Deep Cover (25 page)

"He
looked like most of you boys. Long hair, scraggly beard. A little on the skinny side, though. Not like you... No, not like you at all." Sally leaned over the counter and patted him on his belly.

"Sally,
you don't pay nobody you don't know!" Iron Man turned toward the novelty aisle. "Snake, let's go, man. We're gonna find that motherfucker."

"Who?
Hey, I want to get one of these!"

"Not
now, dipshit. Come on, I'll explain along the way."

"You
don't pay nobody you don't know!" Iron Man repeated, pointing his finger at Sally as they exited the shop. She shrugged, scratched under her armpit, and sat back down to a copy of
Bestiality
magazine.

The two bikers spent the next three hours riding up and down the strip in search of the imposter. Stopping in all the bars and strip joints in the area, they questioned over fifty people. Finally, at almost two in the morning, a hooker named Jinx told them a guy with a Henchmen tattoo had tried to talk her into a free blow job.

"I
said Henchman or no Henchman, you gotta pay if you want Jinx to swallow your salami, baby," she had told them. "I'd seen that boy before. I think he regulars over at The Crossbow, on 10th Street."

The
bikers rode over to 10th Street. They noticed a Japanese motorcycle parked outside The Crossbow bar. Iron Man and Snake pulled over about fifty yards down the street.

"If
this guy did this while riding a rice wagon to boot, I'll rip out his eyes and fuck his skull," said Iron Man as he dismounted his Harley.

They
entered the bar and began to walk from table to table, looking everyone up and down as they made their way through. Suddenly, a man stood and ran toward the back of the bar.

"The
back door!" shouted Snake, as he darted after him. The imposter ran across the yard and started to climb a chain-link fence. Snake leaped and caught him by his ankle, shaking him loose. He fell on his back, his head hitting the ground hard. Snake picked him up by the jacket, spun him around, and held his arms, while an out-of-breath Iron Man confronted him.

"You
little shit!" He tore the sleeve from his jacket, exposing the phony Henchmen tattoo on an arm covered with needle marks. "Where'd you get this?"

"I
d-did it myself, man! Honest! I thought I could get a couple of fast bucks. P-please, man! I'm sorry! I'll have it removed! I'll give you guys back all the bread!"

"Shut
the fuck up, dickhead!"

Iron
Man slapped him across the face, opening a small cut on his lip. He punched him in the stomach and kicked him in the groin, causing his knees to buckle. Snake still held his arms as the junkie quivered and gagged.

"You're
goddamn right you'll have it removed."

Iron
Man held the man's wrist and pulled an eight-inch buck knife from its boot strap. With one stroke he sliced off the tattoo, along with most of the man's forearm. It fell to the ground like a slab of raw steak. A look of shock and disbelief appeared on his face, then screams that didn't sound like anything human followed. Snake loosened his grip and the man fell to the ground, writhing in pain and still screaming his inhuman cry.

The
two bikers pushed their way through the crowd that had gathered at the back door, every one of them too scared or too indifferent to offer any assistance to the victim. Snake and Iron Man could still hear the screams as they mounted their Harleys.

"Hey,
Iron Man, let's go back to Sally's!" suggested Snake. "I want to get that dildo for the run to the lake!"

Chapter
23

The coffee was bitter. Atwood took small sips, hoping to get used to it. He placed the cup on the edge of his desk, careful not to disturb the mounds of paperwork and reports relating to the biker case. He looked at his watch, reached again for the cup, then abandoned his decision to try again.

"Susan,
order me some coffee from outside, please. All that machine can make is mud."

"Right
away, Mr. Atwood. Shall I order some for Mr. Leverick too, sir? The receptionist says he's on the way."

"Yeah,
sure. Although I should make the bastard pay for his own," he mumbled playfully.

"What
was that, sir? I didn't understand."

"Nothing,
Susan. Send Dalton in when he arrives."

Atwood
returned to making notes on a yellow pad. He had set up a list of arrests that he felt they could make stick—if Martin Walsh was still alive. If the worst had happened and Martin was dead, there was little they could do. Most of the crimes had either been witnessed by him or confessed to him. They did have some signed 302's that implicated the club in dealing firearms. That might be enough to invoke the RICO Act. Then again, it might not be.

He
broke the point of his pencil as Leverick walked briskly through the door.

"Walsh
is alive!" said Leverick. His smile was broad and vibrant.

"How?
When?"

"You
know we were working the hospital angle, checking for gunshot wounds? Well, it turned out that a hospital outside of Keeler took in a DOA from a gunshot wound, and another guy fitting Martin's description. The DOA was Henchman Jerome Fenway, known to the bikers as 'Dog.' "

"The
guy from Boldero Prison?"

"One
and the same. Get this: Four bikers come in to the ward the next morning, intimidate the shit out of the entire medical staff as well as some deputy kid from the sheriff's office, and take Martin out. The doctors say he was unconscious when they took him. It was definitely Martin. We ran a check on the fingerprints taken from the van."

"Van?"
inquired Atwood, still smiling at Leverick's keyed-up explanation.

"The
sheriff's office hauled in a van that had crashed in a ditch along Highway 190. A passerby told the sheriff that before he'd called in the crash, he saw two bikers taking something out of the van."

"What
was it?"

"We
don't know. My guess is either drugs or weapons. Sounds like part of the biker war to me."

"Me
too." Atwood's face became serious. "Was Martin shot?"

"No,
the assailants must have left him for dead. The doctor said he had a bad concussion. No broken bones."

Atwood
stood up and walked over to his bookcase to get another pencil. "Do we know were he is?"

"No.
Molly checked his apartment last night. She gave his landlady a fifty. Said she was an old girlfriend, and wanted to surprise him with a visit when he came home. It didn't look like anyone had been there for days."

Atwood
and Leverick both stood silent for moment. Then, as if prompted by the same thought, both men solemnly seated themselves.

"Why
hasn't he called in?" asked Atwood.

"Precisely,
precisely
what I'm asking myself." Leverick rose to meet Atwood's secretary in the doorway. "Thank you, Susan." He took the brown paper bag and removed the two containers. Susan left silently. "They never put enough milk in these, you know?"

"Don't
complain. It's free, isn't it?"

"So
what do we do, Richard? Bust them? Then ask where the hell Martin is?"

"No.
Too risky. Martin could be laid up somewhere, and he'd be a sitting duck if a mass arrest were to suddenly take place and questions were asked about him. I think we have to get near the bikers, scope it out."

Leverick
sipped his coffee. "A visit to Mike's?"

"Yeah.
Tonight. Get the jeep from the garage and pick me up at nine o'clock."

Leverick
looked at his watch. Five-fifteen P.M. "That doesn't leave me much time. I'd better run." He picked up his coffee container and headed toward the door. "Oh, one more thing. I'm worried about Parkins. He's been acting real strange." Leverick waited for him to add something. Atwood just nodded. "I can't quite put my finger on it, but something's not right. What do you think?"

"I think we have to get to Martin. Tell Parkins nothing. I'll arrange to have him taken off the case until we can find out what's wrong."

It was daytime. What time, and exactly what day, I had no idea. I felt stronger now; still a little dazed
in the head, but definitely stronger. Strong enough to leave the house and put this nightmare to rest. I still wasn't sure exactly what the number to Base I was, but I was confident that when I started dialing it would come to me. I figured the team had to be out of their minds by that time, wondering what the hell had happened to me. And Amy. My dear, sweet Amy. At least it would soon be over. Or so I thought.

I
was surprised when I opened the door to see Snake standing outside the room with an M16 in his hands.

"Hey,
Doc. How you doin', man?" he said.

"Great,
Snake. Feeling great." Sure I was. "What's with the hardware? Where's Jack?"

"Jack's
out. Counsel wants to talk to you. He'll be here soon, Doc. He told me to make sure you didn't leave the house."

"What
the fuck is that shit?" I had to show Snake I was pissed. Compliance would have shown I was hiding something. "If he wants to talk to me, he could just come over and talk to me. He doesn't have to put a fucking guard at my door."

Snake
became defensive. "Look, Doc. The prez said you wait, and that means you wait." His eyes displayed cold determination. He would shoot me if I tried to leave. I was certain of this. I moved closer to him.

"Look,
Snake, we don't have to—"

"Sorry,
Doc." He pointed the M16 at my head. "Just go back inside until Counsel gets here. I'm sure it's nothing, man. Just don't fuck up, okay?"

I
put my hands up, almost mockingly. "Whatever you say, Snake." I returned to the room. I looked out the window and saw another Henchman, I wasn't sure who, standing below with a shotgun propped on his shoulder. I was stuck. I sat on the edge of the bed and waited.

About
an hour later the door opened and Counsel walked in.

"Doc,
we have to talk, man," he said without a greeting. Another man whom I had never seen before followed Counsel.

"This
is Pat Helmsford. I'll cut right to it, man. He says somebody tipped him off that you're an agent. He says your real name is Martin Welsh or some shit." Counsel turned toward Helmsford. Helmsford was looking at me menacingly.

"Walsh,"
said Helmsford. "You're a fucking plant, aren't you, scumbag?" Helmsford took a step closer to me, accusing me face-to-face. "I did some checking. There
is
a Martin Walsh working for the FBI in California. I called, and they declined to comment on his whereabouts. I think you're him." He poked me in the chest.

I
knocked his arm away.
Think
fast
,
Walsh
.
Integrity
and
brains
.
Now
more
than
ever
.

"Get
your fucking hands off me, motherfucker!" I said.

"Hold
it," said Counsel, pointing a snub-nosed .38 at my head. "I gotta make this call, Doc. I don't know…. I just gotta make the call."

Christ
,
this
is
bad
.

"He's
full of shit, Counsel! Don't you see? Someone's trying to turn us against each other!" Counsel lowered the gun. I continued talking rapidly. "They feed some name of some retired agent to this asshole and create a fucking war inside the club." I turned back to Helmsford. "I should kill you, you stupid fuck! You don't know what the fuck you're talking about!"
This
better
be
working
,
or
I'm
going
to
die
today
, I thought.

Counsel
also looked at Helmsford, who was beginning to look uneasy. He flipped the gun around and handed it to me. "Here's your chance, Doc. Blow him the fuck away."

Helmsford
looked at Counsel in disbelief. "Are you crazy? Counsel, please, stop this shit!" He placed his hands in front of his face. I stood there, almost frozen with fear, forcing myself to raise the gun and point it at Helmsford. I could practically feel Counsel's piercing gaze as I fought with all my will to keep my hand from shaking.
Oh
my
God
,
I
thought,
I'm
losing
it
—
got
to
hang
on
! Then, as if my instinct for survival had set my brain on automatic pilot, I told myself that it was going to be him or me.
He's
a
crooked
cop
.
Fuck
him
.

I
pressed the snub-nose against Helmsford's forehead and squeezed the trigger repeatedly. Four successive clicks. No blood. No bullets.

Helmsford
sank to the floor. He placed his head between his knees and started to cough. "God damn it, Counsel!" he said, panting. "You scared the fucking shit out of me!"

I
stood there in a daze. Counsel carefully took the pistol out of my hand. Helmsford, regaining some of his composure, rose to his feet and scurried out of the room like a scared rabbit.

"Sorry,
Doc. I had to be sure." Counsel hugged me. "You gonna be able to ride your hog on Sunday?"

"I'm
ready to ride it now," I said. "Let's go." I started to walk toward the door. Counsel stopped me.

"Wait
here, Doc. We still don't know who's trying to fuck us up. You'd better stay here. Fat Jack will drive you to the clubhouse to get your bike right before the run."

This
was bullshit. Even though I'd passed his little test with Helmsford, Counsel obviously didn't want to take the chance that I would disappear. There was tension between us, and I didn't want to push my luck.
Fine
, I thought.
I'll
play
it
out
.
I'll
wait
until
the
run
,
and
when
hundreds
of
bikers
are
partying
and
raising
hell
I'll
slip
out
and
be
on
my
way
.
It
should
work
out
.
Unless
Counsel's
got
another
test
planned
for
me
.
One
that
I
can't
pass
.

"You
should have let me waste that creep," I said as Counsel was leaving.

He
turned around and smiled. "He is a creep, but a useful creep. Saves us a lot of grief having a cop on the payroll. But I still wonder who the fuck told him that bullshit." Counsel shrugged it off and left the room.
Whichever
way
you
look
at
it
, I thought,
this
is
all
coming
to
an
end
soon
.

Leverick waited outside the Federal Building. The jeep's engine was running, and he had the air conditioning turned up high to combat the odor of dying fish. He spotted Atwood coming down the steps dressed in a khaki-colored fishing outfit. Lures and hooks decorated his vest and hat. He was carrying a rod-and-tackle box, which he threw in the back of the jeep.

"Don't
you think we're carrying this cover a little too far?" asked Leverick. "I can understand looking like something from the pages of
American
Fisherman
, but making me buy a load of fish, too?"