by Phil Swann
I didn’t respond.
“Tina’s a pretty little thing, don’t you think? In a few years, she’s going to be quite the looker. I sure hope I’m around to reap the benefits of the kindness I’ve shown her—if you know what I mean,” he said, adding a nauseating wink.
“You’re disgusting,” I spat.
“Now, now, Mr. Callaway. No need for name calling.”
“Let the boy go,” I said. “Just leave him with me, and be on your way. You don’t need him.”
“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Callaway. I need him very much. The boy’s my passport out of here.”
Jean-Claude tugged on the rope, but Wilson yanked it back, causing Jean-Claude to fall face-first onto the asphalt.
“You see, Mr. Callaway, a few hundred miles down this road is Mexico. I have some amigos down there who are going to help me disappear for a while. I don’t know where to, but I assure you, it’ll be out of reach of the U.S. judicial system.”
“Why take the boy?”
“Seriously, you have to ask? This little fella is my coat of armor. As long as I have him close to me, people will think twice before trying anything stupid. I mean, it stopped you from running me off a cliff, didn’t it?”
“That’s the most cowardly thing I’ve heard,” I replied.
“Really? I think it’s inspired. See, I’m a survivor, Mr. Callaway; an expert at self-preservation, as it were. Besides, there are countries where this little guy will fetch a pretty penny.”
Everything about Hank Wilson made me sick. Stanley O’Malley was right. He was an abominable sort. I made sure Jean-Claude was a safe distance from Wilson when I stuck my hand in my pocket, and pulled out the gun I’d taken from the warehouse. For the record, it was the instant I saw Wilson pulling Jean-Claude around like a dog that I decided to do what I did. I dispensed with all the put your hands up nonsense, and just raised the gun, and pulled the trigger.
Unfortunately, and quite embarrassingly, I missed.
Wilson charge for me, making a sound I was sure that emanated from hell. I pulled off two more rounds, the first missing again, but the second winging him in the shoulder. I went for a fourth, but it was too late, Wilson was on top of me.
“Jean-Claude, run!” I yelled, as Wilson grabbed my wrist and twisted it.
The gun fell to the ground.
I took an elbow to the face and fell backward. I saw Wilson going for the gun, so I charged him. I jumped on his back, wrapped my arm around his neck, and squeezed as hard as could.
We both fell backward, and Wilson landed on top of me. I was still squeezing his neck when he started hitting me in my right kidney. Eventually, the pain became so intense that I had to let go of my hold.
He got to his feet. “Come here,” he growled.
He grabbed me by my hair and pulled me to my feet. The first punch was to my gut, and it felt like I’d been hit with a sledgehammer. I doubled over. The second punch was to my face, and it sent me back to the ground.
Wilson picked me up again and threw me against the concrete wall. I made an anemic swing at him, but he brushed it off and returned with another bomb to my abdomen. This one knocked the breath out of me, and I fell to my knees gasping for air.
He grabbed me around my throat with one hand and began to squeeze the life out of me. I hit his arm several times with my fist, but it had no effect, his grip just got tighter. He put his other hand between my legs and started lifting me up off my feet.
I was almost to the point of blacking out, but when I felt the wind whipping up from the dam onto the back of my neck, I went crazy. I began wildly kicking my legs and flailing my arms. At one point, I put my hand on his chest and tried pushing him away, but I quickly realized I had no leverage because my back wasn’t against anything. An overwhelming feeling of helplessness washed over me. Wilson was throwing me off the dam.
Once my butt was more off the wall than on it, I resigned myself to the inevitable. I thought about Luther and Betsy, and I thought about Pop. My stomach tightened by reflex, and my head became heavy. I had heard stories about how death from falling off a building was the best way to go because the person would blackout before hitting the ground. I remember thinking how much I hoped that was true. I also remember—and this is weird— smelling grilled cheese sandwiches. The kind that were caked in butter, and grilled thin with a pickle on top. The kind Pop used to take me to Woolworths to get. I thought about all these things, and my stomach relaxed.
Wilson released both his hands and I began tumbling backward. Then suddenly, I felt a hand grab me by the waist of my pants, and heave me up. I crumbled onto the concrete.
I couldn’t stand, but I rolled over, just as Wilson fell to the ground. A man, and I could only see him from the back, went over to Wilson, straddled him, and started throwing punches at his face. I heard Wilson beg the man to stop, but the man kept pounding him. Finally, after a good minute, the man stopped his assault and turned around. It was Clegg.
The pistol I brought was still on the ground, so Clegg picked it up and put it in his pocket. He walked over to me and stuck out his hand to help me up.
“How about the next time I tell you to wait for me, you actually wait for me,” he said.
“I didn’t hear you,” I answered, taking his hand and standing. “How’d you find us, anyway?”
“I’m a brilliant investigator who understands the criminal mind.”
“You followed the tire tracks again, didn’t you?”
“Yup.”
“Where’s Jean-Claude?” I asked, frantically looking around.
“Relax, he’s in Wilson’s pickup. That’s what I drove out here. Come on, let’s get him back to his mother.”
“What about the army truck, and what’s left of the station wagon?”
“Trip, don’t worry about it. I’ll send someone out to get them. Come on.”
“Okay, but what about him?” I asked, pointing down at Wilson.
Wilson was rolling on the ground and slowly coming to.
“Oh yeah, I almost forgot about him.” Clegg went over and pulled Wilson to his feet. The man was barely able to stand.
Clegg helped him a few steps and then stopped. He looked past me, then toward Wilson’s pickup, and then back at Wilson. There was nothing but primal hatred burning in Clegg’s eyes.
“No, Clegg,” I said, sure he’d never do what I knew he was thinking about doing.
“Hey Trip, could you stand right here between me and the pickup?”
“Why?” I asked.
He pushed me over. “Just stand right here a second.”
“Clegg, no,” I reiterated.
It was one move. Clegg bent his knees, lifted Wilson over his shoulder, and then without a second of apprehension, heaved the man off the dam. I heard Wilson’s scream fade into oblivion.
“Oops. Dropped him,” Clegg uttered.
My jaw froze open.
Clegg adjusted his jacket, tweaked his neck, and then calmly walked past me. “I don’t like people who terrorize kids.”
Chapter 13
Pennington had all of Johnny’s pretend soldiers—both the dead ones and alive ones—out by the time Clegg and I returned. When Jean-Claude came flying out of the pickup, Michelle broke down in tears. She wrapped her arms around the boy and squeezed him so tightly I thought the poor kid was going to break in two. Clegg and I gave them some privacy.
Barnard walked up to us. “You okay?” he asked me.
“Fit as a fiddle,” I answered, though I’m sure I didn’t look it.
“How about Wilson?”
Clegg answered, “Probably should inform the Clark County Sherriff there’s a body floating in the Colorado River he might want to retrieve.”
“Best news I’ve heard all day,” Barnard replied. “Now, let’s talk about how you’re going to help me write this up for my brass.”
“You two talk amongst yourselves,” I said. “I need to do something.”
I found
Square Head and Tonto standing by the garage door. From their hand gestures, it looked like they were reenacting the raid on the warehouse.
“So, how did you guys know to come out here?” I asked, walking up.
Tonto answered, “This was your last known location. When communications went down, we knew something was up and began mobilizing the Marines. It took some doing—and we had to put a lot of faith in you—but it all worked out in the end.”
“You two are really something, you know that? Thank you, guys.”
“Don’t mention it,” Square Head replied, in his typical, emotionless, Square Head kind of way.
I shook both their hands and returned to Barnard and Clegg. Pennington had joined them and was holding a statue.
“A gift for the wife, Colonel?” I asked.
Pennington shook his head. “I can’t believe this whole place is nothing but a warehouse for these ugly things.”
I said, “Those ugly things were how Wu was smuggling heroin into the country. Uncle Charlie dealt in antiques and art. All he needed was for Wilson to supply the ivory. Brilliant, actually, in an evil, criminal kind of way.”
Clegg nodded. “I suspect this whole town was designed to become Heroin-ville, U.S.A. Headquarters for the Triad’s entire illegal drug operation.”
“The Promised Land,” I said.
Barnard added, “And we couldn’t touch it. A military base is virtually immune to local law enforcement. Genius…in an evil, criminal kind of way.”
“But, this isn’t a real army base,” I said. “In fact, the government doesn’t own it at all.”
“That’s right, they don’t,” Barnard replied. “I forgot, this place is owned by a company called…”
“Filius Agricola Enterprises,” I said.
“Yeah, that meant something to you, Callaway. Why?”
“It’s Latin. It roughly translates to son of a farmer. Uncle Charlie was very proud to be one. That’s how I knew for sure the Wu family owned this place.”
Clegg looked at Pennington, “Sometimes he makes me so proud.”
Pennington chimed in. “But how in the blazes did they do it? I’m a full-bird colonel in the United States Army. How did they get me here?”
Clegg said, “I have an idea, but I need to check with D.C. to be certain.”
“Give me a hint,” Pennington said.
“Well, it starts with a man named Cavendish, and the fact you’re retiring in a few months.”
“Good Christ!” Pennington growled. “You mean to tell me they chose me to do their dirty work for them because they knew I’d be leaving soon.”
“That’s the gist of it., but I’ll know more after I talk to D.C.”
Jean-Claude and Michelle walked over. Michelle’s eyes were still red, but she was smiling.
“How are you doing, Jean-Claude?” Clegg asked, lightly slapping him on the arm.
“I’m fine, sir,” he answered.
“You’re a brave young man. We’re all very proud of you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Mrs. Wu, the detective and I have been talking, and we think the best thing to do is—”
“Chevrolet,” Michelle interrupted. “Please, my name is Michelle Chevrolet.” She looked down at Jean-Claude. The boy beamed.
Clegg nodded. “We think the best thing to do, Ms. Chevrolet, is for Trip to take Jean-Claude back to The Jam Jar, and for you to accompany Detective Barnard to the police station and give him an official statement for the record.”
She looked at me, and I could see the apprehension in her eyes. “What kind of statement should I make?”
“Just tell him everything you told me and Trip.”
Barnard added, “It’s just a formality, ma’am. I want to close this case, but to do that, I’ll need a statement from you. My bosses will demand it.”
She nodded and looked down at Jean-Claude.
“Don’t worry, Mother,” Jean-Claude said. “Trip and I will be fine.”
I smiled, and then asked Clegg, “What are you going to do?”
“Buck and I have some calls to make. But I’ll drop by the club after we’re done, and hopefully, I’ll have some answers for everybody—even though I know you’ve already figured most of it out.”
I grinned. “Yes, most of it, but not all of it.”
Clegg looked at Pennington. “Just like a proud papa, I am.”
I smirked and said, “Thanks, Dad. But before you talk to D.C., can I speak to you privately for a second?”
Clegg looked at everybody and then shrugged. “Sure.”
We moved off to the side.
“What’s up?” Clegg asked.
“James Wu needs to disappear,” I whispered. “He didn’t have anything to do with this, and he wants a new life. I told him we could give it to him.”
“Trip, I don’t know if—”
“Clegg, the guy has lived every minute of his life trying not to be a part of his father’s business. You know how the Triads work. He’s Charlie Wu’s kid. They’ll never just let him walk away. There’s got to be something we can do.”
Clegg ran his hand over his head. “And you’re sure he had nothing to do with this?”
“Positive. He could have sold me out to Johnny, and he didn’t. In fact, I was with him when he called Johnny and told him I was on my way to L.A. with Michelle and Jean-Claude.”
Clegg nodded. “That way Johnny wouldn’t expect you to come back here.”
“Right. And it would’ve worked had it not been for Gene. Clegg, the boy just wants a new life. Let’s help him get it.”
Clegg sighed. “Okay, no promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”
“I appreciate it. Thanks.”
We went back and joined the others.
Barnard said, “I’ll drive Mrs. Chevrolet back to The Jam Jar after she gives her statement.” He looked longingly at me. “You think you could get Luther to come in and cook us up some breakfast?”
I smiled. “For you, Sam, anything.”
I drove Wilson’s pickup back to town. I knew of a jazz station out of Los Angeles that came in crystal clear late at night, so I tuned the radio to it, and told Jean-Claude he should shut his eyes. He was asleep within minutes.
When I got to the club, I tried waking him up, but it was hopeless, he was out. And who could blame the lad? The sun was coming up, and he probably hadn’t had more than six hours of sleep in the past forty-eight. Add that to everything the kid had just been through, and it probably would have taken John Phillip Sousa blowing a tuba in my ear to wake me up.
I realized carrying him in was my only option. However, the boy was thirteen, not three, and I was spent myself, not to mention still feeling every second of my near-death encounter with Wilson. But that was my problem. I pulled Jean-Claude from the pickup, lifted him into my arms, and lugged the little man inside The Jam Jar like the hero that I was. He didn’t so much as open one eye.
I laid Jean-Claude in a booth and started upstairs to my apartment to get a blanket. I met Luther as he was coming out of the kitchen door.
“Praise the good Lord!” Luther bellowed, wrapping his arms around me.
I winced.
“Where in the daylights have you been, son? Betsy and I have been worried sick about you. Why didn’t you call?”
“Sorry, Luther, there was no phone.”
He gently put his hand on my chin and moved my head to one side. He saw my throat and shook his head. “You look like hell, boy.”
“Just some bumps and bruises, but it’s over now.”
“And everyone’s okay?”
“Everyone who matters is.”
The big man let out a sigh. “Well, I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that. We were all sure worried about you, Trip.”
I patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Luther. By the way, why are you still here? The club closed hours ago.”
“Did you really think we were going to leave? What’s wrong with you?”
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I smiled. “No, I suppose, I didn’t. Thank you.”
He shrugged.
“So, where is Betsy?”
“Upstairs in your apartment. She was plum tuckered out, and I told her you wouldn’t mind if she laid down in your bed. I need to go up there and tell her you’re okay.”
“No, no, let her sleep. I’ll see her when she wakes up.”
He looked over and saw Jean-Claude. “Oh Lordy,” he said, lowing his voice. “I didn’t see him. Is he—”
“He’s just tuckered out too.”
“And his mother?”
“With Detective Barnard. They should be here in a little bit.”
Luther nodded in that way he always did when the world was put back in order, as he felt it should be. Then, a second later, reality set in. “The detective’s coming by? Holy corn, I better get in the kitchen and start cookin’ up some breakfast for everybody. I hope I have enough eggs in the icebox. And coffee, I need to make some coffee. And grits, I need to make lots of grits. And chops. I’ll fry up some apples too…” He was still talking as the kitchen door swung closed behind him.
I grabbed a bottle and a glass from behind the bar, planted myself on a barstool, and poured myself a shot. I threw back the whiskey, then poured another, and threw that one back, as well. I closed my eyes, rolled my head in a circle, and tried not to think about how close I came to my final coda. I wanted to make some entries in my diary, but I didn’t want to wake up Betsy, so I went behind the bar to find some paper. I didn’t find any. I looked over at the bandstand and remembered Eighty-Eight Eddie always kept some staff paper on hand when he wanted to sketch out a quick arrangement for the boys. I went over, lifted the lid on the piano bench, and pulled some out. I placed the staff paper on the piano, sat down, and began writing.
I must have written for twenty minutes. I recalled everything that had transpired from the time Clegg showed up at my door informing me I was in the army, to nearly shaking hands with Beethoven at Hoover Dam. As I wrote, something started nagging at my noggin.’ I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it was there. I kept writing, comforted in the knowledge that whatever was bothering me would be revealed in short order—like it always had in the past. But this time, no such epiphany occurred. I stopped writing, crossed my arms on the piano, and laid down my head.
