Royal Flush (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series Book 6) (7 page)

“Tell me more about your other reasons.”

“No. I can’t.”

Switcher was closing now with his signature words of wisdom: “And I hold this truth to be self-evident— the right, my friends, knows right from wrong.”

Yeah. And the Aryan Command thought killing him was right. A sacrifice to a good cause. This was a little like a fight to the death between two poisonous snakes, one with slightly broader stripes and access to a microphone. But I still didn’t have anything but hearsay and guesswork and strutting, bald, tattooed roosters to take to the police.

“Jake?”

“Shut up and let me think.”

And here was the problem: Bring in the cops and go against my client’s wishes— and maybe put Royal in danger; or not alert them and certainly endanger Rosie’s agency, my job, and the lives of Royal, Zack, and Preston Switcher.

No contest; the cops. The world might be a better, kinder place with that raving righty dead, but I was developing a connection with Royal that could have been either affection or pity. I didn’t want him killing anyone— not even Switcher— and either getting caught and jailed or getting away with it and dragging that load around with him for the rest of his life. He wasn’t a killer. He wouldn’t carry it easy. We’d have to take our chances and guess Ebner was lying.

“Jake? You have to help me.” He’d gotten himself back under control. He was begging, but he’d stopped crying.

“When are you supposed to do it?”

“Next week. He’s going to Washington or someplace for a speech or something, like on Tuesday? I don’t know. Anyway, we do it when he comes back home. I guess we tail him around until it’s safe for us to do it and then we shoot him. Zack and me. That’s all I know so far. I’ll hear more tomorrow, Zack says.”

“Okay. If you’re supposed to do it, you have some control over the act. Slow things down as much as you can. Figure out ways to screw up the plan.”

“I have to go along with Zack. I got no choice. And Zack, he’s really excited about doing it. He’s really ready, man, big time. He wants to be a lieutenant, and he thinks this’ll set him up good.”

“You have to try.”

“Ah, shit, maybe I’ll just end up dead no matter what I do. Jesus. Shit.” He was crying again.

“Royal, I need a way to get in touch with you.”

“You can always get a message to me through Deeanne.”

“That’s not good enough.”

He sighed. “Yeah. Okay. What I’ll do, I’ll get a pager. But just use it when you have to, okay?” I told him that would work.

Modern communications are amazing and truly wonderful. Any time you want, you can beep your doctor, your drug dealer, or your local skinhead assassin.

I left a message for Rosie on the office machine. “See if you can get Pauline to work up a little enthusiasm about this, Rosie…” Or a lot. Enough to get the law back on it. Not just watching Switcher. Watching the Aryan Command. Enough to get someone on it besides me.

Then I called the number Rosie had gotten from Pauline, the number for the FBI agent, Harry George. Good old Hairy George. I hoped I never had to write him a note. I was sure I’d slip and spell it wrong. Was he blue, like a Smurf? Purple, like Barney? I realized I was very tired.

I told the machine that answered that I was Jake Samson, that Pauline had given me his name, and that I was calling about the Aryan Command. I left all my phone numbers.

I realized, lying in bed, stewing, that I hated the Aryan Command. That I wanted them stopped. Dead, if necessary. And that I wanted someone else, preferably big, powerful someones with guns and power, to do it for me.

Isn’t that what government is for?

And where is it when you need it?

By 10:30 the next morning, Rosie had met Sally, seen the house, and talked to Pauline again. She’s very efficient.

“I love the property. The cottage is a little small, but Sally says we can add rooms if we need to. The lot’s big enough even if the planning commission’s feeling snarky that day.”

“So you saying it’s a go?”

“I’m saying I’d rent the cottage, the rest is your call.”

“I’ll put this place up for sale. Right now.” Or at least as soon as we’d finished talking. And hope to God it sold before someone else grabbed my mildew mansion in the woods.

Reluctantly, I switched to business. “Did Pauline say the cops would get on it? The Switcher thing?”

“She wouldn’t say. Just said thanks for the info.”

Pauline was Pauline. “I called Harry George, but I haven’t heard from him. So until I do, or until Pauline can come up with something encouraging…”

“I know. We’re stuck with it.”

“Or Royal’s going to end up killing someone because he’s scared not to.”

“Artie’s really going to owe us for this.”

“Yeah. Maybe he’ll throw the poker game tonight.”

She laughed. “Fat chance. See you there.”

I’d barely put the phone down when it buzzed again. This time it was Royal.

“I was so upset last night I forgot to tell you what else.”

“What else, Royal?” I braced myself.

“Well, you wanted to know about the next meeting. It’s tomorrow night. The warriors are invited. Maybe I can get you in, I don’t know.”

“Try.”

“I will. The other thing?”

“What other thing, Royal?” I braced myself again. This kid needed prompting every step of the way.

“There’s maybe something gonna happen tonight. Everybody was like, wait and see, and some of the other warriors were like, laughing, acting like they had some big secret job. But nobody will say.”

“Keep trying.”

“I will if I can. Oh, and I want to give you your money.”

I ran my day’s plans through my head. I wanted to get this house sale thing going with Sally, then I wanted to drop in at Thor’s in the late afternoon. “How about you meet me for a quick dinner around six?” That would get me home in time for poker. He said it worked for him and we set it up.

Sally came over after lunch— another chance blown. We talked about termite reports and amenities and open houses and cosmetic problems, set an asking price that seemed high to me, and put up a For Sale sign. I offered her a glass of iced tea and she accepted, so we sat together on my little deck with a view of the neighbor’s too-manicured yard.

“This isn’t really your kind of house, is it, Jake? I mean, now that I’ve seen what you want to buy.”

“It’s nice enough. I came over here from an Oakland neighborhood and this wasn’t a big change. A house on a block, five-minute walk to shopping. But I like the place on Scenic better.”

I told her I was nervous that we wouldn’t sell this one fast enough, that we’d lose the one on Scenic.

She patted my arm. “This is more conventional. It should sell quickly. Don’t worry.” I had a moment’s fantasy of Sally, for years into the future, patting me on the arm and telling me not to worry. That scared me. Fortunately, she didn’t have a lot of time to chat. She had more appointments, and in half an hour, with a smile and a very warm handshake, she was gone again.

At five, I pulled on my Nazi suit and went in search of the Aryan Command.

When I arrived at Thor’s, three teenage boys were hanging around outside admiring a motorcycle. An enormous black, shiny Harley.

I recognized Royal’s friend Zack, with his cropped dark brush of hair. The other two were shaved bald. They didn’t look familiar, so they must not have been around the night before. One was small and short, maybe five-five, his big, tough leather bomber hanging on his skinny shoulders and making him look like a kid in Daddy’s jacket. He had a pointy little chin and pale eyes set too close together. The other one was muscular, with a tiny waist. He looked like he worked out three hours every day. “Whose hog?” I asked, friendly, interested.

They gave me that look teenagers give adults who break in on their private, arcane worlds. As if I had just stepped off a space ship.

“Skink’s.”

“That’s me,” the buff one said.

“Nice.”

Zack laughed. “Nice?”

Skink sneered. “Thanks.”

I decided not to keep trying to socialize with them. They had no interest in talking motorcycles with a middle-aged man.

The place was all but empty— just Steve, leaning on the bar reading the paper, and Red down at the other end, sitting on a stool behind a beer. It occurred to me that Red would have looked more natural with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. I wondered: Did Steve enforce the anti-smoking laws while serving alcohol to minors? Or did the Aryan Command frown on smoking?

I gave Steve a friendly nod and asked him for a cup of coffee. He didn’t acknowledge the nod, but he poured me one. I took it down to where Red was sitting, staring at the bottles lined up along the back wall.

“Hey, Red!”

“Jase.” He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye.

“Thought I might run into Royal, but I guess not.”

“He’ll be in. It’s early.”

“Mind if I shoot the shit with you?”

He gave me a grin that was half a sneer.

“My lucky day, huh?” He turned slowly, heavily, on the small seat of the bar stool, breathing stale beer into my face, his chest puffed out nearly as far as his belly. Glowering. Challenging. Making himself big and scary. Had he decided I was a threat since he’d last seen me? Was he marking his territory while the other tomcats were away? Or did he just have mood swings? I went with the mood swings.

“Well, Floyd thinks you’re a hell of a guy. So does Royal. And I can see you’re important. I figure you know the score, know what I mean?”

He swiveled back partway, letting his chest sag again. I’d deflated it, along with his challenge, with just a few words of flattery. Was he always that easy?

“Good to hear. So what’s new, Jase?”

“Not much, same old same old. Looking for work, looking out for my dad… You?” My cover story included a work history as a supermarket checker, but Red didn’t ask.

“Nothing much.”

“That’s hard to believe. Everyone I met here last night seemed like somebody. Bet there’s some interesting life stories.” I shook my head in wonder. “Bet there’s a dozen TV shows in this bar, even maybe movies.” I’d almost said books, before I caught myself. He probably didn’t read.

I jerked a thumb toward his hand. “That tattoo. Bet there’s a story connected with that. It looks familiar, but I can’t place it.”

He glanced down at the double lightning, flexing his fingers, then tilted his head and gave me that sly look again. “Familiar, huh?”

“Well, it’s not like a Nazi thing— what is it, anyway? I noticed a couple of the warriors have them.”

He snorted. “Skinheads. Kids. They copied it, it’s bigger than a bunch of kids. Buncha guys I joined up with in the joint. White guys needed to band together to fight off the niggers and spics. Helluva bunch of guys.”

“The joint? Shit, you were in prison?” I made myself look excited. “What did you do?”

He narrowed his eyes at me. Was I asking too many questions? Steve was folding up his paper, glancing our way He moved down the bar toward us.

Red thought a few seconds before he decided to tell me. “Killed a guy. He got in my face. I ran him down.” He gave me a fierce scowl. I looked impressed and he relaxed again.

“With your car?” Maybe he rolled over the guy with his belly.

“Yeah. So they could call it manslaughter.” He guffawed and swallowed half a stein of beer.

Steve was staring at me. He was trying to give me the creeps and almost succeeding. “Red’s the kind of man,” he said, “you can count on in a fight. Any kind of fight. The kind of man who don’t take no crap from no monkeys. A real soldier. A weapons expert. You understand?”

Soldier. Weapons expert. The image that came to mind was a camp somewhere in the woods, full of goofy losers like Red, out of shape and puffing, running around shooting at trees, playing war games, dreaming of world domination.

“Yeah, and I could be dropped off on top of a mountain and survive for days on what I know and what I can kill.”

I made my eyes glow hot with the thought of all the things he could kill. “You must do some really heavy work for the Command.” Awe, that’s what I was going for. Awe mixed with testosterone poisoning.

Red looked warily at Steve. “I do lots of heavy work, Jase.”

Steve grunted and moved closer, inserting himself into the conversation again. “You ask too many questions, Jase. Wait until you got a reason to know, that’s my advice. We decide you fit in, you’ll have a reason.”

Red came to my defense. “Oh, don’t be too hard on the man, Steve— he’s just a little overexcited, that’s all. Can’t blame him. You finally find what you been looking for, see where you belong. I remember feeling like that.” Okay, I was his pal again.

“You felt like that when you were fifteen, Red. He waited a lot longer.” Steve flashed a nasty little smile. “But he could do worse.” Was I being recruited?

Red slugged down his beer and slid his stein across the bar.

“Steve’s right, Jase. Can’t be too careful, but we need guys like you. And you wouldn’t want to know something you weren’t ready to know, would you?”

I pasted a slack-mouthed, confused look on my face, and told him, “Guess not.” Steve strolled off to the other end of the bar again to get Red a refill.

“So, Jase. How’s life treating you?”

Not bad, I told him, for a guy who was working his ass off taking care of a sick old man. As I was chatting away about my fictional life, the three boys I’d seen outside marched into the bar, Zack and his two pals. Skink leaned over the mahogany and grabbed Steve’s hand, shaking it once, hard.

“Thanks, man.”

Steve shrugged the kid off and slid Red’s beer down the bar.

Thanks?

“Those boys are sure excited about that Harley-Davidson,” I said.

Red laughed. “Yeah. Rather have a truck, myself. But kids, you know.”

“That Skink must have money to burn— aren’t those things expensive?”

“Yeah, they are. But the kid works. And he’s got friends.”

“Friends? No friends of mine ever gave me a motorcycle.”

“He earns it.”

I wondered how.

The “friend” he’d thanked was good old Steve, the man who had also had enough money to open this very swank establishment. Maybe it came from Steve. Maybe just through him.