Crime, Thrillers & Mystery / Blatant

                                                Jackson “Jack” Mourning
                                                           PROLOGUE

                                                           BLATANT

     It was a simple note.
     Like hundreds of others she had left for me over the years stuck in the pipe of my two-foot tall statue of Sherlock Holmes. But for some reason I knew this note would be different, and as I reached to free it from Mr. Holmes pipe, I hesitated. I don’t know why but I did.
     I looked around the small home we own in Middletown, Rhode Island. Everything was in place as always. The white sofa with black throw pillows, the marble coffee table, the photos on the walls of boats sailing on Narragansett Bay, photos she had taken when she thought photography would fill the void in her life that I could not.
     This house has always seemed way too lonely and silent, but at the moment if was claustrophobic as well, like an abandoned prison, with me the only prisoner foolish enough not to flee.
     As I looked around the room I saw myself full figure in the large hideous antique mirror she had purchased in Newport, with the intent to refurbish it and then sell it on ebay. That was five years ago, she never touched it.
     What I saw in the mirror was a 40-year-old Newport patrol cop in uniform. A burned out cop who had given up on hopes and dreams years ago, because of a mis-guided foolish obligation to stay with her after she mis-carried our child. A child that she thought would breathe live into our dying marriage.
     Then I saw a smile slowly appear on my face, because I knew… I just knew…
     I plucked out the note and started to read it:

                                              Dear Jackson,
                                            I could make this long and drawn out but I will
                                            not. I am leaving to give you and me a chance at
                                            having some sort of life. We are not husband and
                                            wife, just roommates tolerating each other. I know
                                            you have wanted to leave for a long time but you stayed
                                            because you always feel you have to do the right
                                            thing. I am moving to Gallup, New Mexico with my
                                            Spiritual advisor Frank. Good luck in all you do
                                            and may the planets forever line up in your favor.
                      
                                          Monica
                                              
                                        
                                        
    I put the note back in to Sherlock’s pipe. Just like that, after twelve years of marriage
she freed me from my obligation. I was happy and pissed off at the same time; happy because… I’m not sure why. Pissed off because she could leave and I never did.
     I walked to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. As I was drying off the phone started to ring.
     “ Hello?”
     “ Hey, Jack. How is my favorite black nephew doing?”
     It was my uncle Matthew, on my mother’s side of the family. The white side.
     “ I’m doing ok uncle Matt.” I said without enthusiasm.
     “ You still married to that crazy redhead?”
     I did not need this right now. “ Don’t start uncle.”
     “ Ok. Ok, sorry.” He said. “ But the real reason I was calling is to ask you for a favor. I’m working a case out here in Los Angeles that has me a bit… Well hell, Jackson I’m scared. Scared for my life.”
     My uncle Matt is 6-2 and about 240 pounds. Before becoming a PI he was a LAPD Homicide detective that never took shit from anyone on the street or in the department. He may be 62, but he is still tuff as a bull.
     “ What’s going on uncle Matt?” I asked.
     “ Can you come out here, Jackson? For me. You and I are the only family we have left. I won’t trust anyone with this but you.”
    “ Talk to me.” I pleaded.
     “ Jackson, the world has gone crazy. Just when you think humans can’t go any lower they find a way. That is all I want to say on the phone now. Can you come down?”
   “Yes.”
   “ Good. Give me a week. That will give me time to look in to this matter a little more. And it will give you time to ask for time off with your superiors. Meet me at that place where I first taught you to shoot. Say 12:00 pm a week from today, got it?”
   “ Yes, uncle Matt.” I said holding on to the phone tightly. “But can’t you just give me a little more information?”
     He was silent for so long I thought that he had hung up on me. “ I’m sorry Jack. It is best that I talk to you when you get here. If you try to contact me and can’t before then don’t worry, It just means my cell phone is off. As you know a person can be tracked that way. Thanks for coming. I’ll see you in a week at that place. Take care, Jackson.”
     He hung up before I could respond. If my Uncle needed me, nothing would stop me from going to him. He had me worried. It was not like him to act and speak this way. He had asked me to give him a week before I came out. But I had nothing to keep me here anymore, and Newport PD could live without me for a while, the town is dead in the wintertime.
     I looked around the living room once more and thought how quickly things can change. Some times for the good, but more often than not it is tragedy that cause change.

                                                CHAPTER ONE    

     It was starting to snow.
     I had spent the night in Okalahoma City and had driven nine hours through upper Texas and most of New Mexico when the sky had gone from a cloudy blue gray to a steady white flow of misery.
     February is not a very smart time to take a cross-country trip but it is something I have always wanted to do, and for the rest of my life I plan not to stop myself from living.
     After the cryptic call from uncle Matt I was antsy to get to Los Angeles and find out what was going on with him. The next day I walking in to Lt. Faber’s office and told him about Monica and I and how I wanted to take some time of to reflect on my life. To which he said to me, “Don’t you really mean celebrate?”
     John Faber had taken me under his wing and befriended me since day one at NPD, when I had left the LAPD. John is a big friendly blond guy, with a penchant for telling jokes and making anyone feel like they are the most important person in the world. Many a perp had confessed to him before realizing it were too late.
     “ I’m sorry Jack. That was out of line.” He said. “I mean she is, was your wife and all. She just seemed to make you miserable. Truth-be-told she made everybody miserable who came in contact with her.”
     He was right of course. Yet I still felt the need to stick up for her. Why I don’t know.
     “ You are out of line, John.” I said, and then turned to head out the door.
     “Hey, wait Jack. Look, I’m sorry. Take all the time you need. God knows you have enough vacation pay you never used.” He stood up, walked around his desk and extended his hand to me.” I’m your friend, man. Give me a call and let me know what’s shaken, alright.”
     That’s cop speak for, “Let me know if you start thinking about chewing on you gun.”
     I shook his hand, thanked him and walked out. Then I made a mental note to remember that I did have people that cared about me in my life. It is easy to forget that when you have spent twelve years living in an emotionless bubble.
     There are hundreds of books that raise the question of why women stay in abusive relationships, yet you would be hard pressed to find a book on why men do. An abusive relationship is not always rife with physical or verbal abuse. It came come in the form of nothing. Not receiving a thing from your significant other. Nothingness is cruel. I could write ten books about nothing.
     It was a little after 5:00pm when I pulled in to a small gas station outside of Gallup. The winds had kicked up and the snow was falling so hard I could barely see 30 yards in front of me. I stopped next to the pumps and got out to stretch. A Latino kid wearing a black Raiders parka walked up to me then look at my car.
     “Your car is da’ bomb.” He asked, “What is it?”
     Before leaving Middletown, I traded my 1998 Saturn SE in for a 2008 black Dodge Challenger. It was slick, low swung and fast. I justified it as not being a mid-life crisis car, by the fact that I planned to live past the age of 84.
     The kid whistled, then started to pump my gas.
     “Do you think this snow will let up?” I asked him.
     “No.” He said. “It will only get worse. How far you going?”
     “LA.”
     “ You might want to spent the night in Gallup. I grew up here and I know this is just the beginning.”
     When the tank was full I paid the kid.
     I asked him,  “You think your Raiders will go to the super bowl next year?
     He shoved his hands in to his pockets to keep warm.
     “ Man I sure hope so.” He said, “But I think we have a better chance of the sun coming out in the next five minutes.”
     I had to agree with him. I claimed in to the car and looked a Sherlock Holmes in the passenger seat.
     “Lets hit the road.” I said to him. He said nothing back of course, the perfect traveling companion.
     When I got to Gallup it was snowing so hard the wipers couldn’t keep the windshield clear. I stopped at a hotel that looked like it belonged in a Sam Peckinpah western from the outside, but inside it was well lit, comfortable and warm. From the furniture to the décor, this place spelled old west cowboy style and I immediately fell in love with it.
     After a shower and a short nap, I went down to the hotels restaurant The ZQ Saloon and order a Dewars Scotch neat with a beer chaser. The pretty bartender wearing a red cowboy had said to me, “ A man who knows how to drink. I like that.” I didn’t know if she was flirting with me or just being friendly. I had been out of circulation to long.
     As I waited for my drinks I thought about Uncle Matt. That was something I had promised myself I would not do on this drive, because it was a feudal task. He had told me he would explain everything when I got there, so what could I do until then? Not a thing. So I promised myself I would enjoy my drinks and not let anything bother me for the next few hours. This was my time and…
     “Holy shit!” A man yelled from behind me.
     I stun around on my stool and saw a thin, pale, red headed man standing next to Monica, Monica my wife.
     “Holy shit!” He yelled again.” That’s your husband isn’t? He followed us here. He is going to kill us… I mean me … No you. He is going to kill you Monica.”
     Damn. I hadn’t even thought about it. In her note she said she was moving to Gallup. Fuck!
     Monica was dressed like a reject from the musical Annie Get Your Gun. On her head sat a off- white cowgirl hat, a blue scarf was tied around her neck, her shirt looked like Georgia O’Keeffe had thrown-up on it and her jacket and skirt, made out of buck skin, was just screaming for PETA to toss paint.
     Monica’s face displayed both disbelief and desire as she placed both hands over her heart and said to me, “ You came all this way to take me back. How romantic. If you had shown me that kind of chivalry back home I never would have left.”
     Perhaps it was the long drive or the goofy look on her face or both, what ever it was I started laughing. I couldn’t stop. Tears were pouring down my face and my side ached.
     “Stop laughing at me, damn you.” Her face was full of anger now.
     The red headed man standing next to her, whom I assumed was Frank the Spiritual-Advisor, seemed relieved by my laughing. Laughing people hardly ever pull out a gun and start shooting.
     “ Hello, Monica.” I said after I stopped laughing. “ It has only been a few days but you look great. The southwest seems to agree with you.”
    “What’s so funny, Jackson?” Monica asked, taking a threatening step toward me.
    “The fact that you need a fashion consultant more that a spiritual advisor.”
     She stepped up to me and punched me in the stomach. It didn’t hurt me but she did hurt her hand.
     “Ouch!”  She yelped rubbing her knuckles. She turned to the red headed man. “ Don’t just stand there, Frank. Defend my honor.”
     “Violence is not part of my spiritual make up.” Frank said, while backing away from me.
     “You spineless prick.” Monica said to him. “ I will do it myself.”
     She took a step in my direction. The cute little bartender leaped over the bar with a with a three foot mahogany club in her hand. She stepped between Monica and me.
     “ Out of my bar lady.” The bartender said, “Or I’ll whack you with my BBC stick. I told you and red the last time not to come in here hassling the customers.”
     Monica stood her ground. “ I have a right to be here.”
     Frank piped in, “ Lets go, Monica.”
     “ Oh, oh… Go to hell, Jackson.” She said and turned and stormed out with Frank in tow.
     “ You know those two assholes?” The bartender asked me.
     “ Yeah. I was married to one of them.”
     “ Well, for your sake I hope it was the guy.” She said.
     We had a good laugh and I asked her name.
     “Jackie.”
     “ Thanks for saving me, Jackie.”
     We walked back to the bar. Jackie lifted the swing hatch on the bar and stepped through, I sat on my stool.
     Jackie said, “Let me buy you a drink. If you were married to that bitch you deserve one.”
     As she poured my Dewars, I looked around the room. The patrons that had been watch my little may lay had gone back to drinking and talking. No blood had been spilled. I guess they find that boring in Gallup.
     Jackie put my drink down in front of me and poured one for herself.
     She held up her shot. “A toast.” She said, “To hexes on ex’s.”
     We clicked glasses and shot the shots.
     “ Tell me Jackie. What is a BBC stick?”
     She chuckled. “It stands for Bitch Be Cool. I change its name depending on the situation.” She walked off to refill drinks. I couldn’t help but notice that she looked just as good from the rear as she did from the front.
     Uncle Matt popped back in to my head. Why was he being so secretive? And I couldn’t figure out why he wanted me to wait a week to come out to LA.
     I pushed my uncle out of my mind again. I did not need any more stress tonight.
     Jackie walked back to me.
     “ Your ex has been coming in here trying to get my customers to buy a book by that fake swami Frank.” She said as she took off her hat, allowing blonde curls to fall about her face. “ I thought they were hassling you about that.”
     “ No.” I said, “They thought that I had followed them here to drag my wife back to Rhode Island. The truth is I’m on my way to Los Angeles to see my uncle. The blizzard caused me to stop here in Gallup.”
     The phone behind her rang and she picked it up. She listened for a couple of seconds, grunted something and hung up.
     Turning to me she said, “That was the manager. All the roads are closed and any employee that wants to can stay at the hotel free tonight. I guess my cat is going to be lonely without me.”
     “ Is there anyone else who will be lonely without you tonight?” I asked, regretting the words even as I said them. She must get hit on a hundred times a night.
     She smiled at me.
     “No there isn’t.” She said, looking me in the eye until I felt uncomfortable.
     I picked up my bottle of beer and took a long swig, just to break our eye lock.
     “You’re blushing.” She said.
     “ Look, Jackie. I have been out the game for a long time. I don’t know if I’m flirting or making a fool out of myself.”
     She patted my hand, and said, “ Jack, you are a very attractive guy. Just be yourself and you will do just fine.” She turned toward the other patrons, and yelled, “Last call.”
     People started coming up to her asking for bottles of beer to go. They wanted to take them up to their rooms and enjoy the snow party a little longer. I finished my drinks, dropped a couple of tens on the bar and got up to leave.
     “ You have a good night, Jackie.” I shouted to her.
     “ I’ll see you around, Jack.”
     Up in my room I turned on the radio and thanked the stars when I found a jazz station. I took off my jacket and tossed it over a chair, then walked to the window to watch the snowfall. It is funny how quickly ones life can change. If you had told me a week ago that the next week I would be sitting in a Gallup hotel room, a free man with my wife in the same town running around a man she just meet I would have said you are nuts, Yet here I am.
     A soft knocking on my door disrupted my thoughts. I opened the door and there stood Jackie with a bottle of Dewar’s and two glasses.
     “ See, I told you to just be yourself, Jack.” She said, “It really pays off.”
     She walked in to the room and out of her clothes.
                                                  CHAPTER TWO

     I’m twelve, my uncle Matt has taken me to Venice Beach to teach me how to fight to protect myself because I get beat up a lot a school because my dad is a cop and I’m a half breed. My parents do not know we are here. It is our secret.
     When my parents took me to the beach it is always the nice pristine Santa Monica beach, but that day I am a mile south of they’re at Venice. I am in awe and stay very close to my uncle. As we walk along the cement pathway I spy large mean of every race wearing cut off tee shirts, and shorts so tight I wondered why they were not screaming out in pain. What really fascinates me is their choice of colors for their shirts and shorts: Hot pink. Electric blue and glitter gold. The kind of colors you wear at my school if you want your ass kicked. But here gang-banger types, and people with prison tattoos on their necks look at these muscle bound girly-men with respect.
     These men, and now I notice a few women who I thought were men, have the largest muscles I have ever seen outside of the super heroes in my comic books. They cheer each other on to lift impossible amounts of weights and bar bells as large as the tires on uncle Matts Cadillac.
     We stop walking to watch them.
     “I’ll bet,” Uncle Matt, say to me, “ that you think if you had muscle like that nobody would ever bother you again. Am I right?”
     “Yeah.” I answer, watching the action.
     “Well you might be right.” Says Uncle Matt, “But you do not want to get that big. Those guys and gals can’t even wipe their own asses. The muscles are to big to allow their arms to reach around.”
    We start walking again.
     People are zooming past us on roller blades and chopper like bike cycles. Venders are selling inn cents, surfboards, and food and just about anything you can imagine. This beach has bums and junkies and girls my called women of the night. It is like no beach I have ever seen. I love it.
     “ Why did you bring me here, Uncle Matt?” I ask.
     “To teach you how to fight.”
     “I know. But why here?”
     We stop in front of a fortune-teller with snakes in her hair. My uncle looks down at me.
     “ Jack,” he says, “ your parents want to protect you from the world. But you live in Los Angeles and what you see around you is the real world. When the sun goes down this beach clears out and a lot of these people go hunting. They hunt little boys like you. They hunt for little old ladies or any kind of prey they can profit from.” He reaches in to his inside jacket pocket and pulls out an envelope. “ Inside this is a paid year at the Kung Fu House. A martial arts school here on the beach. I want you to learn how to protect yourself, sure. But I want you to learn about your city also. You can grow up thinking life is just problems at school or some jerk stiffing you on your paper route. But you come down here everyday for a year, you will learn how to really protect yourself. You will see trouble coming a mile away. It is the best gift I can give you, Jack”
                                             CHAPTER THREE

     The ringing phone brought me to a sudden awaking. For a second I was disoriented and unsure where I was, until I saw the bottle and two glasses on the table, and then it all came back to me.
     I yanked up the phone, not so much to answer it, but to stop the nerve ending grating headache it was giving me.
     “Yeah?” I said in to the phone.
     “Good morning, Mr.Mourning.” A way to cheerful voice said in to the phone. “This is Cindy at the front desk. It is 11:00am and we have an 11:30 check out time. We were wondering if you would like to book the room for an other day or will you be checking out?”
     Her voice was more painful than the ringing phone.
     “ Are the roads clear?” I managed to ask.
     Oh you bet’cha.” She sang.
     “I’ll be checking out.” I gentle put down the phone when she started talking again.
     I looked around the room. Jackie was gone, but there was a note on her pillow. Another note. This was becoming a pattern for me. I picked up the note and read it.

             Morning Jack,
            Wow, you sure know how to show a girl a good time. I would
           like to get to know you better, and I hope you fell the same about
           me. You said you did last night. Or that just pillow talk. I hope
            you do not think that I am just a slutty bartender who hopes in to bed with
          every body. I felt connected to you. I have been divorced for two years and
         you are the first man I have been with since then. You told me you have
        to go to LA to help your uncle. When your are done there you know where
       to find me if you want to. I did not mean to write a note this long, but it is less
       awkward this way in case you do not want to see me again. Take care, Jack.
       “Hexes on Ex’s.”
                                       Jackie

     I smiled and folded the note. It had been a great night, with talk, laughter and of course sex. I would definitely like to get to know her better, but I first had to get to LA
and uncle Matt.
     I took a quick shower, dressed and checked out. While Cindy, with the annoying voice, tallied up my bill, I wrote a short note to Jackie telling her I would call her from LA. I asked Cindy for an envelope, sealed the note inside and asked her to make sure Jackie got.
     “ I’ll give it to her,” Cindy said, “ but I gotta tell’ya. You might be barking up the wrong tree. A-lotta’ guys have tried with her. But no luck.” She looked around, and then leaned close to me and whispered, “I think she’s a lesbian.”
     I put my hand to my chest in mock shock.
     “ No…” I said.
     “Yeah, I do.”
     “ Well, give it to her any way. I’ll take my chance.”
     “ Ok.” She said, “I will. Hey, I get off at five. You want to go for drinks later?”
     “ If Jackie turns out to be a lesbian the drinks will be on me, Cindy.”
     “Cool.”
     Five minutes later I was doing 80 on I 40 west heading for Los Angeles.
    
      
                                           CHAPTER FOUR

          
          At 10:35pm I finally pulled off the 101 north at the Hollywood Blvd exit. I had stopped twice for gas on this drive but other than that I had driven straight through. Tomorrow would be one week since my uncle Matt had called me. So I had one more night to kill before I saw him and find out what the hell is going on.
     I cursed west on Hollywood Blvd and was amazed at how much it had changed. When I was with the LAPD I worked out of the Hollywood station. I know Hollywood, love Hollywood, yet this Hollywood that I see tonight seems to be free oh hookers, junkies, local bars and dives to eat in.
     The boulevard is clean. Couples are walk with their kids at this hour. It was totally shocking.
     I made an ill-legal u-turn on Highland and headed back down Hollywood Blvd from the area I had just came. I turned left on Vine Street drove three blocks and made a right on Franklin Avenue.  I stopped at a fairly clean looking motel and checked in. My room had a bed chair, TV and a card table to eat on. That was all I needed. I planned to only be here for eight hours or so.
     I locked the room and headed over to a cop bar a couple of blocks away that used to be my home away from home back in the day. When I pulled in the parking lot and parked I saw that the 5150 Bar had not changed in the past 12 years. The lot was crowded with pick-up trucks, Harleys, unmarked cruisers and a peppering of family mini vans.
     5150 is a state statute that reads… any person, as a result of mental disorder, is a danger to others, or to him or herself, as defined by regulation can be held for 72 hours… Good name for a cop bar.
     I walked in the bar and was assaulted by loud music, loud drunken conversation, pool balls being racked and thick heavy cigar and cigarette smoke. Smoking in bars is outlawed in California, but ok at the 5150, hey what are you going to do call the cops?
     I walked up to the bar and sat on a stole. All eyes locked on me and the conversations stopped. Cops are very territorial, and protective of each other. They hardly ever go in civilian bars and expect non-cops to stay out of their dens. There was no bartender behind the bar so I just sat and waited, looking at the memorabilia on the walls: Pictures of the owner Dan “Big Daddy” Porter in uniform, one of him with the manager of the Dodger’s and a collection of cop movie posters decorated the place.
     The silence was making me uncomfortable and the stares I was getting made the hair on my neck stand on end.
     A door behind the bar opened and Big Daddy walked through it carrying a case of Budweiser long necks. He glanced at me but kept walking placing the case of beer on the floor.
     He had not changed much, he was still 6-5, 250 or so, bald as a full moon and he still wore a black patch over the left eye he had lost during a domestic call. His strong Irish face made him look forty. He had to be about sixty now.
     He looked back at me.
     “Jackson?” He asked, in a southeastern accent he never lost “Jack Mourning. I’ll be damned. Put me in a dress and call me Lucy if that isn’t you.”
     “It’s been a long time, Dan.” I said. “ Too long.”
     He reached across the bar and gave me a hug.
     “ What are you having, Jack.” He asked, “Y’all drink for free tonight.”
     “One of those buds would be great.”
     He placed a cold sweaty bottle in front of me. Then he held up his arms and shouted in to the bar.
     “Hey, you drunk’n bitches listen up. This is Jackson Mourning. Robert Mourning’s son. The Robert Mourning you learned about in the Academy.” Cheers went out and people started coming up to me and patting me on the back and shaking my hand.
     When my father was a young patrolman he tracked and arrested a serial killer who’s moniker was the Black Cat Killer, because the only trace evidence found on all the victims was the hair of black cats. My father knew it would be his ticket to making detective and he was right. The investigative techniques he used were so unique they are still taught at the LAPD training academy to this day.
     “ Outta the way you bums.” Someone pushing their way through group of people shouted. “ Let me get to my old partner.” It was then that I recognized the voice.
     Richard James Dent walked up to me and grabbed me by the shoulders. The cops that were standing round me scurried away like cockroaches when the kitchen light is turned on. Even Big Daddy stopped smiling and went over to his case of beer and began putting them in the cooler. Dent do not seem to notice or care.
     “ You don’t write you don’t call. Then out of the blue here you are. Show me some love, brother.” He said giving me a bear hug.
     Richard, RJ as he liked to be called, looked good.  His skin was a light coco brown, and he had light brown eyes to match. His dark blue suit was expensive, as was the white shirt and gold power tie. He looked like he should have been sipping champagne at a Beverly Hills cocktail, not doing shots at 5150.
     “ I have a booth in the back.” He said to me. “ Come on. Lets catch up.    
     I got up to go with him, and Big Daddy said to me, “ Don’t leave without say’n goodbye.” I promised him I would and followed RJ.
     As we walked toward the booth, RJ turned to me and said, “Guess who I’m drinking with back here?  Our old FTO Sanchez.”
     As I approached the booth I saw my Field Training Officer Hector Sanchez sitting in the booth with his head tilted to the side snoring. In front of him sat an empty bottle of Tequila. He was in uniform.
     “When did you two kiss and make up?” I ask RJ, while looking down at Sanchez. They had always hated each other. RJ felt that Sanchez had been to hard on him during probation, and Sanchez told me he thought RJ was to head strong to be a cop.
     “ Oh about six, seven years ago.” He said. “ See, ole sarg here got caught playing hide the pickle with this hooker at a massage parlor on Sunset. Which is really no problem but he was doing it while on duty. Wasting the taxes payers’ money and such. Anyway, the parlor gets raided by ICE looking for illegals, and they find ole sarg in there with his gun belt around his ankles, a girl on her knees in front of him getting ready to launch his rocket.” RJ took a sip of his drink and looked down at Sanchez. “ I gave him a choice. Come work for me or lose his pension. Did I mention I’m IAD now?”
     “No you didn’t.”
     That explained why the cops here wanted nothing to do with him.
     I said to him, “You had him feed you info on other dirty cops?”
     “Yep. He did a great job. Now he has four months until he retires. So we come here and drink together. Because nobody on the force likes us much. All we have is each other. Ironic, yes?” He tilted his head toward the booth. “ Come on. Sit down.”
     We scooted in the booth. Sanchez was in the middle. A night that was supposed to be a reunion of sorts was getting stranger by the minute.
     RJ went on has if it was a normal occurrence to have a passed out man sitting next to you in a booth.
     “So what brings you to town, your uncle?” He asked.
     “ What makes you say that?” I asked quickly and way too suspiciously.
     “Hey, chill man. I was just asking. But now you have me curious. What’s up?
      He’s the only family you have, right? He means a lot to you. You sure as hell did not come here to see me.” He was looking me in the eyes a seemed to be getting angry. The more I talked to him I the more I notice how drunk he was.
     He stood up and said, “I’m sorry, Jack. I’ll be right back. Gotta take a leak. Keep an eye on ole serge.” He walked away toward the restroom.
     I watched him go, and then turned my attention to Sanchez. Here sitting next to me in a drunken stupor was a man who had put the fear of God in me as a 21-year-old rookie. Sanchez, who is barely 5-7, seemed to weld the power of Thor. My Uncle Matt had been his FTO and he took training me very personally.
     Like a lot of minority cops thirty years ago, Sanchez had feared that his FTO would be a racist asshole looking for any excuse to bounce him off the force before his 12-month probation was over. Sergeant Matthew Hunter had been just the opposite of what Sanchez had expected. My uncle Matt turned out to be a caring, nurturing mentor who not only taught Sanchez the ropes of working the mean streets of LA, he also showed him how to maneuver in the Los Angeles Police Department political system. Which is an organization ran like a high school popularity contest. You have your popular people, the jocks, the theater department, and lowest on the list the nerds.
     Sanchez learned how to kiss ass with the best of them. His only problem was that he had to wash his mouth out with alcohol after every shift, and that led to a drinking problem. But when his wife threatened to walk out on him with their two sons he changed.
     He was clean and sober when I left for Rhode Island, with Monica.
     I looked at him now knowing that something went wrong in his life, as I guess did mine. I wanted to do something for him, but I am not sure what. So I shook his shoulder and he came to swinging wildly, ready to fight.
     “What the fuck you doing to me, fucker.” He said, punching air at long forgotten ghosts.
     “Calm down, Sergeant.” I said to him. “ Its Jack Mourning. Remember me?’
     Sanchez looked at me with watery blood-shot basset hound eyes. The years had not been kind to him. He had gained about forty pounds, his once thick black hair had thinned and was streaked with gray, and his face sagged from the weight of heavy jowls.
     “Oh my God.” He said. “It is you. It is you. Damn if it isn’t good to see you Jackie boy. Hey, hey let me buy you a drink, Jackie.” He slurred. Before I could object, he turned in his seat and shout to Big Daddy, “Hey you one eyed prick. Bring us over around.”
     Big Daddy, who was in the process of referring an arm wrestling match at a table ten feet away shouted back.
     “You want a drink fat ass, get up and get it yourself. Leave the money on the bar. On the other hand, if you want something Jack, let me know and I’ll bring it over.”
     “Thank,” I said to Big Daddy, “ I’m good.”
     I turned to Sanchez, “Do you think maybe you’ve had enough Sarge?”
     He wasn’t listening to me, just staring at Big Daddy. He said, “Do you see how that Pinchazo,” Prick  “ speaks to me? There was a time when I could have told him to wipe my ass, and all he would have wanted to know was who many times. Now he speaks to me like this…”
     He looked me in the eye and said, “ Here I am talking about me, when I know you are here for your uncle.” He wiggled his index finger in my face. “ You be careful. Matthew never could just let things be. Always flushing clogged toilets even though he knew it would make a mess. But this time,” He started to cry, “this time…” The crying became harder and harder, until it turned in to uncontrollable sobbing.
     “ Sorry to leave you alone with a drunk crying in his drink.” RJ said.
     I had been watching and listening to Sanchez and had not noticed him standing by our table. I wondered how long he had been standing there and what he had herd. RJ slid into the booth and said, “Don’t listen to that old fool. If you are in town you must have called your uncle so you know he’s ok. Right?”
     “No I haven’t talked to him.” I said, “I came here to surprise him.” I lied.
     “ Well, hell. Call him now if you are worried.”
     “Who said I was worried?” Our eyes locked.
     RJ broke the stare and said, “ Here we are having a reunion of sorts, and all of a sudden there seems to be tension in the air. Why is that Jack?”
     “I have no idea.” I said and stood up. “ But I’ve had a long drive and I’m tired, so I’m going to head out. It was good seeing you RJ. Lets hook up while I’m in town.”
     “ Bet.” He said, taking card from his wallet and handing it to me. “Call me.”
      I took the card.“ I will.” I turned and walked away. Sanchez was still crying.
     As I walked through the bar I said my good byes to people. I stopped in front of Big Daddy who left the arm wrestling match and was standing by the exit.
     “I’m going to call it a night.” I said to him.
     With his good eye he studied my face.
     “Lets talk out side for a second.” He said to me.
     We stepped out in to the crisp cool clear night. Big Daddy pulled a joint out of his shirt pocket and fired it up.
     “ For medicinal purposes. “ He said to me.
     “ Whatever.”
     I was tired and was starting to wonder why people reacted strangely when my uncle’s name came up.
     Big Daddy took another large toke off the joint and held it so long his good eye looked like it was going to launch out of its socket and start orbiting Venus.
     He exhaled, coughed for 30 seconds and said, “ Shit. That’s good.” He pinched the cherry off the joint and put it back in his pocket.  “ Jack, you here for you uncle, right?”
      Here we go again.
     “Tell me what’s going on with him.” I said, more threatening than I wanted it to sound.
     He took a step back from me.
     “ Look Big Daddy, I’m just a little tweaked. I didn’t mean to come off like that. But every time my uncle’s name comes up someone asks me if I’m here to help him. What is going?”
      He relaxed.
    “Have you talked to him?” He asked.
     “A week ago. He called and asked me to come out here. But he said to wait a week, and not contact him. I’m suppose to me him somewhere tomorrow. Tell me what you know.”
     “ I’ve just heard things, Jack.” He said. “ So a couple of days ago I gave Matt a call. I got no answer, his machine came right on. So I know his cell is turned off right. Then yesterday I went by his office. No one there. Newspapers piling up out side the door.” He shrugged, in a ‘what can I say manner.’
     “Why did you try to contact him? What did you hear?”
     “ That he was working a case that was bigger than him.”
     “Who told you this?” I asked him, fear creeping in to my heart.
     “A reporter with the Times. Tammy Jeffers.” He rubbed his forehead as if he was getting a headache. “ Jeffers is ambitious and always looking for that big story that will make her career. So she hangs out here a few nights a week with her ears open. That’s how she met Matt.”
     A loud Harley roared past us, and traffic was starting to get heavy on Franklin. The bars were closing.
     I took out my cell phone and speed dialed my uncle. His voice mail came on.
     Shit.
     I put the phone away.
     “Voice mail?” Big Daddy asked.
     “Yeah.”
     “ Look, I’ll get in contact with Jeffers tomorrow and set up a met for you two. Give me your number and I’ll call you in the morning.”
     I gave him the number and he repeated three times to himself.
     “ Got it.” He said. “Go get some rest.”
     “ Thanks for your help.” I told him and walked to my car feeling tired and worried.

                                                 Chapter Five

     I woke up feeling stiff and unsure what to do next, so I stretched, exercised and thought.
     My uncle had asked me to meet him at the place he taught me to shoot, at 12:00pm. I looked at the clock on the nightstand, 8:44am. I wasn’t about to stay in my room and let my mind go numb watching daytime Talk Shows. After a good hot shower I was loose, clear headed and ready to go.
     My first stop would be his office here in Hollywood.
     I took Franklin to Gower Avenue and drove south on Gower until I hit Sunset, then made a right. When people who do not live here think of Hollywood, they imagine glitz and glitter everywhere, movie stars on every corner and dinners that cost five hundred dollars per-person. But that is not the case. Hollywood is a community with hard working people, kids walking to school in the morning, people chasing the American dream just like any other place. Hollywood is a state of mind, not a real place.
     Uncle Matt’s office is on Wilcox Avenue, just off Sunset near the Hollywood Station of the LAPD, where he spent most of his short career as a cop. I believe he felt that being this close to his LAPD roots gave him a since of still being on the job, protecting the city he has always loved, Los Angeles proper.
     The building that houses his office is shaped like a rocket ship. The landlord, back in the sixties, was fascinated by the NASA Apollo Program and built the building as a show of support.
     The tenants had changed over the years, I learned from the black wall directory with white lettering. Where once process servers and ambulance chasing lawyers had set up shop, now the building was occupied with one tattoo parlor, a psychic, and yoga instructor, four import/exporters and of course, Hunter Investigations.
     The elevator was not working so I took the gold spiral staircase up to the second floor.
     Standing in front of my uncles office door were a man and a tattooed woman having a heated argument. The man, actually no more than a teenager, was a Hispanic, maybe 5-7, immaculately GQ dressed in a dark blue suit, powder blue shirt and ruby red tie. He was very thin.
     The woman was in her late twenties, had purple hair, wore a black tank top and jeans and was at least two inches taller than the kid.
     “ I want a refund, Jessie.” The kid yelled.
     “ Forget it, Shakespeare.” Jessie said, shaking a tattooed finger in his face. “ I have a big sign in my parlor that says: NO REFUNDS. You even signed a waiver stating that. So fuck off.”
     “ You just look at this…” Shakespeare said to her. He took off his jacket, tie and shirt, standing bare above the waist in front of Jessie.
     I cleared my throat loudly to get their attention. I wanted them to take their fight elsewhere so I could get in to Matt’s office.
     They both turn toward me and Shakespeare quick stepped up to me pointing at his left shoulder.
     “ Please mister, do me favor and read what this tattoo says.”
     It was a bad tattoo job. Smeared and hard to read, but I took a guess.
     “ ‘I Pray For Some Dick?’” I asked. “ Am I right?”
    Without answering me he stormed back to Jessie who was trying to suppress a giggle.
     “ You see what you have done to me? This man thinks I like dick. You where suppose to tattoo, ‘I’m a PI A Private Dick.’ ”
     Jessie took a close look at the tattoo and said to him, “ You cannot stand pain. You kept jumping around a screaming like a pussy, and that was the best I could do. Now let me repeat myself. Fuck off!” She walked in to her parlor and slammed the door.
     Shakespeare, who was now in the process of redressing, turned to me and said, “ I am in love with that woman. I love her fire and passion. But she sucks as an artists.”
     “ Yeah.” Was all I could say.
     I walked up to Hunter Investigations and tried the door.
     Locked, of course.
     “ He’s not in there.” Shakespeare said to me while adjusting his tie. “ What do you want with him anyway?”
     I looked down at him.
     “And what business is that of yours?” I asked.
     “ I asked you first.” He said sticking out his little chest.
     I thought about bouncing his little ass down the stairs. I was in the right mood to do it. But I liked the way he was standing like a sentry in front of the door. So I ended the pissing contest by saying: “Matt Hunter is my uncle.”
     “ You’re Jackson Mourning? Oh really… prove it.”
     I badge flashed him and his attitude changed.
     “ It is a pleasure to meet you officer Mourning. Your Uncle has told me a lot about you.”
       He stuck out his hand and we shook. “ Shakespeare Gonzalez.” He then reached in to his inside pocket and pulled out an envelope.
     “ Your uncle asked me to give this to you at 4:00pm today if I did not hear from him first.”
     “Well. Just give it to me now.”
     “ I cannot do that. I have my orders. Please understand.”
     Why was Matt playing all these games? I didn’t need this shit. I was here to help him, not play Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego?
     I looked at my watch it was 10:08am. I had a little less then 2 hours before my meeting with Matt.
     “ How do you know my uncle?”
     “ He is teaching me the PI trade. I do little jobs for him.”
     “ When was the last time you saw him?” I ask.
     “ Almost a week ago.” He rubbed his chin in thought. “ But man. I have to say, Mr. Hunter was acting strange that day. That was the day he gave me this envelope. He was nervous and kept his gun on top of the desk. He told me he might have to leave for a couple of days. He gave me two hundred bucks to hang around his office until you showed up.”
     “ That seems like a lot of money to give someone to deliver an envelope.”
     He took a step back and said; “ He told me the money was for the hospital, when you beat the shit out of me for not giving you the envelope. He knew you would show up early.” He took another step back.
     I reached out my hand.
     “ Well, just give it to me. Keep the two c’s, and avoid the hospital.”
     He took another step back and put up his hands defensively.
     “ You do not want to fuck with me man.” He said, making eye contact with me. “I have a secret weapon.”
     Even though he had moved away from me he was still close enough for me to disarm him if he pulled out a weapon.
     I said to him, “Either give me what is mine or use you secret weapon, because I am tired of your bullshit.”
    I took a step toward him and he used his secret weapon. It stopped me in my tracks and made every office door in the building fly open followed occupants holding some sort of make shift form of protection.
    Shakespeare’s secret weapon is his ability to scream like a teenage girl being chased by a gang of vampires. The scream was so full of anguish, fear and pain, for second I wanted to run to the young girl being attacked rescue, only to come back to the reality that the noise was coming out of the mouth of this little guy.
    Jessie was standing in front of her parlor holding a mid-evil looking weapon. She turned to me. “What did you do to him?”
     “ Nothing.” I yelled over the noise.
     A man in orange yoga regalia yelled to me, “ You did something to that poor wounded animal, sweetheart.”
     The noise stopped.
     I turn to look back at the screaming bastard Shakespeare, and he was gone.
     “ Where did he go?” I shouted. Even though I no longer had to.
     No one answered me. They just started heading back to where they had come. One door after another slammed shut and I was left standing alone in front of Matt’s office door.
     I took a business card out of my wallet and placed it in front the door. I looked at my watch, 11:22am. Time to go.

                                                     Chapter Six

    
    
     I took La Brea avenue to Pico Boulevard, making a hard right on Pico. After about two blocks, I parked in front of a two story purple house with white trim. 7 steps led up to the front door (I counted them once when I was a kid) on either side of the top of the stairs a white lion gothic statue stands. If the left eye of the right lion is missing, you know to stay from the house. The eye was in so I proceeded.
     This is where Matt taught me how to shoot, pool that is.
     Ruby and Ruth Levy own the house, two New York sisters who moved out to LA in the late sixties with stars in their eyes. Their goal was to break in to showbiz, but they soon learned that the city of golden dreams was filled with nightmares.
     With a loan from their parents they bought this house and turned it in to a haven for runaways, people wrongly accused by the law, women trying to get out of abusive relationships or just about anyone seeking help. In turn, as the people they helped got themselves together and into careers, they began to send money back to the Levy sisters to help support the effort now the sisters had connections from the corner store to congress and everything in between.
     I stood in front of the house to let whoever was watching me, (someone is always watching), either recognize me or run my plate. This is not the type of house you just run up to, so I would give them a couple more minutes.
     My uncle had brought me here for the first time when I was in the 7th grade. My social science teacher had given us each an assignment to write a paper on a culture other than our own. I was given the Jewish culture.
     When I first meet Ruby and Ruth their beauty stunned me and yet I was surprised by how opposite they looked. Ruby had ginger hair and dark blue eyes. Ruth had raven hair, dark brown eyes and her skin complexion was like mine, as if she was mixed too.
     I might have been young, but I quickly caught on that Matt and Ruth where a lot more than just casual friends.
     The girls took to me instantly, and started to teach me about their culture and up bringing. They told me that their surname Levy comes from the biblical tribe of Levi. The Levities had very distinctive duties in the Temple period.
     When I told Ruby that I wanted to be a cop when I grew up, she started calling me Tzadok, which means Justice.
     Some of my happiest moments growing up where spent in this house. In the basement they have a large pool table, ping pong table and pinball machines. Matt taught me how to play pool here.
     The front door opened and Ruth stepped out. She was wearing a baggy USC sweatshirt and jeans. Her dark hair had a little gray in it, but she still was beautiful.
     “ Tzadok,” she said smiling, “ It is so good to see you.” She came bounding down the steps and gave me a hug.
     When we broke our embrace I held her at arms length and said, “ You look great Ruth.”
     “Yeah. For an old broad anyway.”
     “You will never be old.” I say to her.
     Her expression changed.
     “ I just wish that I could see you once without it being about a problem.” She said, “ The last time you were here it was when Monica had the miscarriage and she went missing. Now you are here because of Matt.”
     “ You know what is going on with Matt?” I asked hoping finally to have an answer.
     She gently touches my cheek.
     “Of course I know. It is because of me that he now has people out to kill him. Come inside. I’ll tell you everything I know.”
     As always, the Levy sisters have the answers to my questions.

                                                  Chapter Seven
        
     The inside of the house had not changed much. The furniture was modern; people still walked around with eager concern on their faces ready to fight the good fight, and from floor to ceiling the walls were covered by tall bookshelves over flowing with books. As Ruth led me through the house I noticed that the den had been transformed in to a communication center. People were monitoring computers and answering phones and on one wall a stock ticker was showing what was happening on the Dow, S & P 500 and Nasdaq.
     Ruth stopped walking.
     “ We now invest our donations in the market.” She said pointing at the stock ticker. “We made money off the corporate bastards and use it against them. Come on…”
     We continued walking until we reached her office, a converted bedroom. Her office is a pop culture museum: Posters from the sixties, a disco ball from the seventies, a sign that reads ITS ALL ABOUT ME from the eighties, Clinton Champaign memorabilia from the nineties and anti-Iraq war signs for the present.
     Her desk was a fold out card table, buried under paper with an Apple computer off to the left.
     “Please. Sit.”
     I sat down on the hard metal chair with a paper-thin cushion. We stared at each other for a couple of seconds and then she said, “ I guess I should start at the beginning.”
     I agreed that she should and she continued.
     “ A woman named Mae Colette came here about two and a half months ago. She was 76 years old.”
     “She was?” I ask. “What do you mean by that?”
     “She is dead now. But I will get to that later. Please let me finish and then I will answer all your questions. Ok.”
     “Ok.”
     Ruth started lifting papers on her desk looking for something. She found a pack of Marlboros and a yellow plastic lighter.
     “Do you mind if I smoke?”
     “Not if you give me one.” I said. I had not smoked in years, but I felt like having one at this moment.
     Ruth stood up and opened a window, then returned and sat down. She lit two cigarettes at the same time and handed me one. She reached down to the floor and produced a dead potted plant for our ashtray.
     “ Ok, so Mae came here after talking with a social worker friend of mine. Mae told me one hell of a story. Her husband had died five years ago while working as a night watchman at a factory in El Segundo. He had a heart attack while making his rounds.
     Well, they never had a lot of money and he did not have life insurance. All they had was the small home they owned near downtown. She had never worked, so all she had to live off was his social security check. No other family was around to help her. Their only son was killed during the Vietnam War.
     Any way, she was getting behind in her bills, couldn’t pay for the medication she needed and could barely feed herself. One day while she was visiting a Senior Center near Mac Arthur Park, she got in to a conversation with a woman. She told this woman all of her problems. The woman who is Mae’s same age, told her that she was once in the same predicament, but now she had more money than she knew what to do with, and she could help Mae make money too, if she was willing…”
     I didn’t like where this story was heading. Ruth stood up and walked to the window and looked out. I took a drag of the cig and waited. With her back to me, Ruth started talking again.
     “ The proposition was this,” she blew smoke out the window, “ Mae could make money selling her prescription meds or she could really hit the jackpot if she let men who had fetishes for old ladies…” She broke off.
     The cigarette I was holding had burnt down to my fingers, I snubbed out in the plant.
     Ruth walked over and put out her smoke next to mine. She sat back down.
     “ Mae out of desperation agreed to do both.” She said.
     “Jesus.”
     “This woman introduced her to a man who said he would set everything up and he did. I will not go in to graphic detail what these sick freaks had Mae do to them but you can imagine. She told me that they would pay up to $10.000 for two hours with her. For witch she would get a thousand. The drug part of the deal came in the form of having Mae go to a doctor they had in their pocket. He would write her prescriptions for painkillers, sleeping pills anything you can imagine.”
     This time I stood up and walked to the window. I felt sick and angry. I thought back to my last conversation with Matt: “Jackson the world has gone crazy. Just when you think humans can’t go any lower they find a way…”
     Looking out the window I saw an elderly next door tending her vegetable garden. I walk away from the window and sat down.
     “Tell me the rest, Ruth.” I said.
     She lit another cigarette and offered me one.
     “No thanks.”
     “Ok. It turned out that the man who was pimping her out was a vice cop, Bruce Miller, LAPD. He wanted her to sign her house over to him, or he said he would have her arrested for prostitution and drug dealing.
     That is when she went to my social worker friend who sent her to me.”
     She put out the cigarette thought about lighting another, changed her mind and continued talking.
     “So whom do you report a dirty cop to?” She asked.
     “Internal Affairs.” I answered, thinking back to my conversation with Richard James Dent last night.
     “Right.” She said. “ But not just anyone in IAD. It had to be someone I trusted.”
     “ Like my ex-partner. RJ.”
     “ Exactly. RJ did one hell of a job. He busted Miller. Took down the woman who recruited Mae. Her name was Tilly Jacobs, and he confiscated Miller’s computer, search his house but found nothing. Even Miller’s bank records showed that he had only $1.500.00 in his checking account.”
     “ RJ told you all this?”
     “No. I have a friend who is an ADA.” She answered.
     Ruth lit another cigarette.
     “Want one?” She asked me.
     “Sure. Why not.” I said. This time I lit it myself.
     “ Now this is when everything went to hell.” She continued. “ They really had nothing on Miller. It was his word against Mae. But Miller called the DA wanting to make a deal. He could have walked away but he wanted to be placed in witness protection. Miller confessed that he was guilty of pimping Mae.”
     “Why would he do that?”
     “Because he said he worked for a group of people that did not tolerate fuck-ups. He told the DA’s office he was as good as dead. The deal he wanted was a new life some where far away and he would give them the whole organization.” She put out her smoke. “You see, according to Miller, the Mae case was no isolated incident. This so called organization is making millions of dollars exploiting the elderly.”
     The DA told Miller they would let him know in 24 hours if they had a deal. With in that time period, Miller, Mae and Tilly Jacobs were killed. End of case. End of story.”
     “But you didn’t let it go, right?” I asked.
     “No.” She said. “ I called Matt and asked him to look in to it.”
     My cell phone stared ringing. I looked at the caller ID. It was Tammy Jeffers, LA Times.
     “ I have to take this call.”
     “ Do you want me to leave?” Ruth asked, starting to get up.
     “No. Stay.” I said, and then answered the phone. “Jack Mourning.”
     “Hi. This is Tammy Jeffers with the Times. I got your number from Big Daddy at 5150. I think we need to talk.”
     Her voice was very feminine yet strong. A take-charge kind of woman.
     “That would be a good idea.” I said.
     “But I have to tell you something, Mr. Mourning.”
     “Please call me, Jack.”
     “Ok, Jack. What I have to say is this… Big Daddy told me that you came out here to help your uncle, but that you cannot get in touch with him. I talked to your uncle last week and he told me some things. Some very disturbing things. I will share that information with you. But you have to promise me first rights to this story if there is one.” She paused. “Do we have a deal?”
     “ I just want to find my uncle, Ms.Jeffers.”
     “Tammy.” She said.
    “Tammy, I don’t care about a story. If you want it, you’ve got.”
     “Great. Hey, I haven’t had lunch yet and it’s almost two. Meet at Tri Taco’s on Vermont and Melrose in a half hour. Is that good for you?” She asked.
     “Yeah, that’s fine.” She hung and I put away my phone.
     “Tammy Jeffers…” Ruth said, letting the name hang in the air.
     “Do you know her?” I asked.
     “Yes. She’s a good honest reporter; just too ambitious for me.”
     “Ok. So tell me what happened when you called Matt in to investigate this organization.”
     “Well, a couple weeks went by and he told me that he was getting no where. He started to believe that Miller had lied, made up the story about an organization.”
     “But Miller and the others were killed.” I interjected.
     “That is why he kept investigating.” She said. “ Miller had to be telling the truth. Then about ten days ago he called and told me he had found something, a good lead. But he would not tell me what he had found. After that I did not hear from him again. But my sister Ruby did.”
     She stood up and walked to the window and looked out.
     “What did he say to, Ruby?” I asked her back.
     “ I had been out shopping for groceries.” She turned and looked at me. “When I came home Ruby was gone. About an hour later Ruby called and told me that Matt had called her and asked for her help. He told her he needed to check something out and having a female with him would cause less suspicion. She said she would call me when it was over. That was four days ago. I haven’t heard from her since.”
     She started to cry softly. I stood up and walked over and held her.
     “What is happening, Tzadok?” She asked.
     We broke our embrace and returned to our chairs. She wiped her eyes with a tissue.
     “Sorry.” She said, “I am stronger than that.”
     “ Have you contacted the police?”
     She looked at me, as if I had asked her to call the Easter Bunny for a dozen eggs.
     “Of course not. I do not know if I can trust them. But I did contact Kevin Coyote. He is in Spain, but said that he would come here immediately.”
     Kevin Coyote.
     “ Are you sure you want, Kevin, in on this?” I asked.
     “I did not know you were going to come here. You have been gone for along time. I needed help, and who better than him.”
     Yeah… Who is better than him?
     I stood up and reached in my wallet for a card.
     “Her is my number. Call me anytime.” I said. “I’m going to meet, Jeffers.”
     She put the card in her jeans pocket.
     “ Why don’t you stay here, while you are in town?” She asked me.
     “ I think I’ll stay at Matt’s house.” I answered. “But I’ll come by and see you tomorrow.”
     “ That would be great.”
     “Ruby, I promise you I will find out what is going. And I will find Ruth and Matt.” I said.
     “ I know you will.” She said smiling at me. “I feel better just knowing you are here.”
     She kissed me on the cheek.
     I walked out of the house, and down the steps to my car.
     Kevin Coyote.
     Great. Just great…

                                                        Chapter Eight

    
     I took Pico to Vermont and turned left heading north. My head was filled with disturbing information and I wanted to try and sort through some of it while I was driving. But that would be impossible to do on this stretch of Vermont, because about five different South American countries and three Pacific Rim nations had wayward citizens that now called this area home and they had funny ideas about things like right of way and lane changes.
     I pulled in the lot of Tri Taco, parked and locked the car.
     I did not know what Tammy Jeffers looked like but I knew I could spot her. Like all reporters, she would be the only person in there looking like she was waiting for something terrible to happen.
     I walked in and saw that the place had not changed over the years. I could have been standing in a restaurant in Mexico City.
     I looked around and saw a pretty, African-American woman in her late twenties watching a young Hispanic couple at a table in a heated argument. That had to be Tammy.
     She was wearing a red plaid Catholic schoolgirl skirt, black turtleneck and a tan safari jacket with a lot of pockets. I walked up to her table.
     I said. “ Come here often?”
     She turned away from the couple and looked at me. Then she smiled and said, “ You’re cute, but your pick up line is lame and out dated. Why don’t you go home and try to come up with a new, then come back and try it on me tomorrow.” She turned back to the couple.
     “I’d rather stay.” I said.
     “Ok.” She said. “Let me give you a line then… Fuck off.”
     I was starting to like her.
     “I’m Jackson Mourning.”
     She turned back to me with genuine surprise on her face. She stood up and extended her hand.
     “Tammy Jeffers.”
     We shook and sat down.
     “Well, I must admit,” she said, “you are not what I was expecting.”
     “ How’s that?”
     “ I pictured Matt Hunter’s nephew to be some tall blonde Nordic looking dude. You have a kind of Puerto Rican look to you.”
     “My father was African American. My mother came from British stock. IE, the name Hunter.” I said. “ Now should we get into your heritage or talk about what we came hear to talk about?”
     “ No need to get all snippy.” She said.
     “I’m not. It just gets old having to explain what I am all the time.”
     “Yeah. I can imagine it would.” She said. “ Look. Let me buy you lu

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