thirteen

Lucas waited across the street, in a patch of darkness made even darker by the overhang of a burned-out sign from a business that closed down over a decade ago. With his faded black clothes and backpack he was pretty much invisible. Doing a “Casper the Ghost” as his friends would have said back in the day.

Blackmore came out of his store. Locked the door behind him. Pulled the heavy security gate across the windows and bolted them shut. Snapped the heavy lock into place. Shook the gate once, the old, rusty metal sounding like off-tone cymbals. Lucas watched the man check his watch, and then move on up the street, out of the Loin. Whether that fuck lived nearby or on the other side of the moon, Lucas knew he was going to follow him.

He watched Blackmore walk to the end of the block at Golden Gate and cut over to Van Ness. Shit, Lucas thought, if the guy was going to bus it, then it would become problematic. He quickly checked his pockets. Not enough change for a bus. Shit, didn’t matter anyway: this was San Francisco. He could scoop up onto the back of the bus through the rear doors. It’s done all the time.

To his luck, however, Blackmore only crossed Van Ness. No buses. Lucas smiled to himself as he traveled with a pack of herd animals. They gave him good cover, and a wide berth. No way that Blackmore would ever think he was being followed. Why should he? Lucas trailed behind Blackmore as the man walked along the street. It was a bit of a slog as he followed the man to Laguna and then left until he hit Birch Street. The street was only a block long, windows and windows of apartments staring down into the street. A quiet street to be sure. He’d have to be careful.

Lucas dumped off his backpack in the entryway of a neighboring apartment building. Pulled his ice pick. It was something he’d found in a dumpster months ago. Large size, not like what you’d see in a bar. Industrial strength, the handle wrapped in electrical tape. Helped with the grip.

Blackmore went up to the third building on the right. Lucas could see Blackmore dragging his keys from his pants pocket as he went to the door. That was when Lucas struck. He ran up, a blur of dirty wind, right at Blackmore who’d turned at the last moment, only then realizing what was going down.

Lucas shoved the point of the pick up underneath the man’s solar plexus and froze it there. Blackmore became a statue, the only sound the keys dropping from his hand. He began to shake with fear.

“Pick ’em up, shithead.” Lucas backed off enough to let the older man grab up his house keys. Blackmore had to try three times to pick up his keys. Held them out to Lucas, like a child that knows it’s done something bad. But Lucas shook his head, saying, “After you, shitface.”

“What do you want? I just run a pawnshop.”

“And run your mouth. Now open it. We’re going to go inside and have a chat. Then I’ll bury you in some nice, quiet place. Fair trade for some talk, right?”

Blackmore didn’t nod. Didn’t shake his head. Only slipped the key into the lock and led Lucas into the lobby. “Look,” Blackmore said at that point, “Why are you doing this? You pawn crap at my place. So what? I don’t understand what it is you want?”

“It’s about some fucker that’s been looking for me. Knew my real name. You understand that, right? Knows my real name. And it’s your fault, asshole.”

“It wasn’t me, I’m telling you,” Blackmore said with desperation in his voice. “Why do anything to me? I didn’t do anything, didn’t talk to anybody.”

Lucas shook his head. Grinned. “Oh yes you did. I know for a hard fact you talked to someone named Mallen, and you sent him off on the chase to find me.”

“Mallen? I don’t know any Mallen!”

Rain started to fall outside, the faint background noise filtering in through the glass.

“Yes you do,” Lucas said as he threatened Blackmore with the pick. “Yes you do.”

–––––

Shannon ran off into the night after dropping the bomb that Winstons Wong had been seen at Hendrix’s wagon right before the man was killed. Mallen went back to the truck, jumped inside, and dialed Gwen’s number. She picked up right away. “Saunders.”

“It’s Mallen.”

“Oh, my long lost has returned to me.”

He ignored the sarcasm. “I need some knowledge. Some knowledge about one of yours.”

“Mine? Who?”

“Wong. Winstons Wong.”

In that silent moment before she responded, he knew she had something. He knew she was debating on how much to give him, and he knew that he needed to figure her angle on this, and fast.

“What do you want to know about him for? He’s got a heavy rep, I can tell you that.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“I’ve heard, once or maybe twice, that he knows some pretty powerful people. Moonlights for them.”

“Uh huh. What else?”

“What else do you want to know?”

“Quit being so fucking cagey. You asked me in, and now you want to play coy? At this point? I don’t care. I can go my own way.”

“Woah, wait. Wait. What’s up? We’re supposed to be a team.”

“Team? Right. I need info. Wong is mixed up in Hendrix’s death.”

A pause, then: “How sure are you?”

“Eyewitness.”

“Shit … really?”

“Yup. And nope: you don’t get to know who. All you need to know is that someone has placed Wong outside of Hendrix’s rolling home not long before he was found dead.”

“Well … ” Another pause. “What do you want to know? If it’s bad, I’ll have to go to Internal Affairs. You know that, right? It’ll bring you into it. It’ll bring you back here.”

And that gave him pause. Shit … . And he remembered the nails. Flexed his right hand, staring at the dark scars there on the flanges between his middle, ring, and pinky. Thought of Chris. Of what they did to her. Of what Wong said to him with a smirk as he left him and Chris under the dome at the Palace of Fine Arts. “See you around,” Wong had grinned. Grinned like he had all the time in the fucking world.

“Then you have to go to IA,” Mallen said. “Fuck it. If this shitsack is wrong, than he’s wrong. I know IA is filled with assholes, but if Wong is in on something that involves killing civilians, fuck him. He needs to go down. That’s not what being a policeman is about.”

There was another silence. He waited, silently counting to ten. If he hit ten, he’d know she wouldn’t be of any help anymore. But it was on nine that she said, “Wong’s been linked recently to moving narcotics. Quietly, or well … it was supposed to be quiet. Word is he’s getting cocky. Due to his backing. Everyone would love for him to go away, or … .”

“Or what? Retire and live a happy, ex-cop life? Or … cash out completely.”

“Those are your words, Mallen. Not mine.”

“Yeah, they’re mine. But all this doesn’t explain his connection with Hendrix. I need you to access records. See if you can find some link between the two. I’ll do it from the street.”

“This isn’t getting us any closer to finding the Marston girl.”

“Hey, you said you thought Hendrix was involved, yeah? Well, now we have a connection between Hendrix and Wong. A cop. Hendrix was known to be a snitch, but then why kill him? The timing is weird, right?”

“Right,” she answered.

“So I need the latest on Wong. Who he’s been seen with on the street, that sort of thing.”

“Okay,” Gwen said. “You have anything else on the kidnapping? Any other leads?”

“Nothing right now. It all leads to Hendrix. You want your money back?”

“Well, I’d consider the package unpacked and used, sort of.”

“I’ll stop working with you, Gwen. But I won’t lie and say I’ll drop this.”

“What’s the deal, Mallen? I know you want to find the Marston girl, but all of sudden you’re like Clint Eastwood. What gives? It’s Wong, isn’t it? What’s up with you two?”

“Just an old joke about Jesus and three nails. But forget about that. Just get me what you can, and I’ll work my angle from here. See ya,” he hung up before she had any chance to say another word. Instantly dialed Oberon’s number. The detective picked up immediately.

“Kane,” the detective said.

“Should I be offended you haven’t put me in your contact list, Obie?”

“I would have done exactly that, but then it would remind me that I know you. You have the rent for the month, by the way? My mailbox is quite lonely without your check residing inside it.”

“Fuckin’ ouch, Obie. Did I interrupt another date?”

“No.” And Mallen couldn’t help but notice the tone of regret there. Decided to leave it alone. That was a conversation for over a drink, if even then. He’d known Oberon for so long but didn’t really know him. Figured he never would. And really, why should he expect that? Not everyone wants to be personal with every other person out there. He and Oberon had shared a lot of life and death moments. Maybe that was enough.

“Obie,” Mallen said. “About Hendrix. I found something out that I know will just make your ever-loving day, man.”

“About Hendrix? What is it, Mark?”

“Winstons Wong.”

There was a long silence, and Mallen knew he’d hit home. “Wong? What? What did you find out? It better be good and a hundred percent steel, Mark.”

“Well, he was seen outside Hendrix’s wagon, not long before the guy was murdered.”

Another silence. He could almost smell Oberon’s mind smoking like a train’s stack over this. “Mark,” Oberon said quietly, “You need to be sure about the answer to my next question. Are we on the same page with that?”

“Yeah, we are.”

“Who told you this? Who’s the witness.”

“Shannon Waters. Her and this other street dude named William Lucas hocked stolen stuff with Hendrix. Hendrix shows up a couple days later, flush with dough and junk. Won’t share, so Waters and Lucas follow. She swears she saw Wong parked nearby and then get out of his car and approach Hendrix’s wagon. They watched him knock on the door and the door opening. They figured no way to get shit now, right? Everyone on the street was starting to figure that Hendrix was informing for the cops. How the fuck else could he park his car there all the time?” Mallen lit up a cigarette. Blew smoke up at the sky then said, “Wong’s into it, Obie. I know it, and you know it.”

“Did you tell Detective Saunders this?”

“Had to, man. Had to give her something. She didn’t like it, any more than you do.”

“Yes,” came the reply, “but maybe for different reasons.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Oberon said reluctantly, “it was said they dated for a while.”

“Oh. Yeah?” His mind ran back over his conversation with Gwen. Her fucking Wong would’ve for sure made her reluctant.

Or … .

“You told me that Gwen was driving it hard. Wanting promotion, yeah?” he said to Oberon.

“Yes. But I can’t say that she’d go this far. She might … embellish a report to make herself look better, but that’s about it, Mark. This? This is murder.”

“I’m not saying she had anything to do with murder,” Mallen replied, “I’m just saying that she might get in with some bad people who are themselves shooting upward in the department.”

“But Wong is not one of those people. He’s being tolerated, but that’s all. Probably because he must have something on a lot of people. You know what I’m talking about, too.”

“Yeah, I do.” He thought hard for an angle. “So, what do I—” His call waiting signal cut in. Not a number he recognized. “Just a sec, Oberon. Be right back.” He switched lines. “Hello?”

“Mallen, it’s Gwen.”

“Been a long time.”

“We need to talk.”

Every fiber of his being tightened up. “About? Like I was reminded, just recently, I’m out looking for clues on the Marston’s girl’s abduction. I don’t know that I can come in on command.”

“I need to see you, Mallen.”

He figured she was about to lay on him that she’d been fucking Wong, but instead she told him, “I just heard that they found a man out at the beach. South of the park. Shot dead.”

“Okay. And? What does that have to do with us?”

“He had one of Jessie Marston’s toys in his coat. The … that mother of hers ID’d it.”

“Where are you?”

“On my way to the scene. I’ll wait off-site. You’ll find me. I’ll be where no one will notice, Ulloa Street.”

“Okay. Be there as soon as I can. Thirty minutes, tops.” He clicked back to Oberon. Filled the detective in on what had just happened.

“I don’t like it, Mark,” Oberon told him. “Things are beginning to be too coincidental.”

“I know. Well, I’m going out to see her. Just wanted to let you know … .” and here he added a smirk to his voice, “in case I don’t come back.”

“If you don’t come back, Mark,” Oberon replied, “I swear to always toast your memory.”

“That’s all, Obie? You’d just toast my memory?”

“Uh huh. I figure once a month is enough.” And with that the detective hung up.