Capitol Punishment (An Art Jefferson Thriller Book 3) (17 page)

Art did the runner’s equivalent of slamming on the brakes as the familiar Chevy pulled around from his left and cut him off using felony stop procedures.

“Dammit, Frankie!” Art cursed his partner as she stepped from the driver’s side of the car. “You scared the shit out of me!”

“There was no answer at your place, so I figured you’d be doing some roadwork,” Frankie explained. “This couldn’t wait.”

Art bent over to catch his breath, robbed by the instant excitement and not the exertion. “What is it?”

“Jacobs got something on the gun Allen had.”

Art stood straight now. “What?”

“The test bullets he fired and sampled came from one of the three guns used in the Saint Anthony’s shooting.”

“What?” Art wondered, the word spoken slowly.

“It was one of the guns,” Frankie said. “Jacobs says he’s one hundred percent positive on the match.”

“Allen? Working with the AVO in that shooting?”

“That was my first reaction,” Frankie said. “If that’s true then the prosecutors were missing some big pieces of that case.”

“So was Thom,” Art added. Danbrook hadn’t reported any connection between the AVO and the Aryan Brotherhood.

“Maybe Barrish and his group were more careful than we thought,” Frankie suggested.

“The Brotherhood and Barrish?” Art asked, looking skyward as he caught his breath. “Hart never even hinted that Allen knew Barrish.” Chester Hart, an Aryan Brotherhood member serving time in Folsom State Prison, had been feeding the Bureau information on Freddy Allen in hopes of favorable consideration on outstanding charges. Little had been of use, and none of what he’d offered had even hinted at this development.

“Maybe it wasn’t an AB thing,” Frankie said. Behind her partner the porch lights of several houses were going on.

Freelancing. It was a possibility, but he would not have attached this new development to that theory in a million years. “Allen offering himself up to Barrish?”

“Or maybe he was recruited,” Frankie offered alternately.

“If Allen was in on Saint Anthony’s then that means he was hooked up with Barrish somehow,” Art observed. Both he and Frankie knew that, despite what the court said, John Barrish was as responsible for the Saint Anthony’s massacre as the never-identified triggermen. With the gun Allen had on him now, though, at least one identification, for what it was worth, seemed possible. As did one other thing. “Barrish could be mixed up in this.”

“But he was in detention until just a few days ago,” Frankie reminded her partner.

“That hasn’t stopped bigger creeps from doing bad things,” Art said. He leaned on the Chevy’s roof as the impromptu session of hashing the possibilities played out in the middle of the street. “But this won’t be easy to dig into.”

“Why not?”

“Barrish is fresh from having federal charges dropped against him,” Art explained. “All we have with this is a possible link between Allen and a crime that John Barrish was technically found innocent of.”

“In a pig’s eye,” Frankie said.

“Look, partner, you and I both know the man is guilty.” Danbrook’s recounting of the conversations with Barrish was enough to convince Art of that. If only his damn gun hadn’t jammed, Art thought, Thom might be alive and John Barrish would definitely be behind bars for good. “But without some legal connection to Saint Anthony’s this Allen link is phantom incrimination.”

“You’re being awful pessimistic,” Frankie commented.

“No, just realistic,” Art countered.

“So, what? We take this nowhere?”

Art’s face twisted in a grimace. “No, we take it. But we have to approach this as if Barrish is just a possible source of information—not a suspect. Otherwise Horner will be down on our asses for harassing Barrish quicker than either of us can spit.”

Malcolm Horner, the judge who had reluctantly dismissed charges against the leader of the AVO, would probably like to see him staked out on a hot day in the desert and left for the buzzards. But that was a desire, not the law, and Frankie knew from experience in the judge’s court that it didn’t matter if you were a racist or if you wore a badge—if you violated someone’s constitutional rights you were likely to feel his wrath. Barrish was cleared of a crime Frankie knew he was guilty of, and even insinuating that he was still being investigated for such would violate the constitutional guarantee against double jeopardy.

“Are we going to talk to him?” Frankie asked.

Art tapped the top of the car and climbed in, his partner following his lead. “As soon as I get out of these sweats and into something decent.” He motioned to the road, signaling his partner to head for his place. “And as soon as we can find him.”

“I heard he lost his house and just about everything else,” Frankie said.

“He has to be somewhere.”

“And how do we find him?”

“The same way we find every self-respecting criminal,” Art said. “Through his lawyer.”

SEVEN

Oil and Water

Chimps were not peaceful, cuddly little creatures, Toby thought as he watched the simians battle and fornicate in the Los Angeles Zoo enclosure they knew as home.

“You know what these little guys remind me of, Stan?”

“Don’t,” Stanley said, avoiding looking at his brother. “Dad doesn’t like that kind of talk.”

“I know, but he’s not here. Lighten up.” Toby ribbed his brother with an elbow. “Hey, maybe these little suckers are the guys we’re supposed to meet. Huh?”

Stanley turned away from the exhibit and leaned his back against the railing, watching the families and groups of friends stroll lazily by. A typical Sunday, the kind he had never known. “Toby, I think they’re here.”

Toby held his position, still watching the animals with amusement. “Turn around, Stan. Be cool.”

“There’s three of them,” Stanley said after turning back to the chimps. “One is hanging back.”

“Be cool,” Toby said, sensing with little difficulty the shake in his brother’s voice. “Don’t talk unless I tell you to.”

“All right.”
Gladly
.

Darian Brown walked without fear toward the two men who could only be there to see him.

“The banker,” Mustafa Ali observed as he walked with his leader. Thirty feet behind, standing near a popcorn vendor, Brother Roger was watching closely, noting the same thing. All three men had guns, but it was Roger’s job to be aware of any attempt by police or anyone else to accost them.
Bullets are better than bowing
.

“I’ll handle this,” Darian said. His .357 was within easy reach under his loose coat.

Toby leaned easily on the railing, his hands clasped as they drooped over the metal bar. Stanley was to his left, and in an instant there were two Africans assuming the same position as he to his right. “Nice day.”

Darian looked left at the one who spoke. He wore a baseball cap and dark glasses, as did the second one farther down. Simple measures to conceal their identity, but effective. All he could tell was that they were white, and that was enough. “You look different than when you dropped by our place.”

“It’s called shaving,” Toby said, looking right.

“And the little boy?” Darian asked.

“He’s with me,” Toby answered, still meeting the African’s unseen stare. “We’re here to do business.”

“Well, I’m here deciding whether I should trust you or kill you,” Darian said, seeing the second white boy finally look his way.

“And what’s your decision?” Toby asked without hesitation.

“We’re not cops,” Stanley said, earning himself a brief, slow look from Toby.

“Cops?” Darian chuckled, showing some teeth now. “Yeah. You two.”

“Look, you said you guys would be interested in something big,” Toby said with measured impatience. “As long as it was worth your while.”

“Big is good,” Darian quasi-agreed. “But why don’t you just do it yourself?”

“Let’s just say that one of our group draws attention real easily,” Toby answered. “We can supply the weapons and the plans, but we need the muscle.”

Darian let the smile soften to barely a grin. “Muscle, huh? Like these well-developed calf muscles of mine?”

Toby smiled fully. “Hey, why fight nature?”

The prick at least didn’t waver, Darian thought. “So why should we do this for you?”

“Not
for
...
with
,” Toby corrected. “Hey, we have one very big thing in common: we both reject the rule of our so-called government.”

“Without a doubt,” Darian agreed.

“We want to start hitting them hard,” Toby explained. “Doing big things.”

“Things?” Darian asked. “I didn’t know this was more than a one-shot deal.”

“Are you saying you won’t go for doing more?”

“That depends on what more is,” Darian answered. “ ‘Cause I don’t even know what you want us to do in the first place.”

Toby held back for a moment, knowing he couldn’t give the Africans everything at once. “Does killing a shitload of folks, mostly white ones, sound like anything you’d be interested in?”

This motherfucker was for real, Darian was beginning to think. “Define a shitload.”

“A couple thousand,” Toby clarified. “All at once.”

Darian considered the white boy’s proposal. He hardly knew anything about him or the group he supposedly belonged to. Probably one of those freedom-fighting, tax-protesting bunches. But what he was saying definitely had possibilities. Big ones. It might be just the way to get his group’s militant actions off to a thunderous start... if this all wasn’t just hot air.

“Maybe more than that,” Toby added as further incentive. “What’ll it be?”

Mustafa leaned in and whispered something to Darian, pulling back after a brief exchange. “If we do this thing for you, we want the credit.”

“That’s no problem with us,” Toby said. That would only move their plan along all the faster. “We’re interested in the end, not applause.”

“I need applause,” Darian said. “I like applause.”

“This’ll get ‘em for you,” Toby assured quite truthfully. “And after this first job?”

“After the first one we’ll talk,” Darian said.

“Fair enough.”

“When is this going to happen?” Darian asked.

“The day before Thanksgiving.”

Darian nodded. “I like it. And the details? Like the money?”

“Both on Friday,” Toby answered. “How do I reach you to set up a place and time?”

Darian hesitated just a moment, feeling Mustafa shift behind him. “Cannon’s Liquor on South Vermont. Call there and tell them you’re leaving a message for Brother D. Leave a number and I’ll call you back.”

Smart and safe, though it would mean waiting by a phone booth for a callback from the African. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Darian said. “I think we’ll be heading out now. Chains and cages get my blood pressure up. You can understand.”

“Oh, sure,” Toby answered the barb patronizingly. “But I kinda like watching the little monkeys, you know. Entertaining little fellas. Don’t you think?”

“Later,” Darian said with a smile, moving away from the exhibit and back toward the third member of their group.

“A couple thousand?” Mustafa said with disbelief. “Are they talking about some fucking bomb or something?”

“Dead is dead,” Darian said, Roger joining the group as they passed the popcorn vendor. “It doesn’t matter how whitey ends up that way.”

“He said most would be white,” Mustafa reminded his leader. “I don’t like killing brothers.”

“Some things are necessary,” Darian said.

“What about the money?” Roger asked. “Did you ask about the money?”

“Friday, Brother Roger,” Darian answered. “We discuss details then.”

“A couple fucking thousand,” Mustafa repeated, both enamored with and doubtful of the idea. “If this is for real, and we step up to this, we’re going to have to drop out of sight.”

“Some things are necessary,” Darian repeated. He would do just about anything to see thousands of dead white bodies piled high, and even more to have such an accomplishment associated with the NALF.

“Underground, man,” Roger said. “There’s only three of us.”

Darian understood Brother Roger’s concern. They had all studied various underground movements, the most successful of which had divided themselves into several self-contained “cells” of at least four people each. It was the concept of backwatching to prevent backstabbing. Two people together at all times. A minimum of two teams of two, each person responsible for working with and watching over his comrade. With such an arrangement suspicion became an ally. Your brother had to be your brother or he would end up dead.

“What about that Griggs kid?” Darian wondered and suggested simultaneously. “Did you check him out?”

“He’s for real,” Mustafa reported. “His sister was one of the kids killed at Saint Anthony’s.”

“No shit?”

“Not a whiff of it, Brother Darian,” Mustafa assured him.

“Well, Brother Moises might just be willing enough to join us for this ride,” Darian said.

“He’s pretty damn raw for what those folks are suggesting,” Mustafa observed.

“Have you ever killed a thousand white folks?” Darian asked.

“In my dreams,” Mustafa answered proudly.

“I thought not,” Darian commented. None of them had, but all were willing to. Griggs, too, he believed. Something in the boy’s eyes and on his face convinced him of that. The same thing Darian saw each and every morning in the mirror. “I have a good feeling about him. And about this.”

“Power, Brother Darian,” Mustafa said.

“Power,” Roger added.

*  *  *

“John, Mr. Mankowitz is here,” Louise Barrish told her husband as she poked her head into the bedroom.

The head of the Barrish family was resting on the bed, his head propped high against pillows and the book he had just purchased open before him. He looked over the book to his wife. “What?”

“He’s here,” she repeated. “In the living room, and he has some people with him.”

What is he doing here?
John closed the book and placed it facedown on the nightstand. “Who’s with him?”

Louise looked sheepishly at the ground, then back to her husband. “A man and a woman.”