The Rampage of Ryan O'Hara (6 page)

Ryan looked at Sal and paused. He was trying to find the right words to present his proposition. He knew he’d have to come clean with his friend and tell him what went down in Chicago.

Sal would have to know his entire plan from start to finish if he was going to have any chance of enlisting his help. Yeah, honesty was the best policy. Trusting Sal wasn’t a problem. He’d proven that many times over. The problem was the sell. Sal was courageous and not averse to taking chances, but he wasn’t foolhardy. If
there was risk in something, he wanted to know that he had a reasonable chance of coming out on top.

It was no secret that Sal was a criminal. Outwardly, he didn’t look any different than any other motorcycle outlaw, but that was as far as first appearances went. He was a master criminal. He was multidimensional and not trapped in the rut of any single endeavor. Anyone wanting to score drugs, crack heads, fence stolen property, plan a heist, or hit a jewelry store in the dead of night would have a much better chance of success if they knew Sal.

He hadn’t achieved seven-figure wealth by being a petty biker punk. No, he was much bigger than that, and although Ryan wasn’t in the know, he suspected that his résumé also included being a hit man.

Neither one of them ever spoke in specifics about what they did. It was just understood. They were both bad dudes.

Ryan began to speak. “Sal, you know as well as anyone why I wound up at the Dawn of Light. I was all fucked up in the head and acting out very badly. My parents couldn’t handle me. By the time they turned me over to Father O’Rourke, I was cursing the day I was born, denying God’s existence, and giving the finger to the whole human race. I didn’t give a shit about anybody or anything, least of all myself. I was on a path to self-destruction and everyone knew it. A priest at our parish told my folks about the Dawn and in desperation they enrolled me. Turns out it was the best thing that ever happened to me and probably prevented me from embarking on a life of crime.”

“Yeah, me too.” Sal laughed.

“Well, you know the rest—or at least some of it. After we got out of the Dawn, you went your way and I went mine. The profession I chose has served me well and has fulfilled me in many ways. The problem is that I was never successful in coming to terms with the death of my grandparents. Just knowing that the filthy degenerate bastards who killed them had gone free ate away at me. When I say killed
them
, it’s because Grandma’s death was brought about by Grandpa’s. She just wilted away and died. I was the one who found her dead, all balled up in the fetal position in a dark corner of the garage one day after school. From that point on, it was all downhill for me. I went totally out of control. I knew that if I was ever going to be able to call myself a man, I would have to even the score and get those responsible for destroying my family.”

Sal broke in. “Shit, man, you’re more of a man than most guys I know. You don’t have anything to prove to anyone. Christ, you’ve been in combat how many times now? What about the medals you earned knocking off those terrorist bastards in Afghanistan and Iraq? No, buddy, you’re as much a man as anyone I know and then some. But go ahead and continue. Sorry I interrupted you.”

“I don’t have much of a family left now, Sal. My dad retired from the trucking business a few years ago, and shortly after that my mom died of cancer. After she passed, the old man just sat at home and drank. His liver quit on him last year and he checked out.”

“You never told me that, buddy. How come?”

“There wasn’t any need to. You didn’t know them all that well and I didn’t see any point in dwelling on it.
The worst part in all this, though, is what happened to my little brother and sister, who were forced to deal with some heavy emotional baggage without any help. Had my parents been less wrapped up in their own self-pity, they may have noticed that the little ones needed some parental reassurance. Perhaps if they’d been thinking straight instead of wallowing in their own grief, they’d have been motivated to get the kids some professional counseling. They failed my brother and sister and, as a result, their lives are a screwed-up mess.

“Until he dropped off the radar screen a couple of years ago, my brother, Neal, had been working in construction. He’s a good carpenter but he can’t hold a steady job. Sooner or later he winds up getting fired for either showing up drunk, getting in a fight, or telling the boss to piss up a rope. He’s been married three times, has five kids whom he rarely sees, and has been treated for depression for as long as I can remember. In short, he’s a mess, and I attribute it all to that day in 1974 when those Lenin’s Legion pukes killed Grandpa and destroyed the family.

“My sister, Katy, struggled through school and took a stab at college but never finished. She’s married with a couple of kids but has a lot of emotional problems. Her husband’s a bank manager. He’s a damn nice guy who has tried everything to make her happy, but nothing he does seems to do any good. Quite honestly, I don’t know how he can stand being with her. I would have left a long time ago.”

“Damn, bro, I’m sure sorry. Your life’s even more messed up than mine, and that ain’t right being as you did all the right things and I didn’t.”

“Thanks, Sal. I appreciate your sympathy but save it. I came here tonight because I’m on a mission and I need your help in assuring it succeeds. If you’re interested, listen to what I’m about to say and then give it a thumbs-up or -down. Either way, we’ll still be friends.”

“Okay, brother, have at it. What can I do for you?”

Ryan began by telling Sal about the events of the past few days. He told him every detail about the killing of Professor Bill Delgadillo, his wife, Brenda, and their nephew, Hugo. He filled him in on the role the professors had played in the bombing murder of his grandfather in the parking lot of Park Station, and how it was just one of the many bombings they had perpetrated throughout the country during the late sixties and early seventies.

He covered it all, vividly describing the bombings, the murders, the ties to foreign agents, and the ongoing campaign that the professors had waged in their quest to cultivate young minds for their future Marxist utopia.

“Do you remember that cop who used to come up and volunteer at the Dawn?” Ryan asked.

Sal thought for a minute. “Yeah, I remember. He was a short, balding little fella, right? His name was Jack, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, Jack Oldham. Do you remember how we used to joke that he was too nice to be a cop?”

“Yeah, I do,” Sal replied. “We thought that he was more cut out to be a priest. He was kind and gentle and never had a bad thing to say about anyone. Most of all, he’d listen to our concerns for hours and try to give us reassurance and advice on how to cope with the adversities that had consumed our young lives. He was very
patient and understanding, almost to the point of being spiritual.”

Ryan agreed. “He and his wife took a special interest in me when they found out I was Mort O’Hara’s grandson. Turns out they knew each other quite well and had worked together early in their careers.”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember the connection between Jack and your grandpa. He spoke about it a lot. Another thing I remember is that they let me tag along when they came up and took you out for Easter dinner in 1980.”

“I’m glad you remember, because Jack’s the reason I need your help.”

“How so?” asked Sal.

“Do you remember that, all of a sudden, Jack and his wife stopped coming around?”

“Well, I can’t remember giving it any thought, but now that you mention it, the last time I recall seeing him was on the Fourth of July in 1980.”

“You’re right. That was the last time. Father O’Rourke never told us why Jack didn’t come back. I guess he figured we were troubled enough and that telling us would just send us off the deep end. So he kept it from us.”

“Kept what from us, bro?”

“His murder.”

Sal looked surprised. “His murder? Are you telling me someone killed that nice old guy?”

“Yes, that’s what I’m telling you.”

“Who the hell would kill someone like Jack? The guy was harmless. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Yeah, I know, but that didn’t matter to those Black Socialist Army and Lenin’s Legion motherfuckers who killed him.” Ryan paused and studied Sal’s face as he
finished the last of his beer. “How about another drink, partner?”

“Yeah, sure, but don’t stop now. Tell me what these bastards did to Jack and what it all has to do with me.”

“I will, but let’s order another round first.”

Ryan motioned for the waiter and ordered more drinks. After the waiter brought them to the table and left, he continued, “Jack was a sergeant at the old Potrero Station. That’s the one out in the Bayview District that was across from the American Can Company, on Third Street.”

“Yeah, I’m familiar with it. It was just up the block from the old Bethlehem Shipyard, right?”

“That’s it.”

“Go on. I’m listening,” said Sal.

“It was a Saturday night in late July. Jack had volunteered to trade days off with another sergeant, who had a family commitment. He was one of the section sergeants that night and was supervising patrolmen on the street. Some white broad came into the station and told the station duty officer she’d just been gang-raped by a bunch of black guys up on Hudson Street. She was crying hysterically and appeared very traumatized.

“A couple of patrolmen responded into the station to take charge of the initial investigation and decided to go to the scene and see if they could apprehend the suspects. They contacted Jack over the radio and told him what they intended to do. He came into the station and okayed the plan. Like any good street sergeant would do, he decided to accompany them. He grabbed a couple more patrolmen and responded to the location of
the alleged rape. The woman went along to show them the house.”

After a pause, Ryan continued, “Upon arriving at the location, the woman was told to stay in the car. Jack sent a couple of patrolmen around to the rear of the house—in case someone tried to flee out the back door—and started up the front steps with the other two cops. That’s when all hell broke loose.

“One of the patrolmen knocked on the door and announced their presence. When he didn’t receive an answer, he turned the knob, and as he pushed the door open, the porch blew up. Jack was killed instantly and the two patrolmen were critically injured. One of them sustained a spinal injury when he landed on his back at the base of the steps. Paralyzed from the waist down, he’s been in a wheelchair ever since. The other cop sustained a fractured skull and lost his eyesight. After lengthy hospital stays, both officers retired on disability.

“The two patrolmen who’d been watching the back of the house came running around to the front just in time to see the white broad getting into a maroon Cadillac with three black dudes. The suspects had been lurking nearby and had picked her up when they heard the explosion. The officers unloaded their guns at the car as it sped away and were able to get a partial license plate number, which they put out over the air.

“Within minutes, the Cadillac was spotted by couple of cops in the lower Mission District. The ensuing car chase went on for about ten minutes, during which time the suspects fired out the back window at the pursuing cops. The cop in the passenger seat of the police vehicle leaned out the window and fired off fifteen rounds from
an M-1 carbine, hitting the suspect vehicle several times. The driver was hit and lost control, crashing into a telephone pole.

“Two of the black dudes bailed and took off running. They escaped into the warehouse area, but it was quickly sealed off by responding units. They were soon flushed out and taken into custody after a dog from the canine unit located them hiding in a railway boxcar. The driver of the suspect vehicle, Junius Livingston, was dead at the scene. The white broad, a bitch named Janet Hanoian, died from multiple gunshot wounds a few hours later at San Francisco General. Before she expired, she made a dying declaration acknowledging that she was a member of Lenin’s Legion and that the bombing was a joint operation between her organization and the soldiers of the Black Socialist Army. She also warned that ‘the pigs’ hadn’t seen anything yet.

“The two pukes who fled from the car were a couple of BSA members by the names of Albert Jefferson and Anthony Upton. They’re the reason that I need you,” Ryan finished.

“Need me for what?” asked Sal.

“Because of the line of work that you’re in, you have access to people that I don’t.”

Sal laughed softly and said, “I must say, old buddy, you flatter me. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard my vocation referred to as a line of work. But thanks for the compliment. Please continue.”

“The two punks who survived the chase and shootout were tried and convicted of Jack’s murder. They were also convicted on six separate counts of attempted
murder of a police officer. They’re currently serving life sentences at San Quentin with no possibility of parole.”

“Okay, so what’s this got to do with me, bro?” asked Sal.

“I’m assuming that you have connections with guys in the joint.”

“Your assumption is correct.”

“I know that in order to survive inside those walls, guys have to join gangs. It’s the only way they are able to protect themselves from either becoming someone’s wife or winding up dead.”

“You got that right,” Sal acknowledged.

“When Jefferson and Upton first went to Quentin, they became members of the African Guerrilla Brotherhood. They started at the bottom but over the years moved to the top of the heap and are now two of its most powerful leaders. They didn’t get there by attending Bible classes with the supposed born-again Christians who are trying to con their way out of the joint.”

“How do you know all this, bro?”

“One of my friends is a screw and he told me. He also told me that Jefferson and Upton are suspected in several murders. Their traditional targets belong to a Mexican gang called Hijos de Zapata and a Caucasian gang called the White Alliance. The Mexicans and the Caucasians have a cooperative arrangement within the walls and watch each other’s backs. If one group is attacked, the other one comes to their aid. Both groups are suspected of bumping off blacks from time to time in a sort of tit for tat that will probably never end.”