Chapter 9: Call

...the various players in situ...

Susan scanned the list of potentials as she took a swig of coffee from her travel mug. Her eyes watered for lack of sleep.

She woke at four-thirty to be in the office by six, and transmitted her last on-the-scene broadcast about eleven-fifteen at night. The commute over the Golden Gate to her Mill Valley home took thirty minutes. So she could count on less than five hours sleep.

She lived for the weekends when she could sleep in, lie in the sun and maybe go for a long bike ride. Maybe one day she’d claim a spot on the anchor desk. That’d mean more face time on TV, banquets and awards and a larger house. Best of all, decent hours. Until then…

The large office was quiet and mostly dark, except for the glow from a few computer screens and from overhead lighting, at half strength until eight. Hearing footsteps brush the carpet, she looked up to see Mara. Drops of moisture from a heavy fog clung to her woolen cap and jacket. When she opened her mouth to speak, she yawned.

“Sorry. Good morning. What’s up today?”

Susan scrolled back up the list and left her chair so Mara could read the screen.

She read silently. Hotel workers striking for health care; teachers protesting layoffs; assault on a bus; the Governor visiting to launch an initiative.

She frowned.

“Problem?”

“You know.”

“People take interest in the new.”

“I know, ‘That’s why they call it news’.” They laughed at the oft-repeated pun.

“Haven’t we heard anything?”

Susan shook her head.

“Can’t we check? I mean in particular? Let me call Henderson.”

Mara knew her interest was personal and that things in the world didn’t progress with the speed of an Internet search engine. But maybe she could help move it along. Though Riley had been released, she worried the police might want to talk to him again. And part of her just wanted to know what happened.

“Call the Mayor’s aide. Let him check. We’ll get a better answer that way.”

***

Chief Kelly settled into his high-backed leather chair, framed from behind by the city and state flags. His desk was clear, but he’d spend the rest of the day fighting to keep it that way. Routine stuff: reports, authorizations and recommendations. He signed off or batted them back to subordinates if they needed more work. He was the end point of a process but he wouldn’t be its patsy.

The intangibles, the surprises that sprung from the things people did, might require an appearance to show the department was in control. They got him away from the office bureaucrats and closer to the guys in the field. True, crime wasn’t pretty and accidents could be grisly. But he’d been at it for thirty years.

A young lieutenant with narrow shoulders and close-cropped hair walked in holding a sheet of paper.

“Inquiry from the Mayor’s office.”

Chief Kelly took the Record of Inquiry and pondered over it. The Mayor hadn’t phoned --those calls were put through-- but one of his aides did.

“What was his level of interest?”

“Not excited.”

“Henderson?”

“Nothing new.”

He considered the case. A homeless man murdered. Possible drug-related. No known relatives. No solid leads. No neighborhood merchants demanding police protection. Nowhere to go on this one.

“Get back to him.”

“That we have nothing to report?”

“The investigation is ongoing.”

As the lieutenant left, Chief Kelly, his political antennae alert, made a mental note that someone had asked.

***

The scent of tomato sauce and flour filled the small room. Marco felt intense heat from the ovens radiating through the wall. They were at it later than usual. Customers patronizing the pizza shop would begin to arrive as people left work. But he didn’t worry about anyone seeing. It was take out only. No restrooms for the public.

Two bundlers worked putting together stacks of bills: singles, fives, tens and twenties. When a stack reached the appropriate value for the denomination, they wrapped a rubber band around it, snapping the band to signal completion.

A packer then set each completed stack in a box the length of long-stem roses but wider. A counter, standing behind him with a notepad, ensured each box contained no more, no less than $10,000.

When a box was full, he slipped it into a pizza delivery bag, but these were going to the laundry for cleaning. The Boss oversaw the whole process like a stalking tiger, instilling urgency in the labor.

Marco maintained his position inside the back door, gazing down a small alley. Earlier, mules passed discretely through the door leaving backpacks full of money.

The Boss stopped one to frisk. Though paper bags inside the packs were sealed and they couldn’t steal without him knowing, the mules shouldn’t know. He taught them not to look.

He made sure the others were watching. He slapped the unfortunate’s pockets, front and rear. He slapped loud, causing the man to quake with fear. He found a five and made a big deal about it.

“What business you have with a five dollar bill?”

His hard eyes burned into the man’s consciousness. “Maybe I don’t need to pay you, you got so much money!”

He was smart not to answer. Boss ranted. He raved. He let it be known if he ever stole, it’d be the last money he’d see.

“I don’t ask much. You get it there and then you bring it here. Understand? Tell me you understand!”

The mule mumbled. “I understand.”

“Louder!”

“I understand.”

“All of you!”

They made a ragged chorus.

Satisfied with his command over these disorderly men, he chased them out. But he wasn’t happy. That matter was still outstanding, and he waited for the call. It wasn’t the money anymore. He wanted vengeance and the lesson it would teach.

Marco waited, too. He had his feelers out. It was like fishing, waiting for a line to grow taut.

Snap.

***


They shuffled through the city streets, the big man with the shaggy beard and the slender one with the small hat and shaved head.

Joe led and Riley followed. When they passed Market, other pedestrians dashed around or between them, like a rushing stream through stationary rocks. Most looked beyond, some consciously averted eyes, but few people looked directly at them.

Riley was far from the world he knew, where he eagerly sought approval from friends, professors and his parents. Here, approval was out of the question. He was shunned.

The sun rose higher and bleached the west side of the street. Riley donned his sunglasses. Joe squinted. He took off his jacket, but Joe retained his. He must be burning inside, Riley thought. When Joe crossed to the cool shadow side, he put on his jacket again.

They trudged past Mission, Howard and Folsom streets, gazing into the shadowy interiors of car repair garages busy with business. They’d be a good place to rest, but no one welcomed them. They continued down the uneven sidewalks. Pedestrians were fewer but the pavement narrower. They gave them wide berth.

Stopping in the doorway of a restaurant closed during the day, they rested in the shadows. Joe leaned and Riley sat against the wall. It looked like no one would bother them.

But a white sedan pulled up as soon as they were settled. A wiry young man approached. His head was shaved at sides with a black pad of hair on top. Joe grabbed his bag to get out the way.

“I want to see you. You knew Robbie Martin?”

Joe grunted.

“Let’s talk.”

He grabbed Joe by the jacket, nearly lifting him, and pulled him a few feet away. He whispered intently, his smooth face close to the bearded one.

Riley feared for his friend. Who was this guy? Could he be undercover?

In a few minutes he was gone. Joe stood where the man had left him, like a game piece waiting for the next move. Riley searched his face for a clue, but Joe betrayed no emotion.

“What did he want?”

“Robbie’s killer.”



The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

The next chapter will be posted May 30.