Black Onyx Duology (24 page)

CHAPTER 6

Jack spent the day taking his niece out shopping. He told her he would buy her whatever she wanted but their deal was that she had to catch him up on everything that had been going on with the family.

After they were done shopping he took her to Universal Studios. He remembered the place vaguely from his youth. Something about seeing so many children running around comforted him. In the places he had been, there were no children. Or they were locked away where no one could see them.

It was nearly evening by the time Jack dropped her off. He gave her a hug and she thanked him before running off to the door with her bags from Neiman Marcus and Tiffany’s. Jack waited until her mother answered the door, waved, and then sped off.

He went to the car dealership and bought another Viper, telling them to drop this one off at an address uptown.
With a colorful bow if possible. When Jack went home, he thought about taking a shower but was too tired so he lay down, and was asleep in minutes.

When he woke it was dark outside and the moon was out. It was nearly ten and he realized he was late. He quickly jumped in the shower, put on a gray pinstripe suit with no tie, and ran out the door.

The Red Salamander—a bar in Santa Monica—was packed to the brim when he arrived. He had to find parking across the street before heading inside.

The bar was dimly lit but clean. It had a post-modern feel to it, mostly glass and chrome.

Jack spotted William and several other detectives at a large booth and he came over. William shouted something like, “This is the guy I’ve been telling you about,” and introductions went around before Jack sat down.

Ricardo Hernandez walked in to the Red Salamander and noticed the ladies on the dance floor. The music was turned up so loud you couldn’t hear yourself talk and that’s the way he liked it. He stared at the women a while, his three men behind him waiting until he had his fill, and then they made their way to a bouncer guarding the entrance to the back offices.

The bouncer nodded to them and let them through. Walking down a short hallway, they turned into a large office. A tall man with a bald head and a shiny shirt counted out cash behind a desk. A small amount of cocaine was laid on a mirror in front of him next to a straw cut in half.

“Armand,” Ricardo said, holding out his arms. Armand rose and they embraced. “How are you?”

“Bien. Y tu?”

“Can’t complain.
So, where are our guests?”

“Not here yet.”

Ricardo sighed. “This new generation, they have no respect for anything.”

“You’re preaching to the choir.”

After a commotion outside, the bouncer ran in. “They’re here. They wouldn’t give up their guns.”

“That’s fine. Send them in,” Armand said.

Within a few moments, several men with dreadlocks walked in. They were giggling and didn’t attempt to hide their guns at all. One of them had an assault rifle strapped to his back.

“My friends,” Armand said, “welcome. Please, have a seat.”

Although there were several couches and chairs around the office the men didn’t sit down. One of them, a short white man with greasy blond dreads, stepped forward.

“You wanted to talk. Let’s talk.”

“And you are Agamemnon?”

The men chuckled. “No, I am not Agamemnon.”

Armand exhaled loudly. “I was hoping to speak to someone in charge.”

“You can speak to me. I’ll tell him whatever you want me to tell him.”

Armand’s face grew dark. Ricardo knew he had sent a personal invitation for Agamemnon so they could speak like civilized human beings rather than shoot it out on the streets. But if they didn’t want to be civilized, Ricardo also knew no one was better at being uncivilized than Armand.

“I want you to tell him,” Armand said, “that if you filthy pieces of shit don’t stop selling glass in my neighborhoods, we’re going to have a problem.”

“And how are they your neighborhoods?”

The vein in Armand’s temple flared. The men did not know him well enough to know what that meant but Ricardo did. Ricardo took a step back and put his hand on the Smith & Wesson tucked in a holster on his hip.

“They are my neighborhoods,” Armand said, walking around the desk, “because I say they are mine. I’ve seen a lot of filthy beggars like you come along and they all fizzle like oil in a pan. You are no different. I’m giving you one chance to leave. Not just the city, the county. I don’t want you anywhere near my people. You have one week to do as I say. If not, I will hunt you down one by one until this is finished.”

The men chuckled again. Ricardo was amazed by the insolence.

“I can tell you Agamemnon’s answer now if you like?”

Armand held out his arms. “By all means.”

The man flipped a sawed-off shotgun out from underneath his jacket. Before anyone could move the boom echoed through the office, as if a shelf had fallen to the floor. The other men spun around, turning on Ricardo and Armand’s men.

Ricardo jumped behind a couch as the man with the assault rifle started firing. Bits of wall were flying off behind him and hitting him in the head. Ricardo covered himself, the gun by his temple.
A small amount of space let light through underneath the couch and he pointed and shot at the man’s ankle, turning it into red, slick flesh as the man stumbled forward and fell.

Then, all hell broke loose.

Jack listened to one of the detectives tell a story about how they had arrested a senator once and their captain had forced them to let him go when he heard the first gunshot. He knew by the sound it was a shotgun, sawed-off for greater spray. No one in the club did anything, as they weren’t used to hearing gunfire and they probably assumed it was something falling.

“That’s—” William began.

“I know,” Jack said.

A series of pops came from the back. People knew what it was now.

Screams filled the space as the music was shut off. As everyone sprinted for the doors, one woman got knocked down and people began to trample her. Jack ran for her, pushing everyone aside. A big guy in a biker’s jacket took a swing at him and he ducked low, upper-cutting him in the groin and sweeping his legs out from under him with his arms. As the man fell, he ran to the woman and helped her up, guiding her to the line leading out of the exit.

He saw William and the other detectives up and running for the doors. They had all left their firearms in their cars since they were drinking.

“Jack,” William shouted, “come on!”

The door to a backroom opened and the sounds of gunfire overtook the screams. A man in dreadlocks ran out onto the dance floor, two pistols in his hands, firing into the back like he was in a Wild West movie.

Jack ducked low. The lights weren’t turned up yet and darkness shadowed the walls. He put his back to the wall and slid toward the man who was hollering and emptying his revolvers. When he was out, he pulled out some quick-loaders.

Jack sprinted at him. The man saw him and rushed to reload when Jack slammed his fists into his hands, knocking the revolvers to the floor. The man swung and Jack used his momentum, letting him wrap his arm around his neck, as he twisted and flung him over his shoulder onto the floor. He grabbed one of his wrists, placing the man’s elbow between his own knees, and twisted nearly all the way around, snapping his arm at the wrist and elbow.

Another man with dreads ran out holding a shotgun. He saw Jack and the man on the floor and his eyes widened. He pointed his weapon and Jack dove to the floor, barely missing the spray. He picked up the man on the floor as another round went off. Jack held the injured man in front of him like a shield, hoping his friend wouldn’t fire. But he fired twice, knocking Jack backward from the impact.

Jack dove behind the bar as another shot shattered the mirror and the liquor glasses. Shards of glass flew over him and he covered his face until it stopped and then grabbed a broken vodka bottle. He slid under the bar when he saw the man come over.

Jack jumped and thrust the jagged edge of the bottle into the man’s face. He screamed and Jack grabbed his weapon. He twisted toward the man, getting a good grip on the shotgun, and then spun away, ripping the shotgun out of the man’s grasp.

“Down on the ground, now!” Jack shouted, pointing the weapon.

“Fuck you!”

The man ran at him and Jack lifted the butt end of the shotgun and slammed it down onto his face, crushing his nose. He swung it like a bat, smashing into the man’s jaw, and knocking him out cold. He hit the bar and slid down to the floor.

Two more men with dreadlocks ran out of the back, one of them injured and limping. He looked over to Jack and to the two other men on the floor. He went for the assault rifle that was in his arms but his companion grabbed him and forced him toward the exit as sirens screamed outside.

A man in a suit with gold chains around his neck stumbled out. He was holding an automatic in his hands and his suit appeared torn to shreds from the entry wounds of slugs. The man stood quietly a while and then fell to his knees. He looked up to the ceiling as he tumbled backward. Jack ran to him but he didn’t even know where to start trying to stop the bleeding. He would place his hands over one hole and like a cartoon character trying to stop a crack in a dam, more blood gushed out of other places. As the man choked to death on the blood filling his lungs, Jack closed his eyes and let him go.

CHAPTER 7

By two in the morning, the only people left at the Red Salamander were police officers and detectives. The CSI team lingered somewhere but from the hood of the police cruiser Jack was sitting on he couldn’t see them.

The night air clung to him. It was wet somehow, though he had never experienced much humidity in Los Angeles and he wondered if it was just
him. He had spent so many years in wet jungles that maybe his body wasn’t able to adjust to a dry climate.

William walked up to him out of the crowd of officers talking near the entrance. The bodies were now being hauled out by the Medical Examiner’s Office staff and loaded into their black vans. Jack and William watched them a long time before speaking.

“Eight dead,” William said. “Most of ‘em were in the drug game. Two of ‘em were just young girls here dancing and got caught in the crossfire.”

Jack didn’t respond and William continued.

“This is what it’s like now, Jack. I wish I could say this was an unusual occurrence but it’s not. The cartel’s got a strong presence here, the Columbians, the Russians, the Vietnamese…and now the Myrs. They battle it out and innocent people end up getting killed over it.”

“It’s always been like that. The world’s always been a mess. There’s not much you can do to change that.”

“The hell I can’t. I can catch those dreadlocked bastards and throw ‘em in a cell is what I can do. Maybe even put a needle in their arms. Don’t you want to see that?”

“No. More killing doesn’t bring anybody back. It just adds death to the world. Revenge isn’t an answer, William.”

“Then what is?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.” Jack hopped off the hood. “I’m going home. Call me if you need anything else.”

“I need you to come back and help me. I already talked to the commissioner about it.”

“I’m sorry. But that’s not a world I’m getting involved with again.”

Jack got into his car and pulled away from the Red Salamander. He had to wait for one of the ME’s vans to pass and he followed behind them a few blocks, but it made him feel uncomfortable so he turned away and down a residential neighborhood. He took a long drive before heading back to his condo and parking in the driveway. A song by Deva Premal was playing on the satellite radio. It was a soft female voice repeating a chant over pleasant music. Jack listened to the entire song before stepping out and going inside.

Taking his cell phone out, he kicked his shoes off and threw his keys onto the kitchen counter. The phone’s display said he had eight missed calls and three voicemails. He listened to them. They were all from his sister saying she’d seen him on the news at the shooting and she needed him to call right away to make sure he was okay. He grinned as he called her back, unaccustomed to someone caring about him.

“Hey, Nic, it’s me.”

“Jack,” she said, relief pouring out of her, “why didn’t you call me?”

“I just got home.”

“I saw your interview on the news. What the hell happened?”

“Just like it sounded. A drug war with innocent people caught in the middle.”

“Are you hurt at all?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“I’m coming over.”

“No, Nicole, you have a family. Be with your family.”

“You’re my family too, Jack,” she said sternly. “And I’m coming over.”

He wanted desperately to sleep but being able to talk to someone sounded fine too. He went upstairs and took a quick shower, changing into an old University of New Mexico T-shirt and some basketball shorts. Back downstairs, he got bottled water out of the fridge before settling on the couch.

There wasn’t much on TV but soft-core porn and he was amazed that they could even show things like that on television. He had been away a long time apparently. He switched it to a twenty-four-hour news channel and listened to a story about a mother and her two children who had gotten stuck in a canyon and had to survive on their own for three days.

The doorbell rang and he answered. Before it was open all the way, Nicole threw her arms around him and hugged him.

“Hey,” he said, “I’m okay. Seriously, I wasn’t hit.”

“All those damned missions in the jungle and you almost got killed at a bar.”

“Almost is the operative word.” He pulled her away so he could look into her eyes. “Nic, I’m totally fine. Come in.”

They sat down on the couch and watched television for a little bit without speaking and then Nicole said, “When you first left, I used to stay up nights crying.”

Jack looked to her and then
back at the television. They hadn’t had a father growing up—he being a womanizing alcoholic—and he knew that had been his role. “I’m sorry. I know hindsight’s twenty-twenty, but I sure wish it wasn’t. I can see the mistake I made now.”

She rubbed his hand. “I’m just glad you’re home now.”

“Me too.”