chapter twenty-two

black power airlines

My phone rang at four in the morning, saving me from another round of mob torture from Bruno and his pliers.

A deep voice said, “Scored a hit with your tip from The Voice. Meet me outside in twenty. It’ll be dawn by the time we get there. Dress in green and brown. Camouflage gear even better, if you got.” The line went dead in my hand by the time my fuzzy brain realized it was Baker.

When I was a kid my parents would take me fishing. Back then, I owned a cheap knife in a camouflage sheath that I kept in my tackle box, both long gone. That made up my entire camouflage period. I dressed in the dark quickly, putting on khaki-colored pants, an old green-and-brown checkerboard shirt, and tennis shoes. I thought of Lonnie, LaKeesha, Skinny, and all the others I’d come to care about, hoping Dan Quinn would start the dominoes falling all the way to the Boy King himself.

Baker’s sleek black Fleetwood appeared silently out of the thick pre-dawn fog like a drone gliding through clouds. I climbed inside.

“Knew you were the only one who could get The Voice to deliver. Good job, Cool Breeze.” He seemed alert and rested, like now was midday for him.

“You said we’ll be there by dawn. How, by helicopter?”

He grinned and placed a bubble light on the roof of his Fleetwood. “Black power, my man. Got modifications under the hood and StreetBlaze 100 octane with ethanol. Buckle up and enjoy the ride.”

We had already left my subdivision in the rear view. “It must be a hundred miles from here—”

“More like one twenty from your door,” he said, a toothpick resting in the corner of his mouth.

My look remained skeptical.

“Have I ever lied to you?”

I held the look on him.

“About the big stuff, I mean.” He read the doubting look on my face and said, “I may have floated some white lies about the little brother being suicidal to get you here, but you know how big this is. Plus you got your stones back, you can’t put a price on those babies. I figure we even.”

We were already on the I-270 south ramp racing toward I-55 South. The few cars and trucks on the lonely fog covered interstate ahead seemed to be standing still as we flew past. At times Baker had to steer adroitly to avoid ramming slower vehicles as they materialized like icebergs out of the ground fog.

In my own foggy haste to get ready I’d forgotten something. “I have to pee.”

He put on his best formal white person voice, saying, “You should have thought about that before we left the house, son.” In the dark he tossed something in my lap. “Here, put a tip in the pee jar. Miss and you’re cleanin’ it up.”

By the light of the dashboard I made out an old Mason jar. “You’re kidding.”

“This black night train ain’t stopping till we reach Deliverance country, Breezy.”

I wondered if he ever cleaned the jar, and whether I could hold it until we arrived. The Caddy hit a dip in the road and that answered my question. I hesitated, unscrewed the top, and unzipped.

As if reading my mind he said, “I wash it out regular—drink my Gatorade and Power Shakes out of it at lunch.” His deep voice softly chuckled in the dark.

“You almost a real, badass private dick now, Cool Breeze.”

After I finished, we talked about the hushed conversation I’d overheard in the men’s room between Maynard and Fallon. It seemed so long ago it felt like a dream.

“With what we’ve learned, Maynard hatched the plan to steal the outstanding counterfeit money when I overheard them in the john at City Hall. If they were high quality—”

“Which they are,” Baker interjected.

“I think Maynard was referring to Lonnie when he said, ‘We already cut off the head.’ He knew Lonnie was the talent behind the operation and Earl his mentor. Plus, they didn’t have the money then, so they created the illusion that the lion’s share had already been recovered.”

Baker faced me, nodding agreement, as the blue light from the dashboard illuminated his skull from below. The serpentine scar on his left side seemed to slither toward me from what appeared to be a sunken eye socket caused by the eerie light from below.

“Fallon bought into the idea and spoke of containment—”

“Politico-criminal speak for damage control,” he interjected.

“And that includes a multitude of crimes, false press reports.…”

“Falsely linkin’ the little brother and the others to guns, drugs, the robbery, and shootin’ the pregnant guard—”

“Bugging privileged conversations,” I added.

“Brutalizin’ and puttin’ a contract out on the little brother to save time on a trial.”

“And the coup de grace, altering the police report of the arrest.”

“Replacin’ Quinn on the report with heavy hitters a bad sign. We pissin’ up the good ole boys’ rope,” he said.

“And we still don't know what ‘the Big Top’ means,” I said.

I sat in silence, staring at the murky road ahead, thinking of the possibilities. We’d already been burning up Highway 67 for some time, the speedometer touching one twenty, the tachometer not close to red-line. “What do you think we’ll find when we get there?”

His toothpick bobbed and he flicked his brights once as a doe in a strand of trees near the highway took a first tentative step to cross the road. Luckily, she thought better of it until we passed. He exhaled. “Not sure. I put out feelers, called in favors, and spread his photo around the area. A smart cop be hard to find when he decide to go underground. Guess we about to find out how smart he is. My birdies tell me he grew a beard since he went into the wind.”

“I hope he’s underground by choice,” I said, settling back to rest my eyes.

Thirty minutes later, a series of kidney-busting bumps and stomach-churning dips jarred me awake, as we hurtled over winding, rock-strewn back roads, gravel pinging against the undercarriage like hailstones.

He flicked off the headlights and slowed the car to a crawl before cresting a small rise. As dawn’s first light broke the eastern sky to our left, he pulled off road and coasted to a silent stop under a thick grove of elms and maples.

“Right on time, Sleepin’ Beauty. Thanks for choosing Black Power Airlines. Return your seats and tray tables to their upright positions or your ass be walkin’ back,” he announced as he finished a Power Bar, crumbs clinging to his bushy Fu Manchu. “You want?” he said, offering me one.

“I’m stuffed. I just finished eggs Benedict and French toast before you called.”

He laughed.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. “You drove so fast I feel like we just traveled back in time.”

“We did. Looks like 1930 here in Crackerville, Missouri. Back when men were men and sheep were nervous.” He pulled the trunk release as his face turned serious. “Let’s get ready.”

He was all business as he donned a Kevlar vest and tossed one to me. He checked a .9 mm Glock and tucked it in his belt. An ankle holster and .22 went on next and he placed a hunting blade in the narrow of his back.

“Ever shoot at a person before?”

“Went duck and pheasant hunting with my dad when I was a teenager. That count?”

He made a face. “Here,” he said, tossing me a heavy pair of binoculars. “You be our eyes. Stay behind me at all times. Don’t do anything stupid. When we start walkin’, don’t make a sound and step in my footsteps. Follow my lead and directions, always.”

In the distance a rooster crowed.

“We don’t know what we walkin’ into. We do know he don’t want to be found. Man feel trapped, he defend himself just like an animal. I’m breakin’ all the rules with you being here. You swear to do exactly what I tell you, no questions asked?”

I nodded. The rooster crowed a second time. I noticed Baker dressed in his trademark black outfit and my nerves got the better of me. “Why did I have to wear brown and green?”

“Because I be a black Ninja warrior and look damn good in black. Take some deep breaths, you’ll be fine long as you do what I say.”

He completed his arsenal by grabbing a sawed-off shotgun. “Let’s roll,” he said, striding up the rise.

Just me and us chickens, I thought.

The uppermost tip of the sun peaked over the eastern horizon, turning the clouds crimson as we began to crawl on our bellies to the crest of the hill. Ahead of us I saw the outline of a small wooden building, little more than a camping shack, with several large boulders on the sloping hillside.

“Tell me what you see.”

I squinted through the binocs I carried around my neck, focusing them. “The ground slopes down about two hundred yards to a small wooden yellow A-frame. The slope levels out past the shack for about ten yards to the Black River. The side nearest the river sits on tall stilts, the side closer to us rests on shorter timber, and there’s open space beneath the shack. The entrance includes a tiny front porch that looks ready to fall down. The roof is warped with moss-covered shingles. A small window AC unit is in the front window, left of the entrance. That must be the bedroom.”

“Good and thorough, you must be a little OCD. Lemme scan the grounds.”

After some time he handed the binocs back. “We goin’ in. Slow. Keep me between you and the cabin at all times. I do this,” he said, raising his right arm from the elbow perpendicular to the ground, “that means stop immediately. You cool? Take some deep breaths.”

I nodded, cool as that crowing rooster.

“I almost forgot,” he said, handing me something small. “Spare car key. Hold on to it. Somethin’ happens to me, hightail it outta here and call 911. There’s a loaded .38 in the glove box. Safety’s off. There's one in the chamber. Just point, shoot to kill.”

“That’s comforting, thanks.” If I wasn’t anxious before, I was now.

We started silently down the hill, the going very slow, keeping off the gravel. Fifty feet from the porch, his right hand shot up and I nearly walked into him. He pointed out a trip wire running between two boulders. We gingerly stepped over it and forged ahead, even slower, like sitting ducks out in the open. My mind screamed for Baker to hurry.

He located another wire at the base of the dilapidated stairs as we finally stood pressed up against the wall under the bedroom window. He crab-walked into the space below the cabin and located a trap door. He pulled on it gently but it didn’t budge. Baker returned and motioned that we’d move in quickly, hoping to surprise and disarm a sleeping Dan Quinn.

The window above us had been left open to let in the cool night air. Suddenly I heard movement inside and tugged hard on Baker’s tight black shirt just before he stepped onto the second stair. Floorboards creaked inside and we heard a man urinating and farting. More heavy, slow movements followed until we heard a plate and silverware tossed into what sounded like a sink. A belch broke the short silence. The sun had risen from the eastern sky but visibility remained poor due to ground fog rolling off the river. Next we heard running water and the sound of a shower curtain being drawn.

Baker whispered, “We’re goin’ in. Don’t assume he’s in the shower. He could have made us. Could be a trick. I clear each room first. Stay behind me and make sure to step over the trip wire.”

As soon as his weight landed on the second stair, it creaked loudly, as did several others on our way up. The screen door was latched from the inside, but he quickly cut the mesh with his knife, reached in, and flipped the eye-hook. He swept the tiny front room with his shotgun then cleared the kitchen, with me his shadow. A steaming cup of coffee and a lit cigarette sat wedged in the groove of a plastic ashtray on the small rustic wooden kitchen table. Outside the rooster crowed a third time. He quickly swept the cramped bedroom and breathed a little easier, but just for a moment. The lone person inside was in the shower, and now whistling. He motioned for me to back away as he crept forward.

Raising the shotgun, he flung the curtain open and shouted, “Freeze, Quinn!”

A short pudgy naked man with soap in what was left of his white hair raised his arms in a defensive posture. Shaking and trapped, he pleaded, “At least let me get dressed. Then make it quick, one in the head.”

He kept the shotgun trained on Quinn. “Shit, if I was here to kill you, Irish, you already be dead.”

“Can I dry off and get dressed then?”

“Where’s your firepower, Quinn?”

“I haven’t told a soul, I swear. Tell them I’m keeping my part of the deal.”

He aimed the shotgun at Quinn’s balls, which he cupped with trembling pink hands. “The piece, Dan. I see it ain’t in the shower. You gotta have one nearby.”

“It’s in the kitchen,” he said too quickly. “Can I at least get my bath towel?”

“You’re lyin’ to me, Quinn,” Baker said in a sing-song voice, grinning.

I saw the towel behind me on a small bed cluttered with piles of clothes and went to it. Underneath it was a .357 Magnum.

“Who’s that guy?” Quinn said, watching me pick up the gun.

“Another friend who wants to see you stay alive.”

“And talking,” I added, handing Baker the Magnum.

Quinn was so red he looked on the verge of a heart attack. “Well, friends, how about I get dressed now?”

“You not gonna lie to me twice, Irish. Where’s the rest? All of it.”

He sighed. “There’s a deer rifle, shotgun, and night-vision goggles under the bed and a .38 in the drawer to the right of the sink.”

Baker nodded to me. I found exactly what Quinn said I would.

“I’m freezing wet here, friend,” saying the last word sarcastically.

“I see by your shrinkage, Irish.” Baker glanced at the rumpled clothes on the bed and told me, “Shake out the towel, that pair of tighty-whities and the red flannel shirt. They free of weapons, toss them to him. That all he gets for now.”

I did so. Quinn quickly and self-consciously dried off and dressed in what clothes Baker allowed.

“Are pants and shoes too much to ask for?” he said.

“Don’ want you gettin’ any ideas ’bout makin’ a run for it.”

“Okay,” Quinn said, “You still think I’m holding back a weapon from you?”

“I would,” Baker answered immediately. “Now we gonna walk into that raggedy ass kitchen and you gonna answer some questions.”

I pulled up three wobbly pine chairs.

“We gonna sit and have our morning coffee like civilized folk,” Baker said, pouring himself a cup. “Good to find you above ground, Irish,” Baker said, the shotgun across his lap, hand on the trigger guard.

Partially clothed and still alive, Quinn seemed to draw on new found courage and said, “Who’s this guy again?”

“I’m Dr. Mitchell Adams, social worker in private practice. I met regularly with Lonnie Washington in jail before he was murdered.”

He stared at me hard. “You got one less client. I wish I'd never stumbled into that damn shop. Forget about him. Go back to your practice and thank your lucky stars you can.”

Baker grimaced when he tasted the coffee and threw cup and all into the sink. “Who you think sent us to off you?”

Quinn resumed squirming. “Look, I’m glad I was wrong about you. No offense, but if you found me, they can too. I gotta get outta here. Now.”

“That’s cool, Irish. We let you go, after you tell us everything you know about the bust, why you abandoned your job, and what got you holed up in Hooterville with an arsenal of weapons and trip wires.”

He shook his head, the wattle under his chin jiggling, his face pink as the morning sky had been. “How do you boys know you weren’t followed?”

“Look,” I said, “the sooner you talk to us, the quicker you’re out of here. Were you the lone cop who busted Lonnie Washington at Brother-Hood Printers?”

He hesitated, then finally nodded his head.

“Is that a yes?” I said, sterner this time.

“Yes, yes. I got a tip from some men on the street, looked like tweakers. I thought it was bogus, sounded like one of them had a beef with an employee. There were no prior incidents or calls about the business or owner. Three black males were working the main floor when I walked in. They seemed decent enough, but I could tell my presence had them spooked. They were hiding something.” He turned to Baker and said, “You been a cop long as I have, you get a sixth sense for this or you get dead.”

“You were the only officer at the scene,” Baker said.

“Isn’t that what ‘lone cop’ means, friend?”

“Then what,” I said.

He turned back to me. “I heard a noise in the basement and asked one of the men to walk with me to the lower level. Soon as my back was turned, they scattered like church mice, even the old owner with his oxygen tank. I drew my weapon and went downstairs, I found Washington preparing to burn something in a drum. He did not obey my command to stop, but his Bic wouldn’t light by the time I reached him. I cuffed him to the radiator and called for backup. He didn’t resist but didn’t answer my questions, either. I emptied the contents of the drum on a table and found two curled sheets of hundred-dollar bills.”

That matches Lonnie’s account.

“Who came as backup?” I said.

“Carter, Malvern, and Downey. I figured, no big deal, I collared a small-time counterfeiter before his crappy product hit the street. It happens that way seventy percent of the time. I wrote my report, but before my shift ended I got a call telling me not to bother, this was my lucky day, that I should consider myself retired a year early with full pension and benefits effective immediately. I was to turn in my gun and badge and encouraged to spend the rest of my days fishing and hunting. I thought it was a joke, my buddies know I’ve been counting down the days to retirement. I checked with HR and found out it was legit.”

“Who told you this?” I said.

“I’m getting to that. Let me tell it my way, dammit. Two things happened—one made me curious and the other scared the hell out of me. I tried to turn in the report on the final arrest of my career but the desk refused it, saying the other officers had already submitted reports. Then I watched the evening news and heard almost all of it had been recovered. I knew I was up shit creek then—”

“Why?” we both asked at the same time.

“I searched that building from top to bottom and there was no money in it, other than small bills in the cash register and the two counterfeit sheets downstairs. Also, the chief and his second-in-command were never there.”

“Did you find guns at the scene?” I asked.

“Not a one.”

“Drugs?”

“No.”

“Who called you?”

He didn't answer.

“We will protect you if you testify,” Baker interjected. “I can get the Secret Service—”

He shook his head. “I think they got to one of them. You don’t know who to trust any more than I do. This isn’t just my life; he made threats to my ex-wife. I know most guys hate their exes. The divorce was my fault; I want her back.”

“Who called you? Who are the players? Tell us and that man will mobilize an army to keep you safe,” I said, pointing to Baker.

Quinn sat slumped, staring beyond his spare tire, picking at his patchy beard with chewed fingernails.

Baker and I made eye contact. He looked optimistic.

“I don’t know you,” Quinn said before pointing to Baker, “but I know about him.”

“What you think you know, Irish?”

“You’re a homicide dick with a good conviction record. You’re old school, but not my school. You also aren’t above bending or breaking the rules to get what you want.”

“That something else we got in common, Irish.”

He considered that for some time. “I want immunity from prosecution. I want new identities and two safe houses for me and my ex.” He hesitated. “She can’t stand the sight of me right now. I want details about the deep cover, and I want it in writing. Give us immediate protection and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

“One safe house, Irish. Two costs too much and is harder to defend. It’s either hide out against the forces huntin’ you or take your chances under the same roof with the ex.”

He thought about it for a long time. “Okay, one house.”

“You’ll testify?”

“I’ll testify.”

“You got a deal,” Baker said. “I’ll put it in motion.” He pulled out his cell.

We have our witness. At last we were going to hear the names Maynard and Fallon, the police chief, and others. I leaned forward and asked, “Who are the players, Officer Quinn?”

He leaned back and when he opened his mouth a spray of warm liquid hit my face, stinging my eyes. Glass chunks rained down on the wooden planking while Quinn shook and twitched in his chair, falling face first in a heap in front of me. Something crashed through a second window and exploded at the base of the wall near Baker, hurtling him head first into the iron stove and setting the drapes ablaze. I collapsed to the floor, stunned and disoriented, my ears ringing from the blast. The flash fire turned the wood cabin into a tinderbox; a solid wall of flames blocked our exit. Baker lay motionless as the cabin filled with the stench of gasoline smoke, choking us both. Lungs burning, I dragged him into the bedroom while another concussive device rocked the kitchen floor. The flames followed us into the tiny bedroom, licking at our heels. I crawled to the dresser and tried to slide it with all my strength, but its feet were stuck in the uneven floorboards. I climbed to my knees, the dense black smoke engulfing me, stinging my eyes as I fumbled blindly for the dresser. I hit it hard with my chin and nearly knocked myself out. Flames danced as they devoured the sheets, clothes, and the old mattress behind us, spreading ever closer. Consuming everything, the hungry beast roared and raged, licking at my feet, ready to devour us. I fumbled for the top edge of the dresser and pushed it over. I tugged on the weathered brass latch to the trap door, but it was frozen shut. Our only hope gone! I groped for Baker’s knife and pried under the latch with its tip. Pain shot up my ankle and I screamed as I popped the latch free from the trap door. I pulled a dazed Baker through the square opening by the collar of his leather jacket. My pants caught fire as I crawled out and landed on top of him.

I lay there panting and coughing as Baker slowly began to come around, both of us taking in better air. Red embers slowly dropped through the spaces of the floorboards above us. It felt like we’d landed on the grate of a giant barbecue pit. We had to make a run for the woods near the river.

“We gotta go back and get him,” I shouted over the roar of the inferno.

Baker finished a coughing jag. “He was dead before he hit the floor. Took two rounds from a rifle with a silencer. One in the neck, one in the head.” He pulled at my collar and said, “The shooter’s still out there. We can’t stay here.”

“We reach the woods by the river, maybe we can lose him there. The smoke’ll give us some cover. You good to run?” I asked.

He nodded.

We crab-walked out from under the fiery shack and ran together. I expected to feel a bullet in my back and, sure enough, I felt searing pain. We kept running until we made it into the woods and caught our breath behind cover within view of the cabin. I went to my knees, the pain worsening, terrified I’d been badly wounded when Baker spun me around, hunting knife in hand, and dug a large smoldering ember from the back of my shirt. It must have landed on my back during our escape. We watched the cabin collapse to the ground and heard a third explosion. Quinn’s propane barbecue tank exploded, twisting and dovetailing in the air like a missile. It landed in the shallow waters of the Black River, where it rotated slowly like a smoking dreidel.

Baker’s eyebrows had been singed off in the fire. He had a head laceration and a large ugly knot on the right side of his skull.

Once he regained his wind he said, “We circle back through these woods and see if we can come up behind these sons of bitches. We no match for a high-powered rifle.”

We trudged through a moderately dense thicket, making as little noise as we could, but still making plenty. We had to hump two miles until we exited the woods not far from Baker’s Fleetwood, which appeared undisturbed. He grabbed the spare gun in the glove compartment and handed it to me as we retraced our pre-dawn steps. Over the crest of the hill a small number of people stood gawking, drawn by the explosions, near the burning pile of wood and twisted metal that used to be Quinn’s cabin.

They looked to be fellow campers and fishermen.

“Did anyone see a car or SUV speed away from here, or anything else suspicious, just before the fire?” I asked the small gathering.

A skinny man in a Bass Pro Shop baseball cap turned to us and shook his head. “We called the local fire department. They’re all volunteer, so it’ll be awhile. Hope that wasn’t your cabin.” He looked at us closer and added, “If you boys were in there, you’re lucky to be alive.”

My thoughts returned to Quinn.

“Time to boogie,” Baker said.

“What about Quinn?”

“He still dead. You drive. I'm seein’ two of everything.”

“You probably have a concussion. You need a neurologic workup.”

“No, but I could use a Red Bull. Take me back to the ’hood. I’ll show you where to drop me off.”

“What about your shotgun and fingerprints? They’re in the wreckage.”

“It ain’t registered, but my prints are. That fire was so hot, with all that soot and gas accelerant, the chances are slim any prints remain in that rubble. A rifle killed Irish, not shotgun pellets.”

Before leaving, he closely inspected under the car and hood for anything out of the ordinary—a bomb, tracking device, tampered brake lines and the like—and pronounced it clean.

I produced a Dictaphone from my pocket and listened to the conversation I’d taped with Quinn. Someone high up the police food chain had told Quinn he was officially retired but we never heard who made the threats, oblique or direct, to his ex-wife. We knew Malvern, Carter, Downey, the Police Chief, and assistant chief Rhymes were involved on some level, but we still had no proof.

Baker slumped in the passenger seat. The dazed look returned to his face as he noticed the recorder. “Thanks for havin’ my six, Cool Breeze. You still think quick on your feet, like last year. I won’t forget it.”

I made sure Baker didn’t fall asleep on our return to St. Louis and dropped him and the Fleetwood off where he wanted. He’d be out of commission, and I told him to see a doctor, knowing that would fall on deaf ears. By then it was noon and I took a cab home.

After a long, cold shower and treating the burn on my back as best I could, I wolfed down lunch with four aspirin. I wanted to climb into bed, but our informant was dead and we had a small window to identify the missing money before it vanished forever.

I’d never seen a person die in front of me before, much less have their blood and brain matter speckle my face. I scrubbed myself red in the shower; the image of Quinn falling forward replaying in my mind. Baker and I almost suffered a worse death. I made a mental note to seek out Quinn’s ex after this was over and tell her his final thoughts were of her. I hoped Lonnie’s vision of heaven was right, so Quinn would eventually be reunited with his ex.

I gathered Maynard’s crumpled schedule, bottles of water, and my pee jar. I had to find the bags.