever, never turning down a babysitting opportunity.

  Dressed casually in jeans and a black shawl collar sweater, Rogan bided his time. The reason he was here was that it was one of the few leads he actually had. The matchbook found among Rusty’s possessions mentioned someone named Mandrake. At least Rogan hoped it was a person. For all he knew, the kid had scribbled the name of his favorite stripper.

  It made more sense to do a linear investigation, to follow the trail of the fishing boat ownership and so on, but at this time of night there was nothing he could do. Except that the strip club was open and ready for him now.

  With his weapon holstered in the small of his back under the sweater and bomber jacket, Rogan left the car and went to the club.

  “It’s five bucks,” the doorman said.

  The guy was more fat than muscle but he was intimidating nonetheless. Rogan paid and went inside.

  He couldn’t see a DJ but the music blaring loudly was straight out of the standard strip club repertoire. Pour Some Sugar On Me by Def Leppard was ending and it faded into AC/DC’s You Shook Me All Night Long.

  Rogan had been to hundreds of clubs, mostly during his youth, and he could tell that this one was worse than the minor leagues. There was a small stage with pink and blue neon above it. There were two smudged chrome poles but only one dancer.

  The girl was in her 30s and pudgy, her best years way behind her. She was having no fun, just going through the motions. It was the same with the dozen patrons sitting throughout the room. Most of them weren’t even looking at the show, simply sipping their drinks or watching ESPN on the flatscreen mounted above the bar.

  There were three others strippers in gaudy cheap lingerie. One was talking to a client although he was doing his best to ignore her. The other two were leaning against the far wall, seemingly not that much interested in begging for private dances. Then again, it was possible they had already run through the entire clientele.

  Rogan lingered, looking at the girls to appear as if he was just another suburbanite looking for a good time. He headed to the bar.

  “What can I get you?”

  The bartender was a retired stripper from the looks of it. Her face was drawn and she was dressed to highlight her implants which had begun to sag. But she wasn’t bad looking.

  He asked her about her selection of beer and she only had three mass-produced commercial brews. He ordered a Budweiser. He got a bottle in return and paid, tipping generously.

  “Say, is Mandrake in tonight?”

  Her eyes instinctively swiveled past Rogan’s shoulder and he followed her gaze. There was an Asian man standing next to the two off-duty strippers. He was in his late 20s, dressed in black jeans and black T-shirt, just like the doorman. He had to be some sort of bouncer.

  “Is that him?”

  “Look, mister…”

  “It’s okay, I’m not looking for trouble. He’s an old friend.”

  He winked at her and walked away with his beer just as the first licks of Warrant’s Cherry Pie came on. Mandrake bristled when he noticed Rogan coming his way.

  “Hey.”

  “Help you with something?” he asked, his head tilted back like he wanted to appear taller. “Having trouble talking to girls?”

  Rogan smiled as the two strippers shifted closer at the prospect of making some money. He’d seen the very same thing play out at the four corners of the earth.

  “It’s you I’m looking for. Mandrake, right?”

  At that, the man stood up taller. The girls got the hint and walked away.


  “Look, asshole! You’re gonna go back to Tacoma and you’re gonna tell those fuckers that if they wanna make threats they’d better come in person. I don’t play these bitch-ass games.”

  “No, bitch-ass games, good to know. But that’s not why I’m here. I’ve never even been to Tacoma.”

  “Then what the fuck do you want?”

  “I want a nice friendly conversation, that’s all.”

  Rogan put down his beer on an empty table without even taking a swig and then he flashed his badge.

  “Shit, I should’ve known.”

  “It’s my fine taste in aftershave that gave me away, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t talk to cops.”

  “Good ‘cause I’m not a cop. I’m an FBI agent.”

  “Same difference.”

  Rogan shook his head. “No, it’s not the same. We have better dental coverage. So since I’m not a cop it’s totally okay for you to talk to me.”

  “Get bent, cop.”

  The guy took a step to leave but Rogan put his hand against the black-painted wall, fencing him in.

  “Remember this kid Rusty Brandt?”

  “Get out of my face.”

  “He had a matchbook from this place with your name in it. A bunch of guys got killed, sank the Crystal Goose, and only Rusty came out alive.”

  Mandrake hesitated, evidently surprised, but he still held his ground. “Want to arrest me?”

  That caught Rogan off guard. “Should I?”

  “No but I don’t talk to cops unless I’m being arrested. No get outta my face. Drink your beer, feel up some hoes, and get the fuck out.”

  Rogan felt like knocking his teeth out. He was actually about to do just that when he had another idea. He smiled wide, almost like a creepy serial killer, and turned toward his beer. He swallowed half of it and walked out of the bar.

  It was time for more questionable methods.

  Chapter 12

  The doorman moved out of the way as Rogan came out.

  “I need something from my car,” he said. “Do I need to pay another cover charge if I come back in?”

  “Not a cover charge, just a little something for the staff.”

  Rogan frowned. Bunch of thieves, he thought. He didn’t go toward his car. Instead he turned right and walked down the sidewalk toward the drug dealers on the corner.

  There were six of them, equally distributed among races: African-American, White, and Asian. They were laughing and talking, mostly boasting from what Rogan could hear. They quieted down as he approached.

  “You lost, old man?”

  Rogan hadn’t gotten used to being called old. He wasn’t even 40.

  “I’m looking to party. Have any blow?”

  “The fuck you are, a yuppie?”

  This made the others laugh.

  “Nah, boy. That motherfucker’s a cop, yo!”

  They laughed even harder.

  “Look,” Rogan began. “What does it matter what I do? My wife moved out, she took the kids, and she’s hitting me with this monster divorce when she’s not busy fucking her personal trainer. That fucking prick! So does it really matter that I work for the city? I just need to get amped, man.”

  Rogan started to fidget, looking around like he was nervous about being here. He hadn’t done a drug bust since his first posting in Utah, and even then it hadn’t been meant as an arrest, just a way to shake down an informant.

  Still, he decided he was making an adequate imitation of the average upscale narcotics customer. The six young men exchanged looks, deciding what to do with him.

  The one who seemed the oldest, a black man, spoke. “How much you want?”

  “An eight-ball.” Two of them whistled while another smiled at the audacity. “That a problem?”

  “We don’t usually service that kind of action.”

  “Fine, I’ll go someplace else,” Rogan said, turning to leave.

  “Hold up, hold up! I didn’t say that we can’t either.”

  Rogan pulled his roll of money out but kept it hidden in the palm of his hand. “How much?”

  “For you, two hundred.”

  “Bullshit. I usually get it for one twenty.” Rogan was periodically required to research drug prices in the course of his job.

  “A’ight, then just go back to Ravenna and get your white bread discount.”

  Rogan ignored the laughter this time. “One-sixty,” he said as he counted the bills, making sure they wouldn’t see that he had a few hundreds more. “It’s all I got.”

  Once more, the merry band of drug users consulted each other silently.

  “Deal. Gimme that and go wait across the street.”

  “Pleasure doing business with you. Can’t wait to get fucked up.”

  He crossed the street, strolled along the empty sidewalk, and ten minutes later a souped-up Honda Civic came to a halt in front of him. The tinted window came down and even though Rogan was on his guard he knew this was standard procedure.

  He went to the car and the teenager in the passenger seat pretended to shake his hand. By the time the federal agent realized there was something in his hand, the car was speeding away.

  This is almost too easy, he mused.

  He returned to the strip club and the doorman planted himself in front of the entrance, crossing his arms to block access.

  “I saw what you did with those guys.”

  “Good for you. I’m sure you have some whack-off material for later.” Rogan tried to move around him to go in but the doorman made no sign of wanting to move.

  “How about a little something for the staff?”

  “How about no?”

  “It would be a shame if the cops came and found some drugs on your person.”

  “And you know what?” Rogan started, come closer to the man. “It would be even more fun if they find out I was FBI.”

  He showed him his badge and this was enough to placate the doorman. He stepped aside.

  “Thank you.”

  Rogan went in and found Mandrake where he had left him. The strippers had returned to him and now the playlist was blasting Buckcherry’s Crazy Bitch. The stage was empty and it was like the clients didn’t even notice.

  “You again?” Mandrake asked as the strippers left.

  “You’re telling me everything you know about Rusty Brandt and the dead fishing crew in five seconds otherwise we have a problem. One.”

  “Man, fuck you!”

  “Two.”

  “I know my rights.”

  “Three.”

  “I don’t have to talk to cops.”

  “Four.”

  Mandrake was beginning to appear nervous, sweat beading across his wide forehead. Rogan marched forward until his stomach bumped against the young man’s.

  “Five.”

  “You gonna hit me? I guess that’s what cops do, right?”

  What Rogan did was a simple grind, making the slightest contact with Mandrake. He flinched and backed into the wall. In that exact moment, Rogan dropped the packet of cocaine on the floor.

  “What’s that, just fell out of your pocket?” Rogan asked innocently. He bent and picked it up with a tissue, as if it was precious evidence. “My, it looks like an eight-ball to me.”

  “You planted it!”

  “FBI agents don’t plant evidence, son. What we have is not only an eight-ball but a good reason for you to talk to me.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “No, it’s not bullshit. It’s a Class C Felony. It’s $10,000 and five years in jail for you. And for some reason you don’t strike me as a first-time offender. Who knows how tough the judge will be on you.”

  Mandrake was shaking not only with anger but with fear. “I don’t know nothing.”

  “You know more than I do and I want you to open your heart like you’re in a fucking AA meeting. So?”

  “Not here.”

  Rogan gave him some space and Mandrake led the way backstage. They went through flims
y curtains and past a dressing room where a girl was on her knees giving head to one of the customers Rogan had noticed earlier. Finally, they went into what could only be a storage room. There were stacked cases of liquor and beer all around.

  “Spill.”

  “No more coke if I talk?”

  “If you talk good.”

  With a sigh, Mandrake nodded. “That kid seemed trustworthy. I just wanted to help him out. He wanted to be a crab fishermen like on TV. He wanted the certification paperwork. That’s what I do, I’m good at getting some people papers.”

  “And you know that boat he got on, the Crystal Goose?”

  “Poehler? Yeah.”

  “How come? Friend of the family or something?”

  “He’s…”

  “Not the time to shut up, Mandrake.”

  “Poehler is a smuggler, okay?”

  “A smuggler?” Rogan wondered. “Like what, drugs?”

  “Anything, I guess. Word on the street is that he has contacts in Russia. He’s a fisherman, sure, but mostly it’s an excuse to head out to sea and move product around. He’s been doing it for years, I never thought nobody would ever get killed or nothing.”

  Rogan believed him. Best of all, it was making a lot of sense.

  He politely thanked Mandrake, rather certain he wouldn’t need his help for the time being, and he left. As he went by the main stage, a stripper in pigtails accosted him.

  “Hey, handsome. Want a private dance? I can get real freaky.”

  The song playing was blasting How Low by Ludacris and it made Rogan chuckle. He winked and returned to his car.

  Chapter 13

  The sitting room was rather dark, the only source of light coming from the large LCD TV. The man was on the couch directly in front, sitting on the edge and focused on playing his first-person shooter.

  As always, his two bodyguards were present, standing off to the side. They followed him everywhere, save for the bedroom, and then again only when he had female company.

  There was a knock and one of the bodyguards went to answer. When he was satisfied by who it was, he let the younger man inside, closing the door again behind him.

  “You wanted to see me, boss?”