Echoes of a Distant Summer (39 page)

The Port of San Francisco functioned nearly twenty-four hours a day loading and unloading cargo and large passenger liners. Piers 14 and 16 were centers of activity. Under the glare of bright lights, there were the grinding sounds of engines, the mechanical squeal of large cranes and hoists, and the shouts of men as heavy crates and equipment swung from ship to shore and back again. Genaro’s and Ciachetti’s warehouses were on the street side of pier 14, but were blocked off from view of the Embarcadero by a long, three-story office building which was dark and vacant during the night hours. One van was left three blocks from Genaro’s warehouse. It would provide a second means of escape, should the first van be recognized during the raid. The remaining van, with two fifteen-foot ladders and two twelve-foot lengths of thick pine protruding from the rear, was driven into the shadows of Ciachetti’s warehouse, on the opposite side from Genaro’s. The van pulled to a stop underneath the outside fire escape. Standing on top of the van, Jack and Herbert caught the lower rung of the fire escape and ascended to the roof. They both had 3.08-caliber rifles with silencers and sniper scopes. The principal source of lighting came from the dockside pier, which possessed a bank of high-wattage lamps to allow for around-the-clock loading and unloading of freight and passenger shipping. Once atop the roof, they easily spotted the first sentry; he was making regular circuits of the roof, occasionally peering down at the street for signs of movement. The other sentry had placed himself in the shadows and would not have been seen except that the barrel of his rifle reflected the pier’s lights. Herbert directed Jack’s attention to the man’s movement in the shadows. Only the top of his head and his legs were visible. Herbert took careful aim and Jack signaled when the other sentry was on the other side of the roof. Herbert squeezed off a shot that made a soft popping noise and the man’s head disappeared. The sound of his gun hitting the roof brought the other sentry at a run. Jack caught him in the chest with a shot from his rifle and saw his body jerk backward as if pulled by some invisible wire. Herbert put another bullet into him as he fell.

Communicating by military walkie-talkie, Jack informed the men
below that the roof was cleared for entry. The two fifteen-foot ladders were lifted to the roof and the pieces of pine were tied tightly to the ladders to reinforce their strength. The men assembled to discuss the crossing. With Doke and Joey holding each ladder upright and Jack and Rico holding ropes fastened to the topmost ends, each ladder was gently lowered across the ten-foot span that separated the buildings. The ladders were laid side by side. Carrying lead ropes Jack and Herbert walked across the ladders, balancing themselves on the pine boards. They fastened the lead ropes to metal stanchions projecting from the roof and the other men crossed with benefit of the guide ropes.

King crossed the ladders without any overt evidence of concern, but as he looked down at the ground thirty feet below, he thought, Gettin’ too old for this. We gon’ to have to leave by the front door. Upon reaching the other side, he spurned Jack’s hand and jumped down to the roof without assistance. He watched as Jack assigned the men to various tasks. Herbert would take the roof. El Indio would be the first man inside, and his job was to take out anyone patrolling the balcony and hallway, then he was to search the upstairs offices. Joey and Doke would hold the second floor hallway and balcony. Jack, King, and Rico would descend to ground level, where Jack figured LaValle was being held. Silently, King admired the way his son commanded respect. The men listened attentively as Jack laid out the plan once more. He explained that there were only gas masks for five men. If the gas was used, two of the team would have to exit through the roof and go across the ladders again.

It was nine-thirty, approximately half an hour before the scheduled meeting. Guns were checked, everyone was ready to go. King handed Herbert his shotgun and a belt of shells. “If a car pulls up with reinforcements, fire that through its ceiling. It’s loaded with shotgun slugs.”

El Indio cracked the door leading down to the second story balcony and went down the stairs cautiously. Joey and Doke followed him. Jack, Rico, and King descended the stairs after them in time to see a brief scuffle, which was ended when Doke broke the man’s neck. The team had safely entered and no alarms had been set off. A quick glance over the rail revealed a haphazard arrangement of stacked wooden crates lit by several banks of fluorescent lights that hung twenty feet above the floor.

There was a loud banging on the door of the warehouse. Voices emanated from a large stack of crates set against the far wall away from the stairs. King heard the voices and pressed himself into the shadows. He looked at the balcony and he saw Joey sitting on the stairs, out of sight of the door. Joey was motioning at something on the ceiling above King’s head. King looked up and saw a foot briefly swing into view. The DiMarcos had placed someone in the roof scaffolding on a square of plywood. The view between the square of plywood and the balcony was obstructed by several large ceiling fans. Obviously, the man had been placed there to protect the entrance, not the balcony.

King heard a heavy door swing open and then the growls of dogs. He had to give them credit, they were smarter than he thought: They’d sweep the place with dogs first, to ensure that the site hadn’t been breached. King pulled one of the matched pair of Colt .45 pistols that he carried from a holster and awaited the dogs. He heard the heavy door swing shut.

A voice called up to the balcony, “Hey, Turo!” There was silence. The voice again, with impatience, “This ain’t no time to play, Turo! Turo! Danny! Answer me, one of you guys!”

Joey answered, trying to speak with a New York accent, “Yeah, I heard you!”

There was a pause, then the voice spoke again, this time with fear. “That ain’t either one of them guys’ voices! The niggers are here! Let them dogs—” The man did not finish his sentence; Jack shot him through the throat. The dog handler fought to release his animals, but a forty-five slug in his heart ended conscious thought. Over his body, there were four rottweilers snarling and struggling to be free. Jack killed two of the dogs while they fought to release themselves from the tangles of their leashes. The other two pulled free and disappeared into the labyrinth of crates.

King fired a full magazine from his pistol into the floor of the plywood square and watched a body fall heavily onto the crates. He was changing magazines when a rottweiler rounded the corner and began approaching him. The dog’s head was low and the growl that issued from its throat was spine-tingling. King pushed a new magazine into his pistol, but it didn’t catch. The dog broke into a run, charging him. King pulled out his other pistol and shot the dog three times before its dead body collapsed against his legs.

Rico Ramirez was not so lucky. His back was turned when the remaining dog discovered him. Its charge caught him by surprise, knocking him off his feet and causing his gun to fall from his hands. Things might have gone badly for him had not Jack come to his aid. The dog was on top of Rico and had sunk its fangs into his left shoulder and was trying to shift the grip to his neck when Jack shot it. It took two bullets to bring down the enraged dog.

There was complete silence in the warehouse. Jack checked Rico’s wound. There were deep lacerations and punctures, but no bones were broken and no major blood vessels were cut. Rico had some difficulty moving his left shoulder, but he waved Jack off and picked up his gun.

A voice cried out, “King Tremain? King Tremain, are you out there?”

King answered back, “I’m here.”

“We got your son. You wanna talk to him?” King did not answer. There were sounds of a number of voices in angry conversation. Then LaValle screamed, “No, not another finger! Please! Plea—EEEEEEEE!” LaValle’s words turned to a shriek and then to a whimpering moan.

The voice spoke again. “We’re going to chop him up piece by piece until you come out and talk like a man!”

Jack ran, hunched over, back up the stairs. He retrieved the bag with tear gas and masks. He left two masks on the second landing and descended to ground level to find his father.

Herbert Broadhead liked sentry duty and he did it like he was still in the military. When he heard a car door slam he rushed to the side from which the sound emanated. Peering over the edge of the roof, he saw a balding, blond-haired man in a long coat leave his limousine and go into an unmarked door in the side of the building. Herbert picked up the shotgun and sighted the roof on the driver’s side of the limo. He waited for a hoist’s engine to rev up, then he squeezed off two shots through the roof, hardly audible above its mechanical roar. A limo door squeaked. A man on the front passenger side of the limo pushed open his door and ran for the building. He didn’t make it. The shotgun slug nearly separated him in two before he reached the door. Herbert fired several more shots into the limo’s engine to ensure that it would not operate.

Jack knelt on the floor as he passed out gas masks to his father and Rico. They had determined where LaValle was being held. There was a large stack of crates set against the far wall behind the stairs. Jack
wanted to lob tear gas over in front of the stack, but King thought that would give the DiMarcos a chance to disperse under cover of the clouds of gas. The three men edged stealthily closer until they could see the opening leading into the stack. Jack removed the launcher from the bag and affixed a tear gas canister to it. King took out his machine gun and snapped the stock to its full extension. Jack caught Joey’s eye and pointed to the stack of crates, then gestured with his pistol. Joey nodded his head in understanding. Jack launched two canisters into the opening of the stack and King laced the opening with machine-gun fire. Doke and Joey also pumped round after round into the opening.

LaValle was lying on the floor in a haze of pain when the first canister landed in the darkened interior of the room formed by the crates. The second canister actually hit one of his captors in the head before it fell in front of LaValle’s face. A whiff of the acrid odor brought him back to the world. He sat upright, partially dizzy from the pain and the gas. In the darkened room there was pandemonium, particularly when the bullets started sending splinters flying. Someone fell over his feet, another stepped on his still-intact left hand, someone else kneed him in the head. LaValle staggered to his feet, driven by a desire to get a fresh breath of air. The narrow beam of a flashlight lanced through the darkness. Someone had opened the outside door. There was a brief silhouette of a man in a long coat, standing in the doorway, then the man rushed out to get into the limo and was met with an explosion. No one else followed him.

In the confusion, LaValle appeared to have been forgotten. He threw himself on his stomach and the pain of breaking his fall with the remains of his right hand caused him to crumple up on the cold cement floor. Spurred on by his desire to survive, he crawled out underneath the fire that his rescuers were concentrating on the stack of crates. One of his captors, attempting to escape the discomfort of the gas, ran into the line of fire. A hail of bullets hit his body, and he fell within three feet of LaValle. It was too much for LaValle. He had endured all the pain and suffering he could stand. Escape was all that he could think of. His mind blanked out; animal panic controlled him. He struggled to his feet and ran to the corner of the next aisle before a bullet fired by his captors shattered his right shoulder. The impact carried him face-first into the crates in front of him. He crashed into the hard, wooden surface and slumped to the floor.

Jack leapt to his feet and had to be forcibly restrained by Rico and King. “He’s lying in their line of fire,” King warned, gripping Jack roughly. “You go after him and you’ll both be dead meat. I heard from Herbert on the walkie-talkie that there’s an outside door leading into those crates. Let me send Doke around to fire a few shots through that door to spark ’em.”

A tear gas canister was thrown out into the aisle where LaValle lay crumpled. The gas billowed up from the canister like an evil genie. Jack pulled himself free of his father’s grasp and said, “There’s my cover. I’m going to get him!” Jack ducked down along the sides of the crates and made his way to within five feet of LaValle’s unconscious form. LaValle’s body was lying in full view of the DiMarcos. In the background, Jack heard the front door slide open. He looked back at his father, who signaled that Doke had gone outside. Jack did not want to wait. He was sure that once the DiMarcos discovered that they were cornered, they would make sure that LaValle was dead by firing more bullets into his body.

But he was momentarily stymied as to what he should do. Sweat dripped down his face. The goggles of the mask were beginning to fog over from his body heat.

Jack heard footsteps behind him; it was Joey with a shotgun. Joey mumbled through his gas mask, “Let me fire a couple of rounds of buckshot in there, then you might have a chance.”

“Do it!” Jack replied and readied himself to make a dash for his brother.

Joey stood up and fired three quick shots from his shotgun into the entrance. Jack started to move on the first shot and reached his brother by the third, but by the time he had a grip on LaValle, a man ran out of the stack of crates, firing a machine gun. The bullets swept in front of Jack, forcing him to retreat to cover. Joey caught the man with a blast of his shotgun that lifted the man off his feet and propelled his body backward into a wall of crates. Jack ran out and grabbed his brother underneath his arms and began to pull him to safety. Joey saw movement on top of the crates. Two men were frantically struggling to climb out of a narrow opening about fifteen feet above ground level. Crates blocked the two men from Rico’s and King’s view and partially blocked a clear shot of them from where Joey stood as well. The first man who freed himself saw Joey and swung his gun up. But Joey reacted more
quickly and fired off another blast from his shotgun, which knocked the man down.