Deep Cover (24 page)

"He's
my
husband
! God damn you and your fucking case!" She could picture Atwood moving the phone away from his ear as she exploded furiously into the handset, all the frustration of the last few months pouring out. After five minutes of angry abuse, Atwood was able to get some words in.

"Mrs.
Walsh, I assure you that the next time I speak with Martin, I'll instruct him to call you immediately. You must remember that it's hard for him. It's not just a matter of logistics. I've worked undercover for many years. I've put my wife through the same pain, the same worry, dozens of times. It can sometimes be very difficult to get to a phone to call your spouse. It's even harder emotionally to prepare to speak to someone you love, after you've been working so hard to maintain the character you've assumed to make your case. Everything will be fine. Okay?"

"No,
it's not okay. But thanks anyway, Mr. Atwood. I'm sure he'll call. Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

Amy Walsh slammed down the phone.

"Bullshit."
She walked over to the oak wall unit and opened the bottom drawer. Unfolding a map of California and spreading it out on the coffee table, she quickly traced a route with her finger. "Eureka Lake. Twenty miles south of Riverside." She returned the map to the drawer and went to bed.

Chapter
22

I thought I was blind when I first opened my eyes. Then, little by little, I could make out the dark shapes of the objects in the room. There was a lamp on an end table next to the bed. I reached for it to turn it on, and my head exploded in pain. I must have blacked out, because the next thing I knew I was lying on the floor, the lamp on top of me.

I
got myself up to a squatting position, my head still pounding like someone was beating me with a sledgehammer. I touched the side of my head and could feel the bandages. What the hell had happened to me? It seemed like hundreds of images and as many voices and sounds were spiraling through my mind.

Hearing
the sound of footsteps outside the room seemed to calm the noise in my head. As the steps drew closer to the door my heart began to pound and my pulse rate must have soared, because I sprang to my feet as if I'd just been given a shot of adrenaline. Whoever it was now stood right outside the door. As the door opened and the outline of a massive person came into view, I was suddenly hit with a wave of paranoia. Whatever had happened to me, I was sure someone was now coming to finish the job. With all the strength I could_ summon, I kicked the hulking figure in the chest.

The
kick had little or no effect, because before I knew what had hit me I was in a headlock and pinned, facedown, to the floor.

"Who
the fuck are you? How the fuck did I get here?" I blurted. To my surprise my attacker spoke in a low, soothing tone.

"Doc,
Doc. It's Jack, brother. Calm down," he whispered intensely into my ear. "You've been out cold for days, man." I was breathing heavy, and my eyes felt like they were darting about in a frenzy, for the rush of images had once again returned to torture and confuse me. "Do you hear me, Doc? You and Dog were on your way back from the desert. Dog got wasted. Think, man. Remember!"

My
attacker loosened his grip on my neck. I started to relax, and after a few moments he let go completely. He helped me to my feet, and I started to feel dizzy.

"I'd
better sit," I said, holding my hand to my head. I sat on the edge of my bed, and my mystery host placed the lamp on the end table and turned it on.

"Dog
... he's dead. The Outcasts..." I said. It was coming back to me.

"I
know, man. We buried Dog three days ago. They brought you guys to a hospital near Keeler. Dog was DOA. Counsel says they thought you were gonna buy it too. Soon as the doctors got you stable, Counsel and Snake brought you here and asked me to look after you. I don't hang much with the club anymore—just some parties and the funerals and runs—but my door is always open when my brothers need me."

I
sat there on the side of the bed, rubbing my temples. Fat Jack! Yes, I remembered seeing his picture. The full white beard and wavy white hair. The jolly, Santa-like face.

Fat
Jack leaned over and placed a hand on my shoulder. "You've been out for almost five days, except for some moaning and talking in your sleep. Who the hell is 'Amy,' anyway?"

"I
don't know. I mean I know. I know the name but I don't know who she is, you know?"
That's
it
,
Walsh
, I said to myself.
Think
fast
,
and
pray
you
didn't
say
too
much
.

"Whoa,
slow down, Doc! Now you're making
my
head spin."

"I
think I know you, too," I said.

I
squinted, as if I were trying to get a better look at him. In case I'd said something that might have aroused suspicion, I thought I might as well play up the "dazed and confused" routine. It wasn't far from the truth. There was still a lot that wasn't coming in loud and clear.

"Yeah,
I
do
know you," I said. "You've been with the club since '69, got your own vending-machine business. Two kids, right?"

"Right.
My son Billy and a daughter, Alice. She's away at school. Studying in France to become a teacher. Billy lives in New York City. Christ, Doc, how the hell do you know so much about me?"

I
shrugged my shoulders.

"I
couldn't tell you, I just know. It's
me
I don't know much about. Things are real blurry. Names, faces, things coming back then fading away again."

I
opened my eyes wide when it hit my mind like a freight train.

"The
Henchmen! I just got my Henchmen colors. Used to ride with Satan's Saints in Canada. Randall… my name's Randall. Right?"

Great
.
I'm
reminding
myself
as
much
as
I'm
convincing
him
.
Man
,
does
my
head
hurt
.

"That's
right," said Fat Jack. "Better known to his brothers as Dr. Death. Look, try to relax, brother. I'll let Counsel know you're all right. You gotta rest up, Doc. The Eureka Lake run starts in three days, and you gotta be able to handle your hog. Want a sandwich or something?"

"Sounds
good," I said. Now that he'd mentioned it, I realized I was starving.

After
wolfing down two sandwiches, I walked around the room a bit to try to work out some of the stiffness in my joints and muscles. I looked out the window. From the view here it seemed that the house was pretty well secluded. Through the thick trees I could just make out another house about a quarter-mile away. I would have to rest. Maybe another day. Then I would get the hell out of here, go down to that house, and call in this goddamn operation. I was much too cautious to take the chance of using Jack's phone. If he or anyone in the club overheard me, I would hardly get the phone receiver back in its cradle before I'd have a bullet in my head. As I lay there drifting off into sleep I thought,
What
the
hell
was
that
number
to
Base
1
?
Boy
,
does
my
head
hurt
.

Staring at the telephone, he poured his fourth Scotch. For more than an hour Fred Parkins had been drinking, pacing the floor, and playing a game of mental ping-pong. What should his next move be? He looked at the clock. Seven forty-five A.M. In fifteen minutes Helmsford's shift would be over, and he would lose the opportunity. Another day would be spent wondering about the end of his career in law enforcement. And the end of his relationship with his father. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the phone and dialed the number.

Patrick Helmsford stacked the piles of unfinished work neatly on his desk. It would all keep until tomorrow's shift. A few arrest reports, a proposal from a local plumber to fix the sink in the rest room, assorted letters and requests for information from family members and news people concerning recent cases. His plan to leave ten minutes early was thwarted by the ringing of the telephone.

"Helmsford."
He made no attempt to hide his annoyance.

"Patrick
Helmsford?"

"Yes
... yes. Who the hell is this?"

"Who
I am isn't important. What is important is that I have some critical information for you and your buddies—The Henchmen."

There
was a long silence, as thoughts flew through Helmsford's head.
What
can
this
be
?
A
joke
?
Maybe
an
investigation
.
Maybe
it's
a
test
.
That's
it
.
Someone
suspects
me
of
having
close
ties
to
The
Henchmen
and
is
trying
to
trap
me
.

"Henchmen.
Yes... the motorcycle gang. Not exactly my buddies. You ought to be speaking with Detective Ross. He's our expert on the biker gangs."

"Sure,
tell me about it." Parkins' tone was antagonistic.

"Now
wait a fucking minute, asshole! Who the hell
are
you?"

"The
biker who calls himself Dr. Death is a fed. He was brought in to shut them down. The only reason you're still in business is the feds can't get a triple shift authorized to monitor your phone calls. It's just a matter of time."

Sweat
ran down Parkins' face as he hung up the phone, suddenly panicked by his own actions. The enormity of what he had done dawned on him as his stomach tightened and his head began to ache. He poured his fifth Scotch and walked over to the mirror. A sad, pathetic drunk looked back at him.

"You
had to do it," he assured his image, taking another drink. "Besides, he's probably dead anyway, so it won't matter. You did the right thing."

He
held the empty glass up to the mirror, dropped it on the floor, then fell back on the couch. He would sleep until noon, when Dalton Leverick, concerned that he hadn't shown up at the office, would call him.

Helmsford was at his wit's end.
Who
was
that
?
How
had
he
known
to
contact
me
? He asked himself these questions repeatedly during the forty-five-minute ride to his apartment. Each time, no answers. Each time he was no closer to a decision. If he didn't say anything to Counsel, and the information turned out to be true, he would be finished with The Henchmen. Maybe finished with living. That would be so only if Counsel knew he had the information. How could he know? Unless Counsel was testing his loyalty to the club. And if not Counsel, then someone else knew of his Henchmen connection. But who?

He
fumbled with the keys to his apartment door, dropping them three times before finding the right one. Once inside he headed straight for the kitchen, the cabinet over the sink, right-hand side.

"Shit,"
he said, disappointed. "No Scotch. I guess it'll have to be vodka." He sat in front of the telephone. Drinking straight from the bottle, he looked at his watch between gulps. Nine-thirty A.M. Too early to call Counsel at home. He took another gulp from the bottle. "Fuck it." He depressed the digits hesitantly.

"Counsel?
It's Helmsford."

Snake and Iron Man were making the rounds along the strip. They would park their bikes at one end of the street and walk together from shop to shop, making their weekly pickups. Establishments under Henchmen protection would pay them the weekly fifty. Shops owned by the club would simply open their books for a quick review. No need for a cash payment. Counsel controlled the bank accounts, and would make regular transfers electronically through the club's computer. The businesses were legitimate. None was registered in the name of the club or any of its officers.

Snake
went right to the novelty section of the Hole In One books and novelty shop, while Iron Man went to the main counter.

"Evenin',
Sally," Iron Man politely said.

Sally
was a short, fifty-six-year-old woman with rotten teeth and a bad left eye that was always half-closed. She had worked in the pornography business for over forty years. She and her boyfriend had started one of the first shops on the strip.

"You're
not on rounds this week, are you, sweetheart?" she asked, surprised to see him.

"Sure
am, Sally. Me and Snake."

He
gestured toward Snake, who was looking perplexed as he studied a double-headed penis, hearing none of their conversation.

"Well,
I done paid a young feller no more'n an hour ago." Sally picked her nose and nonchalantly rubbed her fingers on her blue polyester sweater.

"
What
? Who?" Iron Man's eyes bulged like they were about to pop out of their sockets.

"Never
saw him before. He had a Henchmen tattoo on his forearm, just like you boys. He says he was comin' to collect, so I gave him his fifty."

Iron
Man slammed his hand on the counter. "What the fuck did he look like?"