End Time

by G. A. Matiasz

  “For Christ’s sake!” Peregrine steamed, but he did walk into his kitchen to check out the appliances.

  “No, no gas leaking in...” Peregrine shouted, turning back into his apartment’s small living room, only to see that he didn’t need to shout. A man stood in his apartment. Six foot, burly, his dark curly hair cropped short; he aimed a conventional 38 Special for Peregrine’s gut.

  “If you’re thinking about robbery,” Peregrine raised his arms cautiously, “You picked the wrong person. I got nothing. Check around for yourself.”

  “Sulawesi,” the man smirked.

  “You got paid for what I purchased,” Peregrine protested.

  “Your account’s paid up in full on that score. That’s not why we’re here.” The man used the “royal we.” “There’s something you have that the Celebes is interested in purchasing. We’re offering a good price. One million. That was supposed to be your cut on the Piccoli heist, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Peregrine marveled at the outlaw zone’s grapevine, “Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t have the riemanium.”

  “Sulawesi doesn’t buy that it’s in the hands of politicos.”

  “And why would I do a politico stunt with it?” Peregrine said, leveling his voice, “Why would I be living like this if I could’ve hustled the Feds out of that same million to return it? Why would I want to bring all this heat down on myself?”

  “Good questions,” the man grinned, “Maybe you’re trying to jack up the price on it. Maybe you’ve got a numbered Swiss or Bahamian bank account. Maybe you’re going to split the country once you’ve cut whatever deal you’re making.”

  Good guess on the latter. Peregrine decided not to tell the Sulawesi agent about his own attempt to obtain the riemanium last night, nor of his information that Gregory Kovinski had it. Not until he had to.

  “I take it you don’t believe me then,” Peregrine said.

  That’s right.”

  “And I take it you have the ability, the orders, and the inclination to make me tell you whatever I know, even if I know nothing.”

  “Smart man.” The Celebes man gently tilted his gun.

  “Then, basically, I guess I’ve got no choice.”

  Peregrine put into motion the only other contingency he had. Under the gun, Peregrine took a small, portable shovel from his closet. Both the thief and the outlaw zone agent walked out of the apartment complex to the man’s old Plymouth Chrysler. The man aimed as Peregrine drove, thinking furiously. He took scant notice of the extremely sophisticated scanning equipment occupying the place of dashboard radio and glove box in the man’s car. He drove north, into the coastal ranges for an hour. Then the two walked for a half hour off road, amidst evergreens and crows, to where Peregrine had buried his stash of weapons, hacker technology, and expertly forged ID’s. He located the exact spot, and with the Celebes man a safe distance from his thrown dirt, the thief dug up the moist earth from around a foot locker sized box. He pulled it out of the hole.

  “Here it is,” Peregrine said, frowning.

  “Open it,” the agent said, gesturing with the gun.

  The box was not locked, but Peregrine pulled out his key chain from a pocket as a distraction. The lid was up and the riot gun was in his hand in an instant. He jumped, slammed home a PS gas cartridge, rolled, fired as the Celebes enforcer got off two shots. Then Peregrine rolled again as the shell exploded at the man’s feet. One of the bullets shattered the riot gun’s dense plastic stock. The man collapsed from the gas.

  Peregrine searched the man, disarmed him, removed over $250 from the man’s wallet before returning it, and then securely bound him with his own clothes torn into strips. Then, while the nerve gas wore off, Peregrine dragged off his box to rebury it in another location, amidst the cawing of crows. He returned to find the agent fully recovered.

  “Yo. Now, its off to jail,” Peregrine prodded the man up with his own gun.

  “Sulawesi ain’t gonna like this.”

  “Sulawesi can take care of you once you’re locked up.” Peregrine indicated they should walk back to the car. “And if you spill anything about me to the cops, your Celebes employers will never get their hands on the riemanium. If any more of you shits come looking for me, they’ll be dead. You’re the warning, and now I’ve been warned.”

  When they returned to the car, Peregrine pushed the man into the passenger’s seat. He then wiped off every incidental surface that might have his fingerprints before getting behind the wheel for the drive to downtown San Francisco. He found a parking spot and fed the meter long enough to again wipe down the steering wheel, door handles and the gun before tossing the latter into the car’s back seat. He closed the door with his shirt sleeve.

  “You won’t be alone for long,” Peregrine said and walked across the street, to a pay phone. He dialed the police.

  “Hello. There’s a dangerous criminal locked up in a Plymouth Chrysler, license plate 3NR0843, at the corner of Ellis and Mason. His gun is in the back seat. I think if you check deep enough, you’ll find he has Sulawesi connections.”

  Then he hung up. Things were closing in. First the Ten Most Wanted, and now this. He walked to his post office box and found a letter there from his brother. Kenny wrote, in their long-standing code, that he might have a buyer for Peregrine’s buried contraband, and to call him during the official time, Thursday afternoon. The thief then took a taxi to Alabaster with the Sulawesi man’s money. He talked the landlord into letting him move to another room in the complex, a second story apartment on California. By nightfall, he had moved. He didn’t bother to transfer his telephone, as he now intended to be out of town by the fifteenth of the month.

  ***

  Marcus busied himself making breakfast as Gwen burned on the computer keyboard. Their fax had started chiming and printing at 2:30 in the morning. Gwen hit the keyboards by 5, now modeming into New York police and government databases. Not at all legally, he found out.

  “Well, you wanted it quickly,” Gwen shrugged. Buttermilk pancakes, homemade country sausage, a fruit cup; by the time the meal hit the table, she was running out files on the dot matrix.

  “So, what’s the news flash,” Mark put out the jams and maple syrup, a little nervous about his wife’s electronic “breaking and entry.”

  “That MO is finally coming through for Joe,” Gwen’s cool eyes sparkled, “And, we’re getting a bonus. I ran the MO through Black Talon last evening, and got a list of six names. One of them had a handle that gave me a hunch. A Kenneth James Wisdom, aka Kenny, street name Hawk, first arrested ten years ago, at 30, after a decade long burglary spree in the New York metropolitan area, during which he established his version of the MO. He was only convicted for one job, but that was enough. I sent off for his official police record last night, and that’s what we got this morning. Seems he’s in prison now, has been for the last two years, presently at the Federal MCC in San Diego. He got politics when he was in prison the first time, so when he got out on parole for good behavior he participated in a string of bank ‘expropriations’ with Puerto Rican Libre members. That’s what he’s in for now.”

  “There goes the Peregrine connection,” Mark said, digging into the food heaped on his plate.

  “Not so fast,” Gwen started in on her stack of pancakes, the printer still humming. “When the info came in this morning, that’s when I decided to act on my hunch. The similarity between the two street names: Hawk and Peregrine. I hacked the New York City databases to do a little cross checking and referencing. Coincidentally, the Peregrine handle also first surfaced around the time of Kenny Wisdom’s burglaries. And Kenny has a younger brother, Eugene Michael Wisdom, who was 15-16-17 during that period. He was never implicated in any of his brother’s jobs. In fact, he doesn’t have a record at all as far as I can tell. Eugene’s parents sent him off to school at Stanford right after high school. I figure there could be a connection.”

  “Gwen, you’re wonderful,” he leaned over the table
and kissed her.

  Marcus collected his dishes and placed them in the sink which, with the cooking utensils, he filled with soap and hot water and left for Gwen to wash. “I have those meetings this morning in the City.”

  “Say hello to Neal for me,” Gwen said, relishing the last of her breakfast.

  Morning in the City meant a break in his door-to-door routine. The detective relished the drive down. The day began sunny but blustery off the bay. The trip was business on top of a mercy mission. In all the work he had done for Neal over the years, the man had never come apart as he had in this case. That Neal’s business dealings were not all above board did not please Marcus even while it did not entirely surprise him. He had taken on six cases for Neal when Security Pacific reached dead ends on them, solving all six. Neal had been manic over the theft of two Manet’s from a corporate collection being transported from Los Angeles to New York. He had been angry enough to kill about the computer engineered embezzlement of millions from inside Security Pacific. But Marcus had never seen him so scared. The PI had a hard time squaring this with the Marine Corps’ buddy he had known. His first stop was not Neal’s office however.

  “Brian,” Marcus leaned in the door of Sampson’s office, “We still on for a brief conference?”

  “Absolutely,” the Captain said and slid the meager police update in thin manila folder over his desk to a chair in front of it. “Want me to ring Joe?”

  “He’s expecting us,” Marcus took a seat as the CHP officer dialed and glanced at the folder.

  “Hello,” Joe answered promptly, home on his morning off, his presence on the wire completing their conspiratorial circle.

  “Hey there, Joey,” Brian grinned, “Ready for a little meeting?”

  “Fire away.”

  “Morning Joe,” Marcus said, then summarized the Alabaster cop’s request on the series of local burglaries before detailing the results of Gwen’s finger work.

  “Sounds promising,” Sampson said, “Christ, its more than that Sumner has come up with. He’s got the entire Bay Area Left blanketed with Bureau special agents, and he’s come up with zip on this Operation Anvil of his. Everyone’s dummying up all around the Bay because of this crackdown, and not just political sources. Edward talks as if he’s deliberately putting the lid on a pressure cooker to squeeze out the Solidarity Brigade. He’s set up a regular Tuesday sting, starting today, hoping that his pressure will force out whoever’s got the riemanium. His strategy has been a bust, far as I can tell.”

  “Yeah, the Bureau is here in Alabaster, interfering with our work,” Joe grumbled.

  “Such a waste,” Brian muttered, “If Sumner wasn’t first cousin to Genghis Khan in the overbearing way he tries to run everything connected with law enforcement on this case, he might get more cooperation. Anyway, Marcus, I think I can help you with this Eugene when he was at Stanford. I’ll make a few calls.”

  “And I’ll check the DMV record on this Eugene Wisdom,” Joe volunteered, “By the way, a name and address on the license plate you wanted came through. A Lori Anne Turnage.”

  Marcus quickly wrote down the Alabaster address as Sampson poured himself another cup of coffee.

  “I won’t be able to get my boss to authorize any kind of stakeout,” Joe apologized, “Not with the FBI in town.”

  “That’s all right,” Marcus said, thinking fast, “I know someone who can handle that for us.”

  “Great. By the way, we still on for bridge tomorrow evening?”

  “Gwen and I are looking forward to it,” Marcus smiled, “Before we close this, I want to make sure the two of you are still interested in backing me up. You both are putting your careers at some risk on this one, what with the FBI’s clamp down on any independent police work.”

  “Hey, I’m still okay with it,” Joe shrugged through the phone, “There’s just a few more limits on me is all.”

  “I need it,” Brian emphasized. “Working with Sumner breathing down my neck every day has put a lot of pressure on me. You’re my escape valve Marcus. I would enjoy nothing more than to see you crack this case.”

  “Thanks for the support.”

  Grateful, Marcus was stopped on his way out of Sampson’s office by the switchboard operator.

  “You the detective?” she asked, not daring to pronounce the name.

  “Yes.”

  “Your wife called. Said your next meeting’s been changed. She said you’re not supposed to go to Mr. Emerson’s office, but to meet him at this address.”

  She gave him the address written on a message pad piece of paper. He managed to finish the police update on the ride over, the PI taking mental note that Rosanne Casey was no longer a student at SFSU. The windy panorama of white-capped Pacific ended in the Golden Gate’s span across to the wild north coast. It was spectacular from the Palace of the Legion of Honor, which now tableaud an assortment of Federal and city police vehicles and officers ranged around the copy of Rodin’s The Thinker. He found Neal in the lobby, next to a large play board advertising the museum’s special Piccoli Gem Exhibition. He severely berated one of his employees as Marcus approached.

  “Mark, thank God you got my message,” the Security Pacific president brusquely dismissed his underling and slung a handkerchief across his sweaty upper lip.

  “I didn’t know Security Pacific was handling the exhibition too.” The detective pulled out his notebook, more as a shield against Neal’s obvious desperation than anything else.

  “Only supplementary.” Neal folded the cloth into his pocket. “We’re doing it for free. It’s the least we can do. But these gems are driving me crazy. I’ll show you.”

  Marcus followed Neal, thinking that Security Pacific’s “pro bono” work cleverly helped to deflect any possibility of litigation as well. The Palace had taken some pains with the Piccoli exhibit, renting historical wax figures from Toussad’s in London and grouping the gaggle of Borgia’s, Medici’s and other dead Renaissance Italians around security displays of the gems. Only now red paint was splattered across everything, accompanied by spray painted slogans on floors and walls. At least two of the wax mannequins had been beheaded.

  “They hit the exhibit right after opening,” Emerson glanced about as Marcus deciphered “Eat the Rich, Feed the Poor; Smash the State, End All War” from the graffiti. “And with a roomful of elementary school children on a tour at the time, so Security couldn’t do a damn thing. Two hundred screaming kids and a dozen ski masked vandals! They did it quick, knocked out a couple of guards on their way out, and escaped in two vans with masked license plates. Escaped in broad daylight! Figuring out who’s liable for the cleanup and restoration is going to be a nightmare. Christ, I wish I’d never heard of these damned Piccoli.”

  “My news is getting better,” Marcus said, “Can we talk someplace.”

  “By all means.” Hope flashed across Neal’s face. He temporarily evicted the Museum’s security office of its personnel so that the detective could bring him up-to-date.

  “I’m so close to this Peregrine, I can smell his sweat,” Marcus concluded. “I’ll need a stake out. On the girl, Turnage. I can’t get the Alabaster police to do it, and I don’t have the time. An associate of mine, Randy Schmitts, owes me a couple of favors. He’s trustworthy to take on a case like this. If you want, 111 pay his fees.”

  “I’ll pay for it,” Neal said immediately. “Glad to hear you’re so close.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  “Not too good,” the gaunt old man, the corporate president ground worried fingers across his chin. “I’m three steps away from a Senate subcommittee investigation. The FBI has every scrap of Security Pacific paperwork for the last ten years, and the IRS all of mine for the last twenty. My doctor says I’m getting an ulcer. I haven’t slept in two nights.”

  “Rosanne Casey lost her admission to college,” Marcus said, deadpan.

  “That nut!” Neal exploded. “You’re wrong about her, Mark! She’s a straight-jacket case
. She mailed me this long, rambling ‘apology* which did not make any sense. I turned it over to the police. She’s in this thing with Peregrine. Up to her neck!”

  “Only because you dragged her there,” Marcus said, excusing himself.

  He stopped on the drive home at a Sausalito travel agency to collect a half dozen brochures apiece on Europe and the South Pacific. Picked them up for Gwen who, after all, had final word on any vacation.

  ***

  “I want the backup to be flawless on this operation,” Edward addressed the unit of men upon which his life depended. “Cisco and I will be at the target table. Sharpshooters, zero in on anyone approaching the table. Then watch for my hand signal. Open hand means false alarm; no contact. Fist means contact, make the grab. Index and middle finger pointing means contact; armed and threatening; blow the fuckers away. You apprehending, I want you in a car by the curb, around the table across from us, and on the sidewalk to either side of the cafe. And, try to be inconspicuous about this. The office has gotten crank calls, threats actually, from folks like the Revolutionary Action Brigades saying you guys stick out like sore thumbs on the job. Threatening to start offing you. I don’t want this blown just because you all don’t have any fashion sense.”

  He had presided over releasing the third Bureau wave yesterday. He monitored every report every day, and was pleased that his strategy was on course. Clamp down. Apply the heat. Let their own, in this case the Left, betray its own, and squeeze out the MRSB. He glanced around at the men and women in the conference room.

  “And remember, tonight may not be the night. This operation has to proceed flawlessly every Tuesday night, until we crack the Brigade.”

  Edward felt that he too rode the tiger with Operation Anvil. But he was determined to master the beast by breaking it. He kept Marable run ragged, even as he waited for Washington to appoint him a new San Francisco director. Sumner had temporarily suspended the Bureau’s Bay Area covert actions against the white Left; the “dirty tricks,” the legal harassment, the break-ins vandalism and assaults, all except the FBI infiltration which he had intensified. It was bad enough that the Leftist disease now infecting the American body politic was purposefully cellular in its organization on its militant fringes, almost impossible to effectively infiltrate let alone influence. Such extremists reveled in their own apparent disarray. He did not need more chaos and confusion while his people searched for the riemanium needle in the anti-war haystack. He had even disbanded the Bureau’s street fighting front organization, the Black Star Collective, for the time being.