The Forging

by Jeffrey Hancock

  There was a pause. The voice answered, “You say Ralph gave you this number? Why didn’t he call himself?”

  “Ralph’s dead, but he said you helped him in a little matter about ten years back. You were straight with him, so he looked the other way a time or two. He told me you two kind of had an understanding.”

  “Okay. I might have what you need, or I can get it. If I see a cop or even get the whiff of one on you…”

  “You won’t,” I started to sweat. I hope I can sneak out without the police following me.

  “Go to the club on Fifth and B Streets. Arrive at eleven and tell the doorman you are there to help Al with his little friend. He’ll lead you back to my office. Come alone.” There was a click, and the phone went dead. The clock said I had a couple of hours to kill. So, I went into the bedroom and spent the time with my wife.

  A change of clothes is in order as the hour of my departure approached. I changed into dark pants and shirt. There is nothing for me to do but leave. Opening the door to the garage, I beheld where we kept everything except the car. I navigated my way to the attic’s opening and climbed up and into the crawl space of my garage and my landlady’s, Mrs. Blake, garage shared. Suddenly the theme song to “Mission Impossible” started playing in the back of my mind. To my ears, it sounded like I am terribly noisy. Mrs. Blake is a heavy sleeper, I hope. Climbing down into her garage, I looked around. I thought we had a bunch of junk. Mrs. Blake’s garage contained the junk collected from eighty-plus years of living. Tiptoeing through the crap to the garage’s side door, I opened the door which led out of the garage and slipped out. The way the duplex sits on the lot, you can’t even see this door from the street. It is perfect for my needs.

  Stealthily, I crept through the backyard, trying to stay in the shadows. The fence is easy enough to hop over to the neighbor’s backyard. Luckily, they don’t have a dog. The last thing I needed is a barking dog or a bite wound on my leg. Like a ninja, I made my way to the street through the bushes and hedges. After I cleared my way through all the shrubbery, I walked down to the nearest cross-street and called for a cab on the throwaway phone. I am in luck as my wait was only a few minutes. I told the cabbie to take me to Fifth and B streets.

  The cab arrived at its destination soon enough. I crossed the street to the club. “Saxie’s Jazz Joint” is the name on the marquee. I approached the doorman. He looked more like a wall, not a door. He is an African-American gentleman tall about six-foot-five. His mass is all muscle too. I did not see an ounce of fat on him. He is as large as they made Michael Clarke Duncan look in The Green Mile. His nose is broad, and his eyes are deep-set. He wears a skin-tight fade which had been done by a master in the art of barbering. He is holding a clipboard and has a blue tooth receiver in his ear. A line of prospective club goers stood against the wall with a velvet rope barring their entrance.

  “You need to go to the back of the line sir, but I wouldn’t count on getting in,” the doorman intoned in a deep resonating voice.

  “I’m here to help Al with his little friend.”

  “Follow me.” He handed another man standing there the clipboard. He led me through the club. The band is playing a quiet set. Several couples are dancing to the smooth jazz which filled the club. The band is on a small stage set a couple of steps above the floor. The décor of the club is rich in reds with silver accents. It gave me the feeling I had been transported back to a classier time. We went through a door which took us on a tour of the kitchen, the back storeroom, and finally to a staircase.

  “Turn around. No one sees the boss until I’ve searched him.” With his massive hands, he gave me a pat-down.

  “Be gentle. It’s my first time.” The only reaction out of him was a guttural humph.

  We climbed the stairs to a door. Mr. Doorman, the wall, knocked once and held the door open for me. I had to try to squeeze by him to enter the room. As I slid by him and tried to become only two dimensional, I looked up at him; he chuckled.

  I walked into the office. It is a functional office with nothing austere about it. The furnishings are a few steps above Mike’s office. The desk is larger than Mike’s, and it is made of real wood, no faux finish. The chair behind the desk is the classiest piece of furniture there. It is a tall, high back leather swivel chair on rollers. There are several filing cabinets. I doubt they hold any real files or records. There are two TV sets on the wall. One set showed different scenes of the club every few seconds. The other set is a top of the line flat panel job. It was playing Scarface. I smiled at the obvious tie-in with this gentleman’s code phrase.

  “He’s clean, Boss. No weapons and no wire. I’ll be right outside if you need me,” the mountain of a man said then closed the door behind him.

  Sitting behind the desk is a man quite a bit older than me, perhaps in his late sixties or early seventies. His skin is drawn tight over his skull in a way which gave his features a skeletal appearance. The grey hair on his head, what little there is, is clipped close. He noticed my smile as I watched a moment of Scarface. He returned the smile.

  “So, Detective Daves gave you my number. How did you know the Detective?”

  “North Park, 1978.”

  “A dark day for San Diego. I know you’re on the level because Ralph told me he wouldn’t keep my number in his files anywhere except his head. Ralph never lied to me in our,” he hesitated as he chose his words, “dealings.” He leaned back in his chair. “So, tell me, what are you in the market for?”

  “I need a long gun. A sniper rifle. The best I can afford and ammo.”

  “Okay, before we can do business, I have to make a few things clear. First, if you’re some jealous husband looking to off your wife’s lover, look somewhere else. I don’t get involved in that shit. I suggest you see to your marriage. Second, your target can’t be a cop. The police have a nasty habit of tracking down the source of guns that kill cops. Third, strictly cash no checks, no credit cards, no IOUs. Fourth, if this gets back to me, I will sell your ass out. Do we have an understanding?”

  I said in my best Jack Sparrow, “We have an accord.”

  “Not bad. Pirates of the Caribbean, that movie was great entertainment.” He smiled and opened a desk drawer. “Have a seat.” I took a seat as he threw a small binder in front of me on his desk. The title on the cover read “Say Hello to My Little Friends.” I saw it had dividers. I quickly turned to the section marked rifles. Then I saw it.

  Right there on the first page a beautiful color photo of an M82A1M rifle and its specifications. The gun is a 50-caliber sleek instrument of death. “This number here it’s a stock number, right?”

  “Cute, it’s the price of the stripped-down model. All the bells and whistles are extra.” He motioned for me to turn the page. Al gave a little smile. “The only person who could miss with this gun…”

  “Is the sucker with the bread to buy it,” I gave a smile too. I guess Al is a movie buff too. I looked at the price again.

  Al said, “A little above your price range? What kind of ballpark are we talking about here?”

  Based on the money I have, “Little League.” I told him how much is at my disposal.

  As he laughed, he stood, pulled the binder out of my hands, and said, “I thought you were a serious buyer since Ralph gave you my number, but you’ll have to forgive me, I’m very busy.”

  “Please, forgive my being naïve about these matters. I have just started on a life of righteous vengeance and have had no dealings with businessmen such as yourself. Do you know where I might get some help? A competitor, perhaps.”

  “Since you’re a friend of Ralph’s, let me do you a favor. Nobody knows you. You don’t have what they call street cred. I only agreed to see you because of Detective Daves. If you show up at any of my competitors, as you put it, you will end up robbed, beaten, or worse. Me, I am a businessman, not a thug.”

  “Isn’t there anything my money can buy? This bastard must die. He all but killed my wife. He threatened dozens of ch
ildren.”

  A spark of realization came across Al’s face. “This man shot your wife?”

  “Yes.”

  Al pulled open a drawer and pulled out a piece of paper. “Is this the man?” It is a wanted poster and showed a mug shot of Mark Galos. I nodded. “The cops are turning this town upside down looking for him. Bad for business you see.” Al reached under his desk for a moment. Then he walked around his desk towards me. He gently placed a hand on my shoulder and guided me to turn around. We walk to the door I entered. “The money you brought let me have it. I gave him the envelope. “I want you to know I would have given you what you needed for the service of getting the cops off everyone’s back, but not getting paid goes against union rules you know,” he chuckled. His office door opened, and the mountain of a man entered.

  “You need me, Boss?”

  “Yes, I want you to take this gentleman and show him the bargain bin. Let him take whatever catches his eye.”

  “Sure thing, Boss. Follow me.” The doorman said in a low and rumbling voice which sounded like an earthquake rolling through the ground.

  He led me back to the storeroom, where he locked the doors. He moved a couple of boxes from against the wall. Then he grabbed an old wire hanger and straightened it out. He put the wire into an old nail hole in the wall. A soft click could be heard once the wire had reached its full length. A part of the back wall moved a few inches. The wall of a man pushed on the secret door until it opened fully. He led me down a small passageway. I was amazed Mr. Doorman didn’t need to grease up to wiggle through. We exited the small passage into a room lined in all manner of firearms. There is everything from the mundane run of the mill shotguns and pistols to high-end special ops assault rifles with all the cool doodads. “Try not to drool on the merchandise,” he intoned with a half-laugh.

  “This is your bargain bin? I think I can find something here to suit my needs.”

  “No,” he walked to the far corner of the room where he opened an old and dusty locker. It creaked as he lifted the lid. “This is the bargain bin.”

  I looked inside. It is filled with crap. It contained bits and pieces from some archeological dig of an ancient battlefield. “Why is Al keeping all this? I doubt it’s worth any real money.”

  “Every year or so, the city has a buyback program to remove guns from the streets. He turns in some of these. It’s easier than trying to dump them somewhere, and he makes a couple of bucks.”

  I started sifting through the odds and ends when I found a gunnysack. It called to me. I don’t know what it means other than it is whispering my name on an unconscious level. It spiked my curiosity, so I pulled it out and looked inside. My nose is assaulted by the smell of mildew and decay. I took inventory, and it is all there, an M1917 Enfield rifle. How did I know it is all there? This is curious; I have knowledge I don’t remember learning. Maybe all this is a dream after all. I set the sack aside and began searching through the bin some more. Paydirt. I found a scope to fit my prize. I quickly put it in the gunnysack. I looked around the room for the right ammo. I grabbed a box and put it in the gunnysack also. “I think this will do the job most handily. I am ready to leave.” The walking wall showed me out to the street. Before I left in earnest, I turned and stuck out my hand. “Please extend my thanks to your boss for what I have here,” I lifted the gunnysack and tipped my head slightly toward the bag. “I am sure this will suit my needs perfectly.”

  His hand engulfed mine in a strong shake. “Remember, you didn’t get that here.” As he voiced the statement, he glared at me and held the handshake for a moment too long. The unspoken warning and threat are clear. Based on my life lately, he didn’t impress me. Oh, I believed he would kill me, but right now he would have to take a number.

  The closest taxi stand is a short walk away, so I took a quick stroll and grabbed a cab back to about two blocks away from the house. The cab drove off, and I walked away in the opposite direction. After a few minutes, I took a quick look around. The street is quiet, so I snuck back into my home, by retracing my previous steps. I hid my gunnysack of firepower in my garage. I finally went to bed. All this clandestine effort is exhausting, not to mention it caused my conscience to throw some jabs at me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Our morning was uneventful. Breakfast was eaten. All the chores were completed. Moiraine is spending some quality time with her mother. I set my mind in motion regarding plans for the timely demise of Mark Galos. “It is by will alone I set my mind in motion. It is by the juice of Sapho that thoughts acquire speed, the lips acquire stains, the stains become a warning. It is by will alone I set my mind in motion.” Well I don’t have any Sapho juice, but we have pomegranate juice in the fridge; maybe that will work?

  I began the work on the beans. I rinsed and drained them. I placed them in the large pot and put them on the stove. I added the stock, ham hock, and all the right herbage. I set the stove to put the beans on a slow simmer. Oh, boy, I am going to enjoy this batch. A pang of despair washed over me. How can I enjoy anything while my wife lies upon her deathbed? At the thought, I almost threw the beans out.

  The doorbell rang. Oh, what fresh slice of anguish is this about? If it’s the damn cat again, I’ll use his guts to string a guitar. I opened the door to find a man of his mid-thirties standing at my door. He is of Asian descent. Based on the fact a limousine flying the Japanese flag on both front corners of the car is parked in front of my home, I assumed he is Japanese. He is wearing a smart navy-blue suit and tie. He is also sporting a briefcase in his left hand. Oh God, is the Japanese Government suing me? He bowed from the waist a respectful amount, but not too far. When he straightened up, I returned the bow no further than he bent.

  “Please to pardon this interruption. Does a Nathan Embers live at this address?”

  “Yes. I am Nathan Embers. What is this all about?”

  “Very good. My name is Masafumi Asahara. I would like to ask you if this is your work.” He pulled out of his briefcase a framed piece of paper and showed it to me. It is the maker’s mark I had given to the calligrapher at the Japanese Tea Garden.

  “Why, yes, it is. You know it had slipped my mind. Can you tell me what kind of maker’s mark it is?”

  “May my great-granduncle come in and sit down? He has traveled very far to talk with you. He has, I think the word is, fragile health and this trip has taxed him greatly.”

  “I’m not prepared for guests, but sure.” The gentleman walked to the limousine and opened the passenger door and helped an elderly gentleman out. Masafumi Asahara attended to this older man and guided him to my door. The older gentleman bowed when he reached the door, and I returned the gesture. I showed them to my couch. Once everyone was settled, I offered them some ice water or Diet Pepsi. Needless to say, I don’t entertain much. They thanked me but declined.

  The older gentleman talked in Japanese. His nephew translated. “My name is Nobuharu Makiyama. I would like to know where you saw this mark!” Wow, they took a long trip for something a phone call could have cleared up.

  “I have never seen it anywhere. It is something I doodled while on the phone. It is familiar to me. I began to see it in many places. I am sorry you came all this way for a doodle. It is a curious thing to me, nothing more.”

  There were a couple of exchanges in Japanese. Masafumi Asahara spoke. “My great-granduncle would ask if you would mind if he looked at your hands?” I shrugged and presented my hands. Nobuharu Makiyama took them in his hands. He examined them closely. He turned my hands over and looked at the backs. I feel like a raw diamond being examined by a jewel cutter. While all this is going on, I could sense an inaudible hum in the air. I noticed he had a tattoo on the palm of his right hand. After he finished with his examination of my hands, I looked at the palm of his right hand. The tattoo is the same as the maker’s mark I doodled. This little man is smiling as I looked at his face.

  “Hai! Hai! It is time. Mr. Embers please to forgive. My English no good.” Nobuharu
Makiyama had another exchange with his nephew.

  “My uncle wishes to assure you he meant no disrespect by not using English from the beginning. He was afraid he would use the wrong words.”

  “Tell your uncle he showed me great respect by trying not to offend me in my home.” There was more communication in Japanese. Nobuharu Makiyama bowed to me again.

  I sat through another round of being left out of the conversation. Boy, this is a little tiring. “My uncle would ask you to be ready for when he calls on you to help with the crafting.”

  “Crafting? I don’t understand.”

  “We all are to undertake a great adventure.”

  My daughter came running into the room with tears running down her face. She sat on the couch next to Nobuharu Makiyama and wiped her eyes. As the older gentleman looked down at Moiraine, a sad look came upon his face. “You cry because of your mother? I know of something which might help. Would you like me to tell you?” Moiraine nodded. “Do you have some paper?”

  “Yes.” Her tears stopped, and she wiped away the last remnants of them.

  “Go. Bring it to me, please.” She left for her room. “Mr. Embers, in finding you, we learned of your sorrow. It is a great sadness. I wish to offer you my prayers for your wife’s recovery.” This man bowed to me again. This time it is a bit deeper and a bit longer. My daughter returned with some of her clean art paper. The old gentleman took a sheet of paper and began folding it. “In my country, there is a story which tells if you make a thousand cranes, you will be granted a wish.” The gentleman held a paper crane aloft. He pulled on the tail end, and the wings of the crane flapped up and down. My daughter smiled. “Do you think you can make your own?” Moiraine began in earnest. What my daughter lacked in skill she more than made up for in dedication. I don’t remember when I’ve ever seen her more intent on a project. This man is showing my daughter each fold. She is a quick study remembering most folds with only a little gentle guidance from Nobuharu Makiyama. He has a grandfatherly patience with her. In no time Mo had crafted her own crane with flapping wings and all.