Dangerous Times

Chapter 1

Frank and Ty lived in West Los Angeles, in a nice little house on a nice little street shaded with jacaranda trees.

On Thursday morning over breakfast Frank told Ty he would be gone all day. There was some business he had to attend to in Santa Barbara, then added it might last into the night and she shouldn’t wait up for him.

An hour later Frank drove to the Pacific Coast Highway and began his trip to Oakland—not to Santa Barbara, as he had told her. Lucky man, he thought, to have such a trusting wife.

Driving along the coast Frank eyed the ocean that raged under the January sky. He saw the whitecaps as an invading army on the attack against the land and all that occupied it.

Frank wished victory for the ocean, then asked himself why he would think such a thing. Because Mother Earth needs to wash off the blood of human slaughter, he smiled playfully.

Comfortable behind the wheel Frank knew he had made the right decision. If he had flown to Oakland, there would be a record of it—might have even bumped into someone he knew. And because of airport security his Russian pistol wouldn’t be where it belonged, holstered under his suit jacket.

The day faded into twilight as Frank took the Bay Bridge into Oakland. While on the Nimitz Freeway he used the GPS to find a coffee shop; grab himself a quick meal, Charlie not expecting him until 7. Following directions he took the next exit.

Frank turned into the coffee shop’s lot and parked. He stayed behind the wheel and sat concerned about his plan. The key to its success was needed by Friday. Tomorrow, for Christ sake. And the odds of Charlie coming up with it were damn near—that’s all right, Frank thought. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

He slid out of the car and commended himself on his attitude. Problems rarely got the better of him. A change of perspective was all he needed.

Frank stood at his car and gave it the once-over. Brand new Lincoln sedan, a little dirty from the trip but still handsome in the shade of nightfall. He gazed up at the sky, the rise of the full moon a welcome. Los Angeles had been cloudy for days…feeling the Oakland wind now; the temperature dropping.

Frank brushed back his blond hair and walked to the newspaper rack. It put him in a good mood, buying the Oakland Tribune. First time up here, he had never seen it before. He liked newspapers, especially if they were reporting something about a captured felon.

Frank had always been good at learning from the mistakes of others.

Chapter 2

An hour later he was back on the Nimitz Freeway. Passing six exits, the GPS finally spoke. Frank nosed his way over, took the next exit and drove onto 29th. When he got to Embarcadero he turned left, where the moonlight created a ghostly vision of the old warehouses, an occasional single-story stuck between them.

Charlie’s place was a single-story, a long scummy rectangle about 15-feet high. It appeared abandoned, yet well-secured with bars over the shuttered windows.

Frank parked curbside in front of the entrance alcove, the door sheltered a few feet behind a steel gate. He stayed at the wheel, folded the Oakland Tribune and put it into his leather satchel. He took his phone from under his camelhair coat and deleted all the phone numbers, except for his landline at home.

Frank shut the phone off and dropped it into his satchel. From now on he would use the one registered to Tom Pincus; first used in L.A. when he had called Charlie to set up tonight’s meeting. Frank was paying Tom Pincus more than enough for the use of the phone.

Tom Pincus, Frank thought, two-bit horse player. Someone Frank’s employer couldn’t possibly know about. There was no doubt Eddie Jones tracked his employees’ calls by satellite.

Frank slung the satchel over his shoulder. He got out of the car and stepped to the gated alcove. He pulled a paper from the pocket of his coat and read the code he had to punch.

Christ sake, he mumbled, instead of a doorbell.

Frank peered through the steel gate. A metal box of numbered buttons protruded from the doorpost. He reached through the gate and pressed the code.

The alcove light snapped on. A moment later came the sound of locks tumbling. The reinforced door opened and there was Charlie behind the gate.

Hey, Frankie, long time no see, Charlie said through his tight-lipped smile. Holding a ring of keys he unlocked the gate and folded it aside. Jeez man, you look terrific! he gushed. Didn’t know any better, I’d think you were a movie star.

Frank put a hand out and clasped Charlie’s sweaty palm. Nice of you to say so, he said in a friendly way. Good to see you again.

No it wasn’t, Frank told himself, stepping by him, then waiting while he locked the gate. Charlie was a nervous wreck, a real hyper son of a bitch. Thin and pale, maybe wearing the same old tan slacks he had worn a year ago when they had met in Los Angeles. Maybe even the same sweat-stained white shirt.

Definitely the same body odor.

The interior of the place reminded Frank of an artist’s loft, the large space partitioned with stands of stretched canvas, framed in wood on solid bases. They were high and wide; stopping just below the fluorescent lights, a few burned out, some flickering.

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.

Bouncing in his tennis shoes he left Frank and went to the DMV keyboard. He stood over it and punched away while humming Farmer in the Dell. When done, Charlie returned to Frank and said, DMV screen, Frankie.

Frank took his eyes off the copier and looked over at it. Fingerprints were flashing now, and a pair of them came to an abrupt halt, then floated together, one over the other, passing each other to freeze at either end of the screen.

Far as the DMV’s concerned, Charlie said through his tight-lipped smile, you’re John Allen Kirk, and John Allen Kirk is Frank Lester Moore.

Magic, Frank said in awe of the trick.

The copier buzzed.

Charlie pulled the tray out. And now, ladies and gentlemen…

Frank saw three licenses on the tray. His original and two copies. Can I pick them up? he asked.

Be my guest, Charlie said.

Frank lifted the first copy and it was like his original, except he had John Kirk’s brown hair and eyebrows. Along with John Kirk’s name and San Pedro address.

Frank lifted the second copy. It was a copy of John Kirk’s license; brown hair and eyebrows, but with Frank’s name and Los Angeles address.

Charlie rocked impatiently in his tennis shoes while Frank slipped into thought:

Cops find John Kirk’s body. Find the license and identify him as Frank Moore. And thanks to Charlie, the DMV prints would prove it. The only outsider they could possibly call in for identification would be his wife. He had already told Ty to expect the unexpected, to go along with any surprises. When she sees the dead man she’ll think the plan had taken a sharp turn. Since Ty wouldn’t want to get beaten out of the money, she would have to identify the dead man as her husband, even with the dark hair and eyebrows.

Perfect.

Frank turned his eyes on Charlie. You’re so right, he said to him, Charlie Habakkuk is the best.

Time to reward myself, Charlie gushed happily. He dropped into the swivel chair and rolled over to his dope. He shoved the straw into the pile of meth, put his nose to it