The Sentinel (27 page)

The weather was as hot and dry as Washington, D.C., was humid. It was hellish Central California evangelist-tent heat that turned necks into red leather, melted asphalt on drag strips, and brought a steady stream of refrigerated beer trucks crossing the ridge route from L.A. each day.

Garrison knew about Bakersfield from having been there during the last Presidential campaign. Its growth in the 1920's stemmed from the migration from the Dust Bowl by people looking for farm labor. It had been a harsh desert that had eventually been transformed into agricultural farmland for as far as the eye could see. He'd learned that Bakersfield was an unusual place made up of wealthy farmers, stoop laborers, and a suburban class that owned boats they stored in their garages until the weekend, when they launched them in the Kern River, the lifeblood of the flatland city. Up until the 1950's, there had been Ku Klux Klan activity and reports of lynchings in the city. Even today, Bakersfield's politics was kooky, with right-wing city prosecutors in the District Attorney's office and KILL THE IRS stickers on pickup truck bumpers all over town.

He drove to a downtown clothing store and purchased Levi's and a white crew-neck T-shirt. Having changed clothes in the rental car, he used a city map he found in the glove compartment to find the Corral Club, the establishment mentioned in the file folder he'd taken from Flanagan as being a hangout for Garth Alexander's associate Spike Vincent.

Cruising slowly on a road just off Highway 99 at the Norton Boulevard turnoff, Garrison spotted a sign: CORRAL CLUB - DANCING. Above it was a martini glass. Inside, it would be bucking bronco. Garrison parked his car in a gravel-covered parking lot.

The dimly lit bar was deceptively larger than it looked from the outside. Half of the room was a horseshoe-shaped cocktail bar of the red padded-leather variety. The other side was a pool table and some booths. The only other customers in the place were three men attired in motorcycle leather and two hefty women at the pool table. An overpowering odor of beer-soaked wood reminded Garrison of a hundred such places he'd been to during investigations.

Garrison straddled a barstool. Everyone stared at him. It was the kind of place the local police officers would refer to as a "toilet," which, translated, meant a bar frequented by ex-cons and other white underclass creeps with tattoos, bad teeth, and long, greasy hair. It wasn't the kind of place where he was going to be able to identify himself, ask questions, and hope to get truthful answers. He would have to wing it.

The bartender placed a cocktail napkin on the bar in front of him. She was in her late thirties and had stringy-blond hair and an ingratiating smile.

"Haven't seen you in here before,"

"I'm a first-timer."

"Remind me not to sleep with you."

"I have a bad memory."

She smiled. She wore jeans and an olive-drab tank top stretched tightly over rigid, silicone-filled breasts. She was tall and thin with alabaster cheeks, a narrow nose, and high forehead: classic Nordic features that without the conspicuous tattoos that ringed her arms and neck might have allowed her to have been a fashion model.

"What can I get you?"

He ordered beer. She walked to the other end of the bar, whispered something to a customer, then brought Garrison's beer and placed it in front of him. For the next few minutes, Garrison alternated between staring out the window, glancing at his wristwatch, feigning making calls on a cellular phone, and chatting with the bartender. She told him her name was Tammy.

More customers began to come in and there were more whispers about him, the stranger. Finally, Garrison figured it was time to make his move. He picked up a book of Corral Club matches and walked into the men's room. He took out his cell phone, wrapped a handkerchief over the mouthpiece. He dialed the Corral Club and heard a distant ring in the bar.

"Hello," Tammy said.

"Is Spike there?"

"Who's calling?"

"Bobby."

"Bobby who?"

"Bobby Toland from Fresno. I'm supposed to meet him and another guy there. Just tell him I'll be a few minutes late. Gotta run."

He pressed OFF, shoved the phone in his pocket, and returned to his seat at the bar. Tammy was conferring with two men at the end of bar who looked like ex-cons.

"Another beer," Garrison said.

She reached inside a cooler, and took out a Miller High Life and set it in front of him.

"You a cop?"

"No, but I like guns."

She studied him.

"You waiting for Spike?" He didn't answer. "Because if you are, Bobby Toland from Fresno just called and said he'll be late."

Garrison feigned concern. "The Bobby Toland I know is an FBI rat."

"Just relaying a message, hon."

Garrison took out cash and put money on the bar to pay for the beers. "When you see Spike tell him about the call."

"You'd better tell him yourself."

"He and I are doing a deal. I don't talk on phones when there is the possibility of heat. If you know what I mean."

"You can catch him at the tow yard. If he's not there he'll be out on a call."

"How do I get there?"

"Next to the McDonald's. Wasco Tow Service."

Garrison felt like cheering. "Thanks."

"Catch you later, first-timer."

Garrison stood under a streetlight on Stockdale Highway in an undeveloped area near an abandoned drag strip. He glanced at his wristwatch, and a tepid, dusty wind that was blowing east to west made him blink.

A tow truck came into view. The sign on the truck door read: WASCO TOW. He waved. The truck slowed to a stop on the gravel soft shoulder, then backed up to him, creating a large cloud of dust. A man with massive arms and neck got out of the truck. He was about Garrison's age but heavier, about the same height, and had a diminutive chin and a weathered, ocher complexion that matched the color of his uniform shirt. The skin under and around his eyes was cracked like streambed adobe.

"You the guy who called for a tow?"

"Are you Spike Vincent?"

Vincent stared at him suspiciously. "I was the last time I checked."

Garrison took out his badge.

"I'm a special agent, U.S. Secret Service. I need to ask you a few questions."

"What is this shit? Calling me out here for nothing?"

"I thought it might be easier for us to talk with no one else around."

"Talk about what?"

"Garth Alexander."

Vincent blinked rapidly. "Who's he?"

"He was killed in a shoot-out."

A revealing expression crossed Vincent's face - a brief twitch of the left upper lip and jaw that told Garrison that Vincent was hearing the news for the first time.

"You feds don't impress me any. Don't ever stiff me with a bad call again or I'll squeeze your neck until your heads pops off."

"All I want is what you know about Alexander. No one has to know that you and I are talking."

"I can't believe this. You actually got me out here on a stiff call."

"I understand you served time with Alexander in Europe. You and he were involved in collecting debts for a French gunrunner and got tagged. All I want to know is what has been going on with Alexander recently."

Vincent smirked. "If he's dead, what do you give a fuck?"

"Alexander got himself involved in something that is a lot bigger than breaking legs and gunrunning. That's how he ended up getting smoked. This isn't a routine case. This is as big as it gets and I'm not just going to go away. I promise that what you tell me will be kept in confidence. No one has to know that we talked. Just tell me what you know about Alexander and you have my word that you can get back in your rig and drive off. That's not a lot to ask it, is it?"

"Let's put it to you like this, federal shine boy: Even if I did know the motherfucker, I wouldn't tell you."

Anger welled from deep inside Garrison. He detested men like Vincent, a member of the great American white, angry underclass that blamed their perceived misfortune on everyone but themselves.

Vincent opened the driver's door of his truck. Garrison slammed the door shut and Vincent got a wild look in his eye.

"You think you're a real big man standing there with your badge and piece, don't you, cocksucker?"

"I didn't fly across the country to have you walk away from me."

"You want to fight? I'll whip your ass here and now."

Garrison lunged and delivered a straight right punch that caught Vincent squarely on the nose and slammed his head against the truck door. Vincent made an animal-like grunt and began fighting back. Deflecting two of his counterpunches, Garrison leaned into a powerful body blow, striking Vincent sharply in his swollen torso. Garrison punched savagely - a left and a right combination, then a slashing uppercut. Vincent went down, sliding on the gravel, then scrambled to his feet and dove at him. Garrison threw a right, striking him on the jaw and stopping his forward motion. Vincent dropped solidly to his hands and knees. Garrison snap-kicked him, lifting Vincent's jaw and knocking him unconscious.

Garrison looked about, and then searched the tow truck cab. In the glove compartment he found a loaded .45 automatic. He shoved it in his waistband, returned to Vincent, and then slapped him awake.

"No more," Vincent said.

"Now I'll explain it in language you understand, hillbilly. Either tell me what you know about Alexander or I put your ass in jail."

Vincent spat blood. "What's the charge?"

"All the things you got away with in the past."

Vincent rubbed his chin with both hands. "You'd really do that, wouldn't you? You'd frame my ass just because I'm on parole."

"Watch me."

"I can't be going to jail."

"Then start cranking those jaws, tough guy."

"About what? I don't know anything."

"Let's start with the Aryan Disciples."

"I know a few members but I ain't into any of that political shit."

"What do you know about them killing a Secret Service agent in Washington, D.C.?"

"Not a damn thing," Vincent answered without hesitation. "I swear on my mother's grave. Nothing. If that's what you're here about, you got the wrong dude."

"When did you first meet Garth Alexander?"

"In Spain a few years ago. I was doing some time in a Malaga prison. The police said I had a hand grenade in my luggage and they said I was connected with a bunch of Basque rebels. But it was bullshit. Alexander and I were the only Americans there and we got to know each other. We knew some of the same people."

"Aryan Disciples people?"

Vincent struggled to his feet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah. But I didn't know him for very long. He escaped. Alexander was good at that kind of shit. He used to be in the French Foreign Legion. Look, I know what you're here about. It's because I put him together with someone a couple of weeks ago, right?"

"Who are you talking about?"

Vincent shook his head. "I ain't going to commit suicide."