Authors: George Fong
Fragmented (27 page)
50
Thursday –
The cigarette
in Youngblood’s hand had been smoked down to the menthol filter. He squeezed the stub between his thumb and middle finger and flicked it into the center of the parking lot, where it bounced off the rear bumper of a white, late-1950’s Plymouth Fury. He recognized the model. Power-Flite, push-button automatic transmission and rear tailfins that would give any person a lifetime membership in the Caped Crusader’s Club. Youngblood’s mother had one just like it. She was proud of that car. It helped her compensate for not having a husband; for Eric not having a real father. Youngblood remembered when he was small, he would look over, see his mother lost in her own world as she cruised along the Pacific Coast Highway, bright weekend morning, her lips glossy wet with red lipstick that filled an expansive smile, like that car was the only thing that gave her pleasure. It reminded her she was still alive.
He stared at the Fury, studying the heap of metal that was probably once a nice ride. Now the tires were bald and the fenders spotted in rust. It showed more than age. This car may have been built in the same factory, but that’s where the similarities ended. Like Youngblood and Cooper, two men on very different paths.
He stared at the Perko’s parking lot across the street. It was packed. Youngblood couldn’t tell which cars belonged to customers and which ones belonged to cops. It made him feel both safe and nervous at the same time.
A few people appeared, spilling into the lot and making their wa
y up the back steps to the MoMo Lounge. Two parking attendants in black slacks and white shirts greeted vehicles as they pulled up to the valet stand. Everything sped like a movie on fast forward, especially compared to Youngblood, who felt stuck on pause. There was a wreck of a transient who had been slouched across the bus stop bench for as long as Youngblood had been there, greeting every pedestrian that crossed his path. So far, everyone seemed to ignore him. He’d stand, wave his arms like he was leading an orchestra, before taking a bow with the grace of a busted ladder.
Youngblood turned his attention back to the parking lot and the feeder alleyways that opened to the south and west, cars pouring out and filled with young couples. A band started playing upstairs at the MoMo, a male voice belting Van Morrison’s “Moondance,” the bass beat heavy. The air was still thick, the atmosphere electric with evening life. No one knew there were more cops and guns in the area than patrons. Youngblood lit another cigarette and took a deep drag, blowing the smoke through both nostrils. He started to feel antsy, wondering if Cooper was really going to show. Maybe he was already out there, watching him, wondering if this was a set-up. Which, of course, it was. He knew if Cooper suspected him of cooperating with the police, he’d kill him without hesitation.
Feeling shaky, he pushed himself away from the
Malibu
and erected board stiff. He didn’t have a clue what he was doing or why; he just needed to do something. He launched his cigarette into the street, the embers bouncing and rolling like a Chinese sparkler, and then turned to the left and headed down the sidewalk toward the front of the building, checking the streets, studying the crowd coming and going. He squinted at the evening sky, the horizon fading from dark orange and darker purple. Youngblood continued to study the crowd, now starting to fold into a sea of bodies. He turned around and started back to the car.
A bus pulled away from the corner, the motor rumbling and spewing exhaust stink. The transient was still standing by the bench, bent over, arms apart, taking another bow. Youngblood picked up the pace, hoping to make his way past the bum before he had a chance to beg for money. No such luck. The man reached out and placed one hand on Youngblood’s jacket, his other pressing against Youngblood’s stomach.
Youngblood stopped abruptly, trying to retreat from the smell of foot rot.
“Spare some change?” the man whispered through a face full of matted whiskers.
“Sorry, got no change.” Youngblood upturned two empty palms and tried to push away, but the man held tight.
The transient forced out a phlegm-filled laugh. “That’s okay, my friend. I got paid already.”
Youngblood felt the bum’s hand, still on his stomach, pat twice. He looked down and saw a piece of paper sandwiched there. The transient put a finger to his own lips, then he pulled the paper away far enough for Youngblood to see a message written on it.
Don’t talk, don’t alert the police. Go upstairs to the bathroom at the MoMo.
The man placed both hands on Youngblood’s chest and gave him a pat. “Have a nice day,” the man said as he stepped back with a bow
.
Youngblood took the note, crumpled it in a tight ball and tossed it in a nearby trash can. It hit the rim and bounced to the sidewalk. He looked around, still unable to tell the cops from the pedestrians, and made his way back to the
Malibu
, where he pulled out another cigarette. He paused a second to think. Then dipped his head toward his belt buckle.
51
Thursday –
Marquez kept
her eyes locked on Youngblood as the Camry sped past the corner next to the bus stop.
“Looks like your boy is being shaken down by a drunk.”
Jack shifted his head in time to catch a bundle of dirty clothes crowding Youngblood’s body.
“Marquez, you get a good look at the transient?”
“It’s not Cooper. Guy’s too tall.”
Jack grabbed his radio microphone. “Does anyone have an eye on that transient accosting our source?”
A voice came back, one of the surveillance team members. “I’ve got ’em. He’s been here the whole time and he doesn’t seem to be making any move away from the area. We got a call to the Metro Transit Authority to have an officer come out and shake him down for disturbing riders. Should be able to clear him.”
Jack turned down the Bureau radio and turned up the volume on the one transmitting Youngblood’s body wire. A lot of road noise, muffled conversations, the sound of shuffling feet. Then a voice came through clearly: “Have a nice day.”
By now, Jack and Marquez were two blocks down, waiting at an intersection for the stoplight to turn green. They strained to hear Youngblood’s voice, the transmission nothing but footsteps and the scratchy sound of fabric rubbing against the mic.
Jack swung the vehicle to the right and accelerated, hoping to catch the next corner before the light turned red. Before too long, Jack would be out of the transmitter’s range. Then he heard Youngblood talk, and the two leaned closer to the speaker.
“Did he say piss?” Marquez asked.
Jack nodded. “Yep. Nature called.”
“Some undercover man.”
The Bureau radio crackled and a surveillance agent informed them that Youngblood was walking up the back stairs into the building.
Jack circled the area, trying to keep some distance so that Cooper wouldn’t spot them. The Metro Authority arrived and gave the transient the heave-ho down the street. More pedestrians crowded the sidewalks,
Harlow
’s customers starting to spill out onto the terrace.
A surveillance agent came back on the radio, his tone elevated, voice shaky against background noise. Jack could hear the agent breathing heavily as though running.
“This is Shadow 5. Your source tossed something on the ground after contacting the transient. It’s a note.”
Jack started to get that sinking feeling. He strained to hear the rest.
52
Thursday –
Youngblood stood
by the bathroom door, staring at the little man stenciled on tarnished brass plate. Hand on door, he paused, wondering what he was waiting for him on the other side, and hoping it wasn’t a knife to his throat. He kept quiet, not only for Cooper’s sake, but he didn’t want the surveillance crew finding out. Youngblood wasn’t worried about Cooper’s freedom; he just knew that if Cooper suspected the police were closing in, he wouldn’t survive another second. It was best to find Cooper on his own, then decide what to do next.
Youngblood reached down and unbuckled his belt, sliding it out, rolling it neatly, and shoving it into a nearby trash can. He took a deep breath, then gave the door a push.
The bathroom was small. The light on the ceiling bathed the room in a golden tint, making the black and white checkerboard tile appear stained. A hand grabbed him and spun him around. Youngblood stared into a familiar face. Although a bit older, worn down, it was still Cooper.
Youngblood began to speak but Cooper cupped his mouth and held a single left finger to his lips.
Cooper reached behind him and locked the door, grinning as he held up a note card in front of Youngblood’s face.
Are you wearing a wire?
The words were written in dark felt pen.
Youngblood tried to feign offense, shaking his head. Cooper stepped back and waved an open hand, directing Youngblood to turn around slowly. Youngblood spun around while Cooper patted him down, looking for a transmitter or a recorder.
“Where are the cops?” Cooper’s voice was quiet, controlled.
Youngblood shook his head again. “No cops, I told you.”
Cooper leaned against the bathroom door, arms crossed. He remained silent.
Besides being ten pounds heavier, a few wrinkles sprouting around the eyes, Cooper looked exactly like he did fifteen years ago. It was his personality, an aura emanating fury.
Youngblood swallowed and nervously scratched the back of his neck. “I was surprised you still were using the Rabbit Hole.”
“I keep all options open.” Cooper paused. “How did you remember to use it?”
“I don’t forget much, Alvie.”
“Alvie,” Cooper said, smiling. “I haven’t been called that in years.
”
“That’s because only your friends call you that.”
“Yeah, don’t have many of those left, now do I?”
Youngblood didn’t answer right away, then said, “What do we do now?”
Cooper pushed himself away from the door and reached into one of the bathroom stalls. He pulled out two black, shiny, nylon baseball windbreakers. Large, white lettering embroidered across the back read “Van the Man Band.” Cooper handed one to Youngblood.
“Where did you get the jackets?”
Cooper chuckled and, impersonating Elvis, said, “We’re part of the band, man.” He pointed with his chin at the door as the music kicked into high gear. Van Morrison’s “Domino” started to rock and the crowd roared.
Youngblood slid on the jacket. It was a little big and smelled like weed.
“Let’s go.”
Cooper reached around Youngblood and cracked the door. He stuck his head into the hall, giving the area a quick look before nudging Youngblood out.
As Cooper was leading Youngblood down the small cove between the restrooms, a man appeared from around the corner. Black, about six-two,
. Youngblood instantly recognized him as the bouncer from
Harlow
’s. Before Youngblood could say anything, he was shoved from behind, tumbling forward, falling into the bouncer’s arms. He tried to stand but a hand pushed hard against his back, not letting him regain his balance. The bouncer had an earpiece, a curly wire trailing down behind his back, the same type all the police officers wear. The bouncer tried to shove Youngblood off, but it was too late. Cooper lunged, a knife in his right hand. He drove the steel blade deep into the bouncer’s chest. A heavy thud followed by a gurgling groan. Cooper pulled back and stabbed the bouncer again, and again, until the body collapsed in a heap, like a sack of wheat.
“Quick,” Cooper said, “help me get this guy into the bathroom.”
Youngblood remained still, his eyes fixated on the large man pumping blood across the wooden floor. “What the hell did you do?”
Cooper looked up. “He’s a cop. I can tell.”
“He’s a bouncer, Alvie.”
“He’s also a cop and I’m not taking any chances.” Cooper hooked both of his hands under the dead man’s armpits and struggled to drag him forward. “Come on, Eric. Give me a hand before someone else shows up.”
Together, they dragged the bouncer into the bathroom, leaned him up against the back of the door and slipped out. They heard his body slide against the wall, blocking the doorway from being pushed open, like a drunk had passed out on the bathroom floor. It wouldn’t take long to discover the mess but by that time, Cooper and Youngblood would be safely away.
“Where are we going?” Youngblood asked, wiping blood from his hands.
“We’re getting the hell out of here. Far, far away.” Cooper paused. “But first, I got something to show you.”
“Something or some
one
?”