by G. C. Harmon
He didn’t see any immediate sign of a vehicle.
Another shot rang out, coming from his left. He dropped behind a short retaining wall and heard the bullet tear through the treetops just above him. There was no immediate follow-up shot, so he surged to his feet and took off at a run down the hill in pursuit. His shooter was in sight, sprinting away. Steve poured on his speed, breath after breath heaving his lungs with the exertion.
Over the hammering of his heartbeat and footfalls, Steve heard a noise behind him. The second he glanced back, a pair of headlights blazed on, pinning him. The vehicle had been in the park after all, though he couldn’t figure where it had been hiding. The engine of the SUV suddenly roared, and the vehicle rocketed toward him.
With the hillside to his right, Steve veered left. A screech of tires told him the SUV was steering toward him. The street here was bordered by a short barrier wall constructed of rocks found in that area. He suddenly dove to his left over the wall.
Steve didn’t know where he’d end up, only knew that there was a handful of homes that bordered the hillside here. He only hoped he didn’t land on a pile of rocks hard and sharp enough to cause more damage to his weary body.
He instead hit a stretch of manicured bushes, which were still sturdy and sharp enough to tear and scrape at his clothing and exposed skin. With a mouthful of small dusty leaves, he rolled off the other side, landing on the hillside in someone’s back yard. The vehicle sped by, leaving him in darkness.
Steve sat up and spat out the vegetation that had found its way into his mouth. He sat for a moment to catch his breath. Above him, by the noise, he could tell exactly what was going on. Tires screeched as the SUV skidded to a stop. He heard a door open and close, the driver picking up his passenger, then another screech as the SUV sped off.
Steve slowly rose to his unsteady feet. There was a streetlight on the road above him that filtered some light through the trees. He found a break in the bushes and climbed back to the road. He paused to check down the hill, but the vehicle had long disappeared around the curve below. He heaved a weary breath and fished out his cell phone. Thankfully, the screen was still intact. He punched up Scot’s number. “What’s your twenty?”
“I’ve got the vehicle, I’m headed toward Lombard Street to go up to the tower. Where are you?”
Steve sighed again. “I’m at the tower. Don’t even bother coming up here. Our shooter got into an SUV that tried to run me down. They’re long gone. Let’s just meet back at the bar.”
“You want a ride?”
Steve thought about it, taking a moment to gauge the aches in his body. “Hell with it. I’m right here, I’ll just walk back.” He started back up toward the staircase.
When Steve reached the last length of stairs, he paused at the landing where their sniper had taken cover. He climbed onto the railing and jumped over to the earthen terrace behind the retaining wall. He used the flashlight function of his cell phone to check the area. He found what he was looking for. Shell casings, .45 caliber, were scattered in the grass. He found three clustered fairly close together, remembering that was the number of shots fired from here.
He thought the situation over a moment. Technically, with the firing of guns, this was a crime scene and would need to be processed. If he’d been any other regular cop, the department would be on his back about how many rounds he himself expended, they would hold him strictly accountable. However, no one was hit, and certainly no one died. He was not in the mood to spend the rest of the night answering questions and processing a crime scene. He could always come back tomorrow in the daylight and conduct his investigation then.
There was one question, however, that he would like answered. He snapped a couple pictures of the dirt terrace with his cell phone, then a closer shot of the cluster of shells. He then found a small twig and used it to pick up one of the casings. Would it match the bullets they’d found at the cathedral?
Steve climbed back down to the staircase and slowly headed to the street below.
He found his Dad standing dutifully on the sidewalk outside Paddy’s. “You alright,” Steve asked.
“Forget me, son, are you still breathin’?”
“Barely.” Steve looked up as Scot rolled up in their SUV.
Black took in Blazer’s appearance, smears of dust and bloodied scratches on his face. “What happened? Are you OK?”
“I’ll live. Our shooter was picked up in a dark colored SUV, possibly a Dodge. That vehicle tried run me down. I didn’t get a plate or much of any description. They’re in the wind.”
Steve looked past them as another patrol unit rolled toward them. Scot glanced back and said, “I called for backup.”
Steve stepped forward as the black and white rolled up. Inside were two new officers, not part of the contingent that arrested the bar-fighters. Steve flashed his star. “You can cancel. We’re Code four.”
“What happened? It came out as a shots fired call.”
“One lone guy waved a gun at us, but he took off toward the Tower. I chased after him, but he got away. Nothing major.”
Scot raised his eyebrows, hearing no mention of the “shots fired” part.
Apparently, the officer was skeptical too, seeing Blazer’s appearance. “You sure you’re OK?”
Steve shrugged. “We’re all good.”
The officer gave him a wary gaze, but then said, “Whatever.” He pulled away.
Scot gave him a “really?” look. “Aren’t I supposed to be your conscience?”
Steve shrugged. “You want to spend all night processing a nothing crime scene?” He then held up the twig with the bullet casing. “I need an evidence bag. We can at least see if this matches the bullets we found at the cathedral this morning.”
He and Scot opened the rear hatch of the SUV, and Scot pulled his patrol bag toward him. He reached into a particular pocket and came out with a small plastic bag. Without touching it, Steve deposited the bullet inside.
“Why don’t I keep the custody of this one,” Scot said.
“As my conscience?” Steve shrugged. “At this point, this is for informational purposes only. Now, I have one more thing I need to do here.” He strode back up to the bar and pushed through the door. What now? Scot thought as he followed.
The elder Blazer held Scot back a moment. “Is it always like this with him?”
Scot almost laughed out loud. “Nah. You caught him on a slow week.”
Steve marched straight up to the bar, mindless of the waitress who was in the process of righting one of the tables. The bartender seemed preoccupied for a moment, but his eyes went wide as Blazer marched right up to him and slapped a palm on the bar. “So. Did you make any phone calls after we left?”
“What?”
“I’m just curious as to why I suddenly have people shooting at me. Did you call one of your IRA buddies to scare off the dumb cop? What kind of ex-pat hangout are you running here?”
“Officer, I didn’t know—”
“I want you to know,” Steve said, and he picked up a “Paddy the Penguin” business card, which had the bartender’s name on it, “I’ll be running a phone trace on every phone line here, and I’m going to research every call. If I come across any names that jump out, I’m coming back for you, and I’m shutting you down.”
Steve turned and walked away. “Let’s get out of here,” he said to his partner and his father. Behind him, he heard the bartender mutter a curse.
Steve stopped before he reached the door. He glanced over at the pool table, and the booth in the corner. A single beer bottle sat on the table. Steve went over, and used a napkin left on the table to pick up the bottle by the neck. With another glance at the bartender, he led his entourage out to the street.
Outside, he said to Scot, “I want to try and get a print off this thing.”
“Do you think something’s going on there?” Scot asked. “Maybe something to do with their mother country?”
“Considering what j
ust happened, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if some IRA legends are laying low here, or even somehow smuggling arms back home to the struggle, something like that. Tomorrow, I’ll get a warrant for a phone dump on the bar and his personal line, and we can check every number we find. It’s a starting point. Come on, I’ll drive you home.” He pointed to his Dad, who seemed to be trying to fade into the background. “You. With me.”
Drew raised an eyebrow and joined them in boarding their unmarked car.
The SUV sped through the darkness. They reached the bottom of Telegraph Hill Boulevard, and the driver swung them into hard left turn. A gentle touch of the brakes, and the tires protested with quiet shrieks. The driver sped down Lombard Street, then turned north.
“That bastard cop didn’t want to die,” the passenger said. He pulled out his pistol, checked the magazine, and slipped it back under his coat.
“That was a stupid move, Conner,” the driver said. “Liam won’t like it.” The driver was a woman, a young lady in her late twenties. She was a mystery, but a pleasant one. Upon reaching America’s shores, he’d made contact with a group of ex-patriots from Northern Ireland in that very bar, and they’d taken him to an isolated building where they had set up their own operation. The woman—he knew her only as Deirdre—had latched onto him. She was kind of quiet, but she had offered to assist him in anything he needed. Speaking with some of the others in private, they assured him she was a seasoned fighter for the cause. Speaking with her in private, he’d filled her in on his mission of vengeance.
“Liam is the one who called me from the bar,” Conner said. He thought for a moment. “You know, Deirdre, you may be right. That cop may be burning up my trail, but he may also lead me straight to the priest. I shouldn’t be killing him just yet.”
“We’re supposed to be getting that shipment of guns and Plastique to send back to Belfast.”
“We’ll get it, be sure. But know this. No one gets in the way of my finding and killing that traitor priest. He must be killed to avenge the cause.”
Deirdre fell silent, but she knew Liam would not be pleased.
In minutes, they had closed in on the north portion of the Embarcadero, just two blocks from the bay, where they pulled into an alley behind a small vacant industrial building. Conner threw open his door before the SUV had come to a stop. He pounded twice on a rollup door, and it clattered as it slid up. Before the door was completely open, Deirdre drove the vehicle into the warehouse, sliding in just underneath the door. It was quickly lowered closed.
A single row of lights stretched the length of the building, which was only a hundred fifty feet. Conner walked up to a table set beneath one of the hanging lights. The older man from the bar, who he knew as Liam Hallahan, stood from his folding chair, where he was cleaning a pistol. Conner marched up to him and shook his hand. “Liam. Thanks for calling with that tip.”
“Aye, mate. Anything for a legend of the cause. I had those boys soften him up for ya. I even stuck around a moment, saw them in action. We might be able to use them again. You took care of the cop, then?”
“Actually, I decided the cop might be more useful alive. He won’t know it yet, but he will be a key player in my revenge.”
Liam narrowed his gaze. “Just watch yourself, boyo. I’ve kept my shipping company low key and under the radar so I can maintain a pipeline back to Belfast. You came here on another mission for the cause. This little quest for revenge can bring a lot of heat on my insignificant operation and put a damper on any guns or money going back to Ireland. The boys in Belfast won’t like that. If you stray too much…legends can always fall.”
“Not this legend,” Conner said quickly. “Don’t you worry about it. We’ll get those guns to Belfast. But I’m going to kill me a piece of shite traitor along the way.” He stepped aside, saw a pizza box sitting at the end of the table, and grabbed a cold slice from inside.
As Conner wandered farther into the gloom and greeted some of the boys from Liam’s group of ex-patriots, a young man named Thomas approached Liam. “Has anyone tried to mention to him that it might be a sin for a Catholic to kill a priest?”
Liam glanced across the room at Conner. “That man is a legacy, and he’s done a lot for the cause. His brother was a legend. I’ve been told to put myself and my men at his disposal. That order comes from the very top of this movement.”
“You may be the old soul, Liam,” Thomas whispered. “But I’m trying to watch out for all of us. That legend has an obsession with revenge that could expose us and could sink his precious gun shipment.”
“Oh, believe you me, lad,” Liam said, his lips smiling as his voice rumbled. “I’ve got a close eye on our legend. And if his little trip for revenge becomes too much of a problem…well, let’s just say that legends do have a way of becoming martyrs.”
7
Steve unlocked the door to his apartment and led his father inside. “It has been a while since you’ve been here, hasn’t it?”
“Ach, only a couple o’ years.”
“Well, I’m sure you remember where everything is.”
Steve carried a bag of Chinese takeout into his small kitchen and placed it on the island countertop. “Are you OK with Chinese?”
“Nay worries, son.”
Steve smirked. “I can’t find a place that serves good old fashioned meat pies.”
“Ach, this city is missin’ out. Your mum and I discovered a wee place a few miles inland from the coast a while back. The best meat pies this side of Glasgow. I told your mum that they couldn’t hold a candle to her homemade meat pies, but they are quite good.”
Steve smiled at the story. He was busy taking out plates and forks. He had skipped his usual ritual of turning on his stereo when he came in. There was no hard rock music blaring to soothe his spirit after a tough day on the streets. However, Drew noticed something in a corner near the window. Steve’s electric guitar sat on a rack, a cord hooked to a small amplifier and a small assembly of effects pedals.
“Are you playing your guitar again?”
“A little. That poor thing’s been sitting in my closet for a couple years. I pulled it out a few weeks ago and started fiddling around, trying to remember some of the old songs I knew I high school.” He caught the deep sentimental smile on his father’s face.
“Are ya familiar with the story of the Christmas Carol ‘Silent Night’?”
“Christmas was a couple months ago.”
Drew ignored the joke. “In 1818, there was a priest in Austria. He had the talent for music, had it all his life, and he had people in his life that nurtured that talent. He wrote the music and words for “Stille Nacht” on guitar. The organ at their parish church was broken, bloody mice running around inside. This priest, he showed it to another who worked the church. But when he played it on guitar, as beautiful as the song was, the other priest didn’t want the song performed in the church on guitar. He considered it a sacrilegious instrument, and he thought the church might excommunicate them for using such an instrument within their holy walls.”
Steve was becoming enthralled by the story. “I think I saw this in a movie once.”
“Well, our musical priest prevailed, and they performed the song on guitar. Well, the man fixing their organ was in the audience when it was first performed. He acquired the song and took it home to his family, who just happened to be a singing group. They were soon performing the song all over Europe. It became an enormously popular song and is still to this day. And that priest didn’t find out until long after how popular his song had become.”
“And thus,” Steve said, “Rock and roll was born. Long live the aforementioned musical genre.”
His Dad smiled through the joke, but Steve could tell he was rolling his eyes inside.
Growing up, Drew Blazer had often questioned his son’s taste in music. Steve put a lot of his nay-saying to shame when his father had seen him play at a few of his high school gigs. Now, he decided, so many years later, seeing what Stev
e had to contend with on the streets with his job, it was good of him to have an outlet for the stress and horrors he experienced.
As they sat down at Steve’s small dining table with plates of Chinese food, Steve said, “You can sleep on my bed tonight, I’ll take the couch—”
“Nay, son, no need to be troublin’ yourself. I may be getting’ older, but my back can take a night on a lumpy couch.”
“Why trouble yourself, it’s no bother—”
“Nay, the couch is fine, son.”
Steve dropped it. They ate in silence for a moment.
“So are you going to ever tell me the reason you’re really here in San Francisco?”
His father fumed for a moment. “I realize that you’re deep into this search for the priest. I am too. Beyond that, I can’t yet tell ya anything.”
“Yet?”
Drew hadn’t chosen his words carefully enough. He fell silent.
Now Steve fumed. “Just tell me this. Considering your background, were you ever a part of the IRA yourself? You would have been back and forth between here and Scotland during some of those years.”
His father lowered his eyes. “Nay, son, it was not like that at all.”
Steve had always believed his father had never lied to him. Even with his behavior, he still believed it now.
“Tell me, laddie. Is your job always as much of a nutter as it was today?”
Steve chuckled softly. “Nah, it’s been kind of a slow week.”
“Funny, that’s what your partner said. Have you thought about getting out before it kills you?”
“He asks not so facetiously at all? Sure, I think about it. The way this country, and especially this city, are going…The world needs people like me to keep it in line. But doing so gets harder and harder every day.”
“You’ve become such a cynic, boyo.”
“I come by it honestly. Besides, growing up, you showed me how the world really is.”
“I couldn’t have been that bad. I at least wanted to put a positive spin on things.”
