Dangerous Times (2 page)

Moving between a pair of partitions, there
was an unmade bed. And all over the floor, piles of books and
magazines. The kitchen area came next, its sink full of dirty
dishes, the countertop crowded with empty Coke cans; the stove and
refrigerator covered in grease.

Charlie stopped and said, “Want anything to
eat, Frankie; drink, huh?”

“No, that’s okay, I had something on the way
over.” Frank didn’t want any of his garbage. And for Christ sake,
he wished he would stop calling him Frankie. But then Frank was
calling him Charlie, so what difference did it make. None, Frank
answered himself. He just wanted to get this over with and get the
hell out of here.

The only sign of money so far was the next
area. It contained an entertainment center: big-screen TV, an array
of recorders, and a sound system with 6-foot speakers.

Frank followed him between the last of the
partitions, into what looked like a room at the Pentagon. A swivel
chair sat inside a huge U-shaped conference table. The table
supported a ton of computers and office equipment.

Charlie stood at the table’s opening and
said, “Nice, huh?”

“Very nice,” Frank had to agree.

“All right, Frankie,” spoke the nervous
wreck, rocking in his soiled tennis shoes. “You got the money?”

Frank reached under his camelhair coat,
pulled a wad of hundreds out and handed it over. Charlie stuffed it
into his ink-stained shirt pocket.

“Think I’m going to count it? Not me,
Frankie. Anybody tries to cheat me, where they going to go next
time they need their info?” He waited for an answer.

Frank didn’t have one, so he gave him a
shrug.

“Hey, man,” Charlie said, “I’m my own boss
and got what nobody else’s got. What I got—what do you call
it—access, that’s what I got. Without access, you get nowhere in
life, know what I mean?”

“That’s good, Charlie, I like that; yeah,
access.”

Sure Charlie, whatever you say.

“And by the way, Frankie, I don’t think I
mentioned this on the phone. If I can’t supply what you need, you
get half your money back.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Frank smiled, thinking
this was the only important thing Charlie had said so far.

“Jeez, Frankie, you got a killer smile. Just
fan-tastic!”

Frank lost the smile as Charlie turned from
him, the skinny nut doing a mild sort of dance through the jaws of
the U-shaped table. Charlie plopped down into the swivel chair.
“Hey, man,” he pointed, “right over there—have some. Keep you going
‘til you get back to L.A.” and he rolled in his chair from computer
to computer, punching at their keys.

Frank stepped through the table’s opening. A
pane of glass lay flat next to a keyboard. On it was a mound of
brownish crystal and a straw. No razor blade, Frank thought,
guessing Charlie didn’t want to waste time making lines.

“No, that’s okay,” Frank said, brushing back
his blond hair. “Thanks, anyway,” he added politely, hoping
Charlie’s brain wouldn’t blow before they were finished.

Frank left the table area and went to an old
stuffed chair. It was backed against a canvas partition, its
cushion spotted with cracker crumbs. Frank pulled the Oakland
Tribune from his satchel and used it to brush clean the burgundy
material. He sat and put the satchel on the floor alongside
him.

Though comfortable in his camelhair coat he
realized there wasn’t any heat on, figuring Charlie was too cheap
to pay for it. Or maybe he didn’t need any heat, running full
throttle on his own steam.

Funny thing, Frank mused. Maybe Charlie’s
temperature tolerance wasn’t that different from his own. Frank
didn’t mind winter weather, as long it was somewhere above 45
degrees. Hell’s fire, he kidded himself, that’s what kept him
warm.

The Oakland paper in his lap, Frank had a
view of Charlie at work, still wheeling his chair from computer to
computer. Frank hearing Charlie going on about the important people
he had met and dealt with.

Christ sake, Frank thought; King of the
Talkers.

Chapter
3

At the same time, down in the harbor city of
San Pedro, Ben Hicks was in a bad mood. Damn job was sucking the
life out of him. “Get through tomorrow,” he muttered; have the
weekend for himself. Pulling up to a red light he came to a stop
alongside a shabby bar. San Pedro Palace its sign blinked in the
night.

Gang Castle was more like it, Hicks smirked.
Thinking he’d like to go in there and take on every one’a them
boneheads, give ’em a lesson they’d never forget.

Hicks wouldn’t have needed a weapon. At
forty-two he was at the peak of his strength. Nobody messed with
Hicks. Six-foot-four with a tight thick body and a fist that could
crack a skull open.

Forget the boneheads, he told himself as the
light turned green. Driving on Gaffey he looked through the tinted
strip at the top of the windshield. Full moon he saw, poking in and
out of the clouds. January, he thought. Maybe get a thunderstorm,
he hoped. That’d keep the boneheads off the streets.

Nearing a convenience store Hicks remembered
his empty refrigerator. Empty house. Empty bed.

He turned into the lot and parked at the far
end, in the shadows alongside the alley. His eyes fell to the CD
case on the passenger seat. Maybe sit awhile and listen to
something. CDs of long out-of-print vinyl, he thought. Appreciation
for the old stuff, the only thing his father had left him.

Good ’nough, Hicks had to admit.

He stared at his hands on the wheel, his
skin blacker than hers. Celia…hadn’t felt her cocoa smooth skin in
what seemed a lifetime. Up and left him. Couldn’t take his anger
anymore.

Damn, he had every right to be angry. “Give
yourself up to Jesus,” she used to say. “Let Him in and receive the
comfort.”

Yeah, right. That would’a brought their son
back from the grave. Hell with her an’ all that bullshit. Sure
’nough, she suffered too but had to hide it, like pretending
Jefferson had never lived at all. Celia, pampered college girl,
come from money.

Hicks flashed back to his childhood, growing
up in Los Angeles on the streets of South Central. His father had
been a musician. And a drug addict. If it hadn’t been for Hicks’
mother, Hicks himself would have been buried by now.

He heard the rumbling of a broken muffler.
Headlights swept over the hood of his car. He looked out the window
and saw an old Honda creep across the store’s lot.

Get in there, Hicks told himself. Buy some
food, go home and have something to eat. Have a drink and fill his
house with music. Nobody there anymore to tell him to turn it
down.

About to get out he saw that the Honda had
stopped close to the store’s entrance. Hicks sat and watched its
headlights dim. A black kid got out, leaving his car rumbling at an
idle.

“Some kid,” Hicks said to no one. In his
late teens and tough-looking. Big and broad-shouldered, in a white
T-shirt and leather vest. Funny-looking pants. Ratty tennis
shoes.

What’s he gonna do, Hicks asked himself, rob
the place? Cut the shit, he thought, catching himself thinking like
a white man, every black up to no good. Kid was a kid, near the
same age and build as Hicks’ son would’ve been. Jefferson would be
nineteen, if he weren’t gone. Bought it because of the scum he hung
out with. Damn, thought he was so smart.

Yeah, right. Smart enough to get himself
killed in a gang war.

Hell no, it hadn’t been Hicks’ fault. Celia
giving their boy free rein, calling Jefferson her Angel-baby. Oh
man, if she’d only been like Hicks’ mother. Slap his head off, he
disobeyed. But not Celia. Didn’t want to hurt her Angel-baby. Hicks
unable to be there, working long hours.

Was Celia dumb or what?

Just as dumb as the kid who left his car
running, asking for the piece’a junk to get stolen. Or maybe he
couldn’t shut it off because of a starter problem, Hicks was
willing to give him. Whatever…Hicks wondering now where the tough
teen would be in twenty years. Prison, he guessed, along with half
the other blacks in this country. Most of ‘em in hot water because
of money trouble, is the way Hicks saw it.

But then his own family had been poor and
he’d grown up on the straight and narrow. Up until four years ago.
Right after Jefferson had been killed, that’s when Hicks saw
everything the way it really was. Motherfucking world. And then to
make it worse, Celia leaving him.

So he’d done some bad things over the past
four years. Who hasn’t? Just like everybody else, gotta do what you
gotta do. It’s right there in the rules. You’re supposed to take
the other guy’s money away from him. But don’t use brute force. Do
that an’ you go directly to jail.

None of that mattered right now. What Hicks
needed was to turn his life around. Get the hell out of San Pedro.
Sure ’nough, he thought, that’s what he needed. He needed
change.

But knowing what to do is a long way from
doing it, Hicks had learned. If he understood nothing else, he knew
that tomorrow wouldn’t be any different. Every day would be another
rotten day until the day he dropped.

Hicks got out of the car, slammed the door
and headed for the store’s entrance. Milk, soda, lunch meat…going
over what kind of crap he’d buy.

Moving past the idling Honda he halted at
the store’s glass door. The kid was on the inside, backing toward
him. A gun in his hand; the Asian clerk frozen behind the counter.
The kid pushed back against the door.

Hicks yanked it open and the kid lost his
balance. With one hand Hicks grabbed him from behind, and with his
other caught him by the wrist. Forcing the gun upward it fired into
the lights of the overhang. Sparks fell like rain. The stolen cash
flew around them. The gun dropped, hit the concrete, and Hicks
slammed his clubbed hand into the surprised face.

The kid went down. Hicks straddled him,
punched him in the face again, again and again, paying no attention
to the kid’s pleading cries; too busy punching, lost in the memory
of his dead son: “Stupid son of a bitch—teach ya a lesson—yeah,
Angel-baby—a motherfucking lesson!”

Hicks was unaware of the flashing lights,
the screech of tires, headlights brightening the blood that shot up
into the night air.

Two San Pedro cops hopped from their squad
car. They clamped Hicks’ arms. Pulling and tugging, Officer Doyle
hollered, “Get off him—get the fuck off him!” Officer Diaz joining
in: “C’mon man, give it up, damn it!”

Hicks raised his blood-laced hands. The two
cops pulled him off the body and got him to his feet. Hicks stood
over the kid, eyes locked on the red pulp of a face.

Diaz got down and felt the carotid artery.
“Still alive.” He clicked his radio on and called for EMS.

“Aw, Jesus,” Doyle said, giving Hicks a
pitiful look.

Hicks knew what he meant: hearings, possible
law suit against the department. Sure ’nough, Hicks told himself,
this’ll be his second charge of excessive force.

And Detective-Lieutenant Benjamin J. Hicks
had thought things couldn’t get any worse.

Chapter
4

Frank sat with the Oakland Tribune on his
lap, doing the crossword. Charlie still rolling around in his
chair, punching keys and droning on about what, Frank didn’t
know.

His eyes left the crossword to see that a
copy of his California driver’s license had popped up on a computer
screen. Finally, something was happening, and Charlie had stopped
talking.

PASSPORT ID appeared on a different screen.
MILITARY ID appeared on a third. Faces flashed rapidly on both.

Charlie rolled his chair to a fourth
computer, its screen a grid of small squares. Horizontal lines shot
across the bottom. A neck was taking form. It disappeared and
started over, over and over…

Frank squirmed in the stuffed chair; he
couldn’t take much more of this.

He didn’t have to.

Frank’s license stayed on the first screen
while the second and third stopped flashing faces. And the grid
screen had built up a face to the eyes and was moving higher.

Charlie jumped up. “And who’s the best at
the hacking game—Habakkuk, Habakkuk, that’s his name!”

Yeah, but probably not his real one, Frank
guessed. He got out of the stuffed chair, folded the newspaper and
laid it on his satchel. Stepping through the conference table’s
opening he saw the passport screen go dark. Turning to the military
screen, a face was frozen on it: the photo of an honorably
discharged marine:

John Allen Kirk.

Frank stood next to Charlie. On the grid
screen the hairless head made a 360 degree turn. Charlie saying,
“Bet you thought we weren’t going to find anybody. Am I right?” he
cackled. “Huh, am I right?”

“You’re right,” Frank said with little
emotion; it wasn’t over yet. “But where does he live?” he asked.
“Could be in fucking New Jersey.”

Charlie’s joy took a slide. “Hang on,” he
said. Charlie went to the DMV screen and worked its keyboard. Frank
watched as his license was replaced with John Allen Kirk’s.

Charlie raised a victory fist. “California!”
he cried out. Frank moved closer and focused in on the address:

1000 Cabrillo Ave.
San Pedro, CA 90731

“Christ sake,” Frank smiled, “San Pedro.”
Incredible, he thought, only about twenty-five miles from L.A. “His
height and weight is close enough, and he’s got brown eyes like
mine. But I have blond hair,” he worried. “He’s got dark brown—the
way it’s cut—and the shape of the eyebrows.”

“Hey, man, no problem. Lemme have your
license.”

Frank took it from his wallet, gave it to
Charlie and followed him to a copier. Charlie pulled its glass tray
out and set the license on it. He slid the tray back in, carefully
adjusted some dials and pressed some buttons.