Royal Flush (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series Book 6) (29 page)

My arms and back were raw. I hoped my shirt was still in one piece, without blood spots, and that none of the bruises and scrapes on my arms, hands, and neck would show in the dim light of the bar.

Stopping with my hand on the doorknob, I listened. Voices outside. Floyd’s and someone else. I waited. Both voices disappeared into the men’s room across the hall. I opened the door a crack. No one else was in the hallway. It was now or never. I opened it enough to slide through, ran for the rear exit, closed the door behind me, and headed back over the fence again.

And in the front door. A few more people had come in. The three guys from Chicago were sitting at a table now, drinking beer. Rosie spotted me and headed my way.

No Zack, no Red, but there was Floyd, walking into the bar from the back. He caught my eye. I stared at him to make sure he was paying attention, then I jerked my head in the direction of the front door.

Very casually, Rosie and I went outside to wait for him. I started to tell her what I’d heard, but Floyd showed up in two minutes.

I put it to him straight up. “Was that you in the closet?”

“What?” Okay, maybe not.

“Closet?” Rosie was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet waiting to hear what was up. I told them what I’d learned.

Rosie ran down what she could remember of people’s movements in and out of the bar. Karl had come back from the bathroom, she said, left Thor’s for a while, then came back. One of the men from Chicago had gone outside, and she’d seen him talking to Red. She’d lost track of Steve for about ten minutes, thought he’d been outside with another one of the out-of-towners.

Floyd-Byron nodded slowly, looking thoughtful. Not urgent, just thoughtful. Karl came out of the door and nodded to us but kept on walking.

As soon as Karl was out of earshot down the street, I said, “I’m going over there. To Frasier’s.” With Rosie and her pistol.

“Don’t. I’ll notify Berkeley PD and go myself.”

He was off down the street before I could get in another word. I didn’t have time to try very hard. I was busy following Rosie to the car.

As much as I didn’t trust Floyd-Byron, I thought it was a safe bet that he would call the Berkeley PD, which meant that Rosie and I didn’t have to make any long explanations to the 911 dispatcher about a supposed hit that was forty minutes off. Just the same, Rosie is very protective of her license— another reason not to have one, as far as I’m concerned: who needs something else to protect?— so we covered ourselves by leaving word for both Pauline in San Rafael and Hank in Berkeley. Maybe with everyone calling everyone else, someone would get there in time to save Cary Frasier.

Maybe they wouldn’t.

We had the marshmallow, and Rosie was driving, so I made the calls, and I was very careful to mention Byron’s name. If there was any police heat about anything connected with this operation, I wanted to be sure he was the one who got burned.

We were fifteen minutes, tops, from Frasier’s house at the other end of town. I’d heard the address on only one occasion, but I’d never forgotten it: “Two-six-oh-five Barclay Street,” chanted over and over, as a threat, the day the warriors had attacked Frasier’s demonstration at Farrier’s.

On the way up Ashby Avenue, I noticed a familiar vehicle three cars ahead, an old brown VW fastback. Still a few of those around Berkeley, but I was pretty sure this was the one that belonged to Karl Tullis because it had all the right dents and scrapes. And that helped a few other things fall into place. I pointed it out to Rosie. She said he could be going anywhere. I explained why I thought that it was more than possible he was on his way to Frasier’s, just like we were.

Floyd had been my best first guess about the other eavesdropper, but the slight irregularity I thought I’d heard in the gait could have been more than just sneaky tiptoeing. It could easily have been a limp. Karl’s limp. From what Rosie had said about his movements, he could have gone to the men’s room, checked the back door— finding it unlocked, thanks to me— gone into the bar again, out the front door, over the fence and in, just like I had. And this latest conference might not have been the only one he’d ever overheard.

I was remembering the night way back last week, it was one of the first times I’d gone to Thor’s. Karl had rushed away from our table and disappeared; Ebner and the two boys had met in the back room and come back out again. Royal, knowing he was in for a warrior assignment, nervous, had spilled his drink and dashed to the bathroom, nearly colliding with Karl who was reappearing from the hallway. Maybe from the toilet, maybe not. But if he’d been eavesdropping, then or now, I could guess why— he was tired of being out of the Command loop. After all, he was the smart one, wasn’t he?

Which brought up the other point. If his “guess” that Floyd was a cop was more than just a guess, if he’d actually found something out, why hadn’t he exposed Floyd to the group? Why had he just teased him with the possibility? What was he after, anyway?

Rosie listened to my questions and my theorizing in silence. Then all she said was, “Karl. Hmm. Karl.” And then, “So why’s he heading for Frasier’s? To get in on the assassination?”

Or maybe to get there first and do the job himself? That was a possibility. Or maybe he was just another ringer from God knows where.

The brown fastback turned left; so did Rosie.

We fell back a bit, watching the VW. No doubt about it, Karl was heading for Frasier’s. He parked down the street, ran into Frasier’s driveway, and disappeared at the back of the house. Rosie also parked half a block away and we walked toward number 2605. Twilight was just about to drop into night, and there were no signs of life in or around the house. I maneuvered down the driveway, Rosie just behind me, sliding from shrub to shrub. The curtains were drawn in the dark windows all along the side. One light in a back room made the nearer part of the backyard brighter than I wanted it to be. Rosie stepped ahead of me and drew her gun. I reflected again that I might have to get one of those. I hate playing second fiddle when the chips are down. I would never say that out loud, by the way, not in her presence. Rosie hates mixed metaphors.

If Karl was in on this job, was maybe even the chosen killer, we’d have to stop him somehow. But what if he’d come to warn Frasier, or even to save him? If he spotted us sneaking around, he could easily guess that we were there on Command business, that we had been assigned to kill Frasier for the Command and prove our loyalty. Either he or Frasier could be armed, and they might not stop to chat with us. In either case, whether he was the killer or the savior, I was afraid Rosie might have to shoot someone. Probably Karl.

Poor Karl. It would be just like him to try to grab a little glory and get killed in the attempt.

There was no curtain in the window next to the back door. Standing far enough away in the darkness to see and possibly not be seen by the people in the lighted room, I looked in.

Karl was there. He and Frasier were sitting at the kitchen table, Karl talking a mile a minute, waving his hands. Frasier nodded, got up, went to the phone. I moved closer so I could hear.

“…bunch of Nazis, coming here… kill me…”

He was standing with his back toward me so I couldn’t tell how many numerals he’d punched in. He could have been calling 911 or some of his followers or friends.

Then he went to a kitchen drawer and pulled out a pistol, an automatic. I’m no gun expert, but I could at least see that the weapon was big. Bigger than Rosie’s ten-millimeter.

Frasier waved for Karl to follow him to the front of the house. Karl shook his head and came right toward the back door. Toward me. He pushed it open and put one foot on the stoop.

Rosie stepped out of the bushes, pointed her pistol at him, and said, “Hi, Karl.”

The skinny little guy nearly jumped out of his jeans. He started babbling hysterically. “Oh, Jesus. What are you guys doing here? They sent you, didn’t they? You followed me, didn’t you? They know, right? Steve? This is your membership test, catching me, oh shit, Jase, I thought we were friends. Cary! Cary! Help!”

He was crying. Cary Frasier didn’t come.

I figured by now several armies were on their way to this quiet street. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be there at all, but if I was going to stay I wanted to know what was going on.

“Karl, we’re not going to kill you. Just tell us, fast, what the hell you’re doing here.”

Cary had apparently thought better of abandoning Karl. Suddenly he was in the doorway, pointing his automatic at us.

“Drop it, lady.”

She didn’t drop it, but she talked fast. “Look, we’re not here to kill you, either. We’ve been working undercover. We’re PIs. Royal hired us to, well, I guess save him from himself, and we—”

“—didn’t do such a good job!” Karl laughed, sounding a little less hysterical now that he had Frasier, and Frasier’s gun, beside him.

I moved a couple of steps away from Rosie, to give Frasier a more confusing target. “Pete Ebner wasn’t the only ringer in the group from ThePeople, was he, Karl?”

“No, but he was the only crazy one.”

Suddenly I was sure who had killed Ebner. “And ThePeople had to stop him, didn’t they, Frasier? Or risk taking the blame for the race war he wanted to start, not to mention all the killings he was planning. That would have been wonderful. The guy gets caught and tells the press he was really a member of your group. Just what you need, right?”

“Who are these people, Karl?” He actually spoke through gritted teeth, something you don’t get to see too often.

“I’ve got one of our agency cards in my shirt pocket, Frasier. Can I reach in and get it? I don’t have a gun.”

“Karl, you get it.”

He did, his fingers barely touching the body behind the fabric, and handed it over to Frasier.

Who looked at it and handed it back.

“You can’t prove Pete Ebner was killed by any of us.”

“You’re right. I can’t. I’ll just let the cops sort it all out.”

And that was when we all heard the car squeal to a halt in the driveway. No headlights. We heard running feet, and Floyd-Byron, flanked by two of Berkeley’s finest, raced around back, guns drawn, and nearly ran right into me and Rosie. Frasier dropped his gun. I heard the cop car pull out again. I wondered how many cops would be hiding in the bushes on this side of the block.

Karl was laughing and pointing at Floyd. “Hey, it’s really true, son of a bitch. You are a cop. Hah! I knew it. Son of a bitch!” He was ecstatic.

“What the hell— Karl? Go home, Jake. And you too, Rosie.”

I answered for both of us. “No.”

“Then go watch from your car.”

Nothing I wanted more, but I didn’t like his attitude. “Screw you.”

“Now! They’ll be here in ten minutes, ready to kill Frasier, primed. Unless Karl was point man— listen, Frasier, did this guy try to off you?”

“This man is one of mine,” Frasier intoned. What a jerk. “He came to warn me. ThePeople are one!” Well, maybe it wasn’t exactly true that Ebner was the only crazy member of Frasier’s group. Floyd-Byron looked at Rosie and burst out laughing.

“Jesus. They’re all nuts. But go sit in your car anyway.”

I wasn’t ready to go. “What about Red? What about Steve? What about the three stooges from Chicago?”

“We raided Thor’s about five minutes ago. And the house in San Rafael. Conspiracy to commit murder.”

“Okay,” I said, surprised he’d give us that much, relieved and suddenly exhausted. “Rosie, let’s go sit in the car.”

The cops took Frasier and Karl away, and we got out of the mix, back to the Taurus marshmallow. Rosie started it up and tucked it into the driveway of an unlighted house just a couple of doors down. Most of the car was behind a couple of trees. Perfect spot for watching fireworks. A couple more lights went on in Frasier’s house. The cops, probably trying to make sure the warriors knew Frasier was still home.

The warriors showed up, at precisely eight o’clock, Zack at the wheel. Skink and Washburn were with him. They slid to a stop outside the circle of yellow cast by the streetlight about six feet from where we were sitting, hunched down low behind the dash.

Skink stuck his arm out the passenger-side window, pointing to a new Volkswagen Beetle parked at the curb. “That’s Frasier’s. He’s here. Let’s go.” He opened the door and jumped out into the light. He was holding a gun. Special issue from Red, keeper of the arsenal. Washburn climbed out of the back seat. “Hey, Skink, wait. We’re supposed to wait until he comes out.” The two of them stood there, looking back toward Zack.

Zack turned off the ignition, and slowly, deliberately, stepped out of the car and walked over to Frasier’s Beetle, lifted his boot, and kicked out one of its tail lights. Like Leslie, he favored steel tips. “Fuck it. Let’s go in now.”

They walked quickly, and considering the boots, pretty quietly up to Frasier’s house.

I was thinking these kids didn’t follow orders very well, for Nazis. This was working out pretty neatly.

Zack was doing something to the front door. It looked like he had a picklock in his hands. Skink, holding his weapon, trotted around to the back of the house. Suddenly Zack swore, yanked at the knob, tossed the picklock into the bushes, pulled a gun out of his jacket, and kicked in the door. Maybe he’d missed a couple of lessons at locksmith school.

I heard a crash from the back of the house a split second later. Skink had broken a window.

Seconds after the boys entered front and back, guns drawn, so did the police.

Not a shot was fired.

“Mr. Samson, this is Harry George.”

“How nice of you to call.”

He ignored the sarcasm. “I just wanted to tell you that we were aware of the activities of the Aryan Command, and were, in fact, attempting to follow their connections through Steve Dahl. Of course, he’s gone now. But we’ll find him.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“It’s always difficult to run a covert operation, take it as far as we need to, when other people get involved.”

“Like me. And the police.”

“Yes. Mr. Samson, you really need to have more faith in your government.”