CHAPTER TWENTY

 

Jack backed his Harley into his space in the alley beside Tommy Wong's. He flipped down the kickstand and removed his helmet before pulling his leg over the saddle.

He caught movement from the corner of his eye and looked up the stairs leading to the apartment. He wasn't taking clients and had even removed the sign from his door—Jack Slaughter, Private Investigations and Security. Had things gone to plan at his house, he wouldn't be here right now, so who was up there sitting in the shadows?

His heart kicked up a beat. Had Li’s thugs found out who he really was and where he lived? He didn’t think so. Whoever this was, they were much taller than Li’s crew.

Jack took off the cut and quickly folded it inside out; whoever this was didn’t need to know what he was doing or that he still possessed department property.

As he approached the stairs, the figure at the top stood up. Halo from the automatic light over the apartment door caught the man’s profile.

Jon Cutter.

Relief washed through him. "Been waiting long?"

"Not too long. I tried calling a few times, but it kept going to voice."

Inside the apartment, Jack set his helmet and cut on the side table then flipped on the overhead light. Cutter must have seen the cut when Jack pulled into the alley, as he looked between it and Jack with curiosity in his eyes.

"I was undercover and left my phone here."

“Haniford bring you in on a Sixers case?”

Jack shook his head. “Nah.”

“You still have the cut.” It wasn’t a question or accusation, just an observation.

“Yeah.”

Cutter followed Jack to the desk, dropping the subject. “What’s with all the boxes?”

"I decluttered." It wasn't a lie. "Thinking about repainting." That one was.

"Ever think about moving?"

"Sometimes.” Cutter’s questions echoed Ray’s. It was obvious the two men had talked. “I was going to order something brought up, or would you rather go down?" The smell of food, even Chinese, awakened the beast in Jack’s stomach, reminding him he hadn't eaten today.

"Yeah, sure. How do you feel about Italian? My treat."

Moments later, Jack and Cutter entered Capo’s Restaurant on Vallejo Street around the corner from the apartment. The exposed red brick walls, gently aged natural timber, vintage décor, and diamond tufted red leather booths screamed San Francisco Italian.

It wasn’t just the Detroit and Chicago-style pizza aromas assaulting Jack’s senses from the brick ovens in back making him salivate. Capo’s also specialized in traditional Italian dishes created with regional ingredients—calamari from Monterey, garlic from Gilroy, and artichokes from Castroville. The scent of garlic, tomatoes, and fresh pasta made Jack’s stomach tighten from hunger and his chest ache with memories of his mother’s cooking. And Leah’s own marinara.

They sat at the end of the bar closest to the door. The bartender slid a couple Italian Peroni beers toward Jack and Cutter and took their order before heading back down the bar. After a ceremonial clink, Jack took a long pull off his bottle before setting it on the counter. The icy cold liquid traced a path down his esophagus and into his empty stomach.

"Long day?" Cutter asked.

Jack nodded. "Long week."

"I didn't think private investigations involved much undercover work."

Jack chuffed to himself. Cutter hadn’t waited long to get to the point. "A lot of it is undercover because of the surveillance and stakeouts, but with this case, I was deep under. As you saw, I still have the department cut, so I used it."

Before Cutter could ask, Jack gave his friend the pared down version of what had been going on the last few days and how it tied into the dead man in his house. He left out the part where Haniford tore him a new asshole but did tell him about the interview with Armstrong and discovering what had happened to his family.

“Oh, man!” Cutter sat forward in his chair, focusing on Jack. “How do you feel now that you know what happened?”

Jack thought for a moment. He really didn’t know. Of course, he was gut-sick over what had happened to Zoë, but until he found Leah, he wouldn’t allow the pit of despair to open up and swallow him whole. Yet.

“I don’t know, but I haven’t told Ray. I’d appreciate you keeping him in the dark until I’m ready to tell him.”

"Goes without saying. It’s your story to tell," Cutter said. "What're you gonna do if things go sideways with this Li character?"

Jack had thought about that before making his decision to meet Li on his own, and the only thing he could come up with was, "It's all on me."

Cutter scowled. "Is there anything I can do to help? If you need to populate your ‘crew’, it'd give me the chance to pull out my old bobber. Been few enough of those days lately."

Cutter's '48 bobber, aka bob-job or cut-down, was an old panhead he'd stripped back to the bare minimum during restoration. Getting rid of excess weight, like fenders, fairings, saddlebags, and other superfluous accessory weight created a much faster bike without having to do expensive motor modifications. The bike had a matte black frame, and the gas tank and a reduced size rear fender were painted dark surf green with seafoam cream pinstripes. The fat tires had wide whitewalls, making them look like car tires. The bobber had a classic look right out of the forties but with the speed of the twenty-first century.

Cutter’s only lament was the bike wasn’t built for carrying his boards.

Jack lifted his bottle to Cutter with a, "Thanks. If it comes to that, I'll let you know. So far, I’ve only met with him once. If he needs proof of a larger organization, I'll definitely need asses in saddles."

Just then, the waitress brought over a thick Detroit-style pepperoni pizza—a traditional rectangle thick crust pan pizza loaded with extra pepperoni with well-browned cheesy edges. She set it down between them along with a couple plates topped with cutlery wrapped in cloth napkins.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked, looking between the men.

Jack tapped his bottle and Cutter said, “Another couple Peronis and we’re good. Thanks.”

Jack grabbed a corner of the pizza and dropped it onto his plate. He pulled off a piece of the crunchy edge and let the metallic taste of burnt mozzarella wash over his tongue.

A few minutes later, Jack reached for another slice. He glanced at Cutter. “Are you going to tell me why you really wanted to see me?”

Without looking up, Cutter replied, “No special reason. It’s just been a minute since we’ve shared some kaukau and talked story.”

His friend wasn’t wrong. “Sorry. The last few months have been crazy.”

Cutter then gave Jack a long side look. “You okay?”

Jack’s heart pumped hard twice before he put a smile on his face. “Sure. It’s all good.”

Between bites, Cutter said, “You were MIA there for a while.”

“You’ve been talking to Ray.”

“He called.”

Jack swallowed the last bite of pizza and pushed away his plate. “I needed some time. It’s been four years now—” He left the last hanging.

Cutter nodded. “I bet it’s not any easier now, knowing what happened to your family. I’m sorry.”

“I expect to find out what happened to Leah once I get through this thing with Li.”

“Then you can get on with your life.”

Jack quickly glanced at his friend. “Then I can get on.” By that he meant go back to the Sunset house with his Beretta. “Speaking of getting on, how are you getting on with finding records on Kyle Warren and Daniel Chin?”

Cutter shook his head. “There’s absolutely nothing in the system. I had someone run through stored hard copies from that time and there’s nothing there. Sorry, brah.”

“Maybe they’re in hiding like Rybak was, or Li had them disappeared.” Jack didn’t want to think about all the disappearances Li was responsible for.

At the end of the meal, the waitress cleared the bar in front of them then brought over a couple rich Italian espressos.