Nocturnal (6 page)

Goldblum finished chewing a mouthful of food and swallowed it down. “Who’s asking?”

“I’m Inspector Chang.” Pookie showed his badge. He tilted his head toward Bryan. “This is Inspector Clauser. We’re with Homicide, looking into the murder of Teddy Ablamowicz.”

Bryan walked around to the other side of the table. The three men watched him, their attention naturally drawn to the more dangerous-looking of the two cops.

The man sitting opposite Goldblum spoke. “
Clauser?
As in,
Bryan
Clauser?”

Pookie recognized the other two men just as Bryan answered — the arrogant face of Frank Lanza, the broad shoulders and shaved head of Tony Gillum.

Bryan nodded. “That’s right, Mister Lanza. I’m surprised you know my name.”

Lanza shrugged. “Someone told me about you. From what I hear, you’re in the wrong line of work. You should be one of those” — he squinted and looked to the ceiling, pretending to try and remember something — “Tony, what’s the name of those guys they have in those silly gangster movies? The guys who kill people?”

“Hit men,” Tony said. He spoke with a voice so deep he might very well have the four balls of his nickname. “He should be a hit man, Mister Lanza.”

“Right,” Lanza said. “A hit man, that’s it.” He looked at Bryan. “I heard you killed what, four people?”

Bryan nodded. “So far.”

The one-liner made the men pause. Damn, Pookie had to write that one down for later — that kind of stuff could make a script sing.

“Mister Goldblum,” Pookie said, “we’d like to ask you some questions about Teddy Ablamowicz.”

“Never met him,” Goldblum said. “He the guy in the paper?”

Lanza laughed. “He’s in
three
papers, if you know what I mean. Parts of him, anyway. At least that’s what I heard.” Lanza picked up a piece of bread and smeared it in the sauce on his plate. He shook his head dismissively, as if Pookie and Bryan were a trivial annoyance that had to be temporarily tolerated.

Were these guys for real? The suits, all of them together, in public like this, and in an Italian restaurant? Maybe they had been quiet for six
months, but stealth seemed to be over — they wanted people to see them, to know that the LCN was back in town.

“This isn’t Jersey,” Pookie said. “I don’t know how you run things back east, but maybe you don’t understand who Ablamowicz was working for, or what happens now.”

Bryan stared at Lanza, then picked up a piece of bread and took a bite. “He means you should lie low, Mister Lanza. Not be out like this, where anyone can roll up on you.”

Lanza shrugged. “We’re just out for a meal. We didn’t do nothing wrong. You think we did something wrong?”

Bryan smiled. The smile was even spookier than his stare. “Doesn’t matter what I think,” he said. “What matters is what Fernando Rodriguez thinks.”

“Who the fuck is Fernando Rodriguez?”

It took Pookie a second to realize that Lanza wasn’t making a joke. Maybe God loved Frank Lanza, because it had to be a miracle that an idiot like this had lived so long.

“He’s the boss of the Norteños,” Pookie said. “Locally, anyway. You should know these things. Fernando is a man who gets things done, Mister Lanza. If he thinks you were involved with the Ablamowicz murder, odds are you guys are going to have visitors. Real soon.”

Goldblum picked his napkin out of his lap and dropped it on his half-eaten dinner. “Fuck that,” he said quietly. “I’m a taxpaying citizen. Think I’m concerned about some chickenshit wetback outfit?”

Oh, man, these guys hadn’t done their homework. Underestimating the Norteños could win you an express ticket to the morgue. Pookie felt compelled to bring Pete in — for his own safety more than for the crime.

“Mister Goldblum,” Pookie said, “I think you should come with us.”

Goldblum’s eyebrows raised, but his eyes stayed half lidded. “You arresting me, gook?”

Pookie shook his head. “I’m from Chicago, not Vietnam. And, no, we’re not arresting you, but why make things difficult? You know we’re going to have that conversation downtown sooner or later, so let’s just play nice and get it over with.”

Lanza laughed. “Yeah, right. Like you guys are so different from East Coast cops. You
never
get it over with.”

Pookie heard the tingle of the front door’s bell. Bryan’s eyes snapped up, then narrowed.

Uh-oh.

Pookie turned quickly. Two Latino men, approaching fast. Thick workingman jackets. Knit hats — one red with the white N of the Nebraska Cornhuskers, the other red with the SF logo of the 49ers. Tats peeked out from their T-shirt collars, running right up to their ears.

Each man had a hand in his jacket.

Each man was staring at Frank Lanza.

Jesus H. Christ — a hit?
Here?

“Pooks,” Bryan said quietly, “get back here,
now
.”

Pookie stepped around the table before reaching into his jacket for his Sig Sauer, but the men were faster. Their hands came out of their jackets — one raising a semiauto, the other leveling a sawed-off pump shotgun.

Before the men even cleared their weapons, Bryan drew his own Sig with his left hand, reached out and grabbed Lanza with his right. In the same motion, he kicked the table over so the top faced the gunmen, sending plates of food flying. Bryan shoved Lanza down behind the overturned table.

The sawed-off roared, shredding linen and splintering wood.

Bryan’s pistol barked twice,
bam-bam
. The shotgun guy twitched, then Bryan fired for the third time in less than a second. The man’s head rocked back and he dropped.

Screams filled the air. Pookie found his gun in his shaking hand. The other attacker backpedaled for the front door, firing wildly toward the table. Pookie aimed —
people on the floor, ducking behind tables, too crowded, traffic outside, people on the sidewalk —
but didn’t fire.

A gunshot to Pookie’s right. Tony Gillum, firing as the perp ran out the restaurant door.

Bryan came at Tony from behind, grabbing Tony’s right hand and lifting it, pointing the gun to the ceiling even as Bryan drove his left foot into the back of Tony’s right leg. Tony grunted and fell to his knee. Bryan twisted sharply, throwing the bigger man facedown onto the food-strewn linoleum floor.

Bryan remained standing, Tony’s gun still in his hand. He ejected the magazine and pulled back the slide, then walked four steps forward and kicked the sawed-off shotgun away from the downed gunman.

“Pooks, cuff Tony and call this in.”

The fear finally hit home. It had all gone down in four seconds, five at most. Pookie pointed his weapon just to the left of Tony’s back.

“Don’t move! Hands behind your head!”

“Relax,” Tony said as he obliged. “I got a permit.”

Pookie set his knee into the small of Tony’s back, making the man carry his weight. “Just stay right there. Bryan, you going after the other gunman?”

“No way,” Bryan said. “We wait for backup. First guy to peek his head out that door might get it shot off.” He then shouted to the restaurant patrons. “San Francisco Police! Everyone just stay where you are! Is anyone hurt?”

The patrons looked at one another, waited for someone to talk. No one did. A chorus of shaking heads answered Bryan’s question.

“Okay,” he said. “Nobody move until backup arrives. Stay down, stay calm.
Do not
try to leave the building, the gunman might still be outside.”

Ten seconds of panic had rooted the patrons in place. They didn’t relax, not even close, but they obediently stayed put.

As Pookie cuffed Tony Gillum, Bryan knelt next to the would-be assassin and opened the man’s jacket. Glancing over, Pookie saw two spreading red spots staining the perp’s white T-shirt, blood circles merging into a solid figure-8. Blood also oozed from a spot just under the man’s left nostril.

Two to the chest, one to the head.

Pookie called for backup. He also requested an ambulance, but unless someone got a splinter from the ruined table the paramedics wouldn’t have much to do — Bryan’s perp was already dead.

“Holy shit,” Lanza said. “Holy shit.”

Bryan sighed, closed the gunman’s jacket. He looked back at Lanza.

“They were after you, Lanza,” Bryan said. “Like I told you, you probably want to lie low, if not just throw in the towel and go back to Jersey.”

A wide-eyed Lanza nodded. “Yeah. Lie low.”

Bryan walked to Lanza and helped the man to his feet.

“You owe me,” Bryan said.

Pookie watched. Bryan had just killed a man, yet he acted like that was about as upsetting as opening the fridge to find someone had drunk the last of the milk. The casual nature and the cold stare seemed to shake Lanza up as much as the shooting itself.

“You owe me,” Bryan said again. “You know that, right?”

Lanza rubbed his face, then nodded. “Yeah. I … holy shit, man.”

“A name,” Bryan said. “We want a name for this Ablamowicz thing.”

Lanza looked back to the dead gunman lying on the floor at Bryan’s feet, then nodded.

Pete Goldblum had hit the deck as soon as the shooting started. He stood and wiped spaghetti sauce off his suit coat. “Mister Lanza, you don’t owe this cop shit.”

“Shut up, Pete,” Lanza said. “I’d be a grease spot right now. You and Four Balls didn’t do a god-damned thing.”

“Hey,” said a facedown Tony Gillum. “I got a round off.”

“Sure, Tony,” Lanza said. “You’re like a regular Green Beret.”

Pookie heard his own long release of breath before he knew he was letting it out — the situation was contained. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen Bryan Clauser in action like that, but he hoped it would be the last.

T
he sun had hidden itself somewhere behind the apartment buildings. Bryan was only minutes away from his bed and sleep. Usually he had trouble sleeping at night, but not today — he’d be out like a light.

“Riddle me something, Bri-Bri.”

Bryan’s forehead rested in his right hand; his elbow rested on the inside handle of Pookie’s Buick. Whatever bug he had was rapidly getting worse: fatigue and body aches, the start of sniffles, throat full of razor blades, a first hint at a monster headache.

Bryan leaned back and yawned. Pookie had been talking nonstop since they left the restaurant. That was in a manual somewhere — keep the shooter talking after the incident, don’t give him time to get all introspective.

Pookie meant well, for sure, but Bryan just wanted silence. He couldn’t tell his friend and partner why. Some things you just couldn’t share. They were almost back to Bryan’s apartment, then he’d be done with Pookie’s constant chatter.

“Bri-Bri? You hearing me?”

“Yeah, sure. What’s the question?”

“How does a grown man not have a car?”

Bryan had to clear his throat before he could talk. “Don’t need a car. I live right in the city.”

“You don’t need a car because I schlep you all over the place.”

“Also a factor.”

Pookie double-parked in front of Bryan’s building. Horns behind them started honking instantly.

“Bri-Bri, you going to be okay? I can hang here tonight if you want.”

Bryan put on his best fake-solemn expression. “Thanks, but no. This ain’t my first rodeo. I just need to be alone and think this through.”

Pookie nodded. “All right, playa. But call me if you start wigging out, okay?”

“Thanks, man.” Bryan had to coax his exhausted body out of the car. He stumbled into his building. What a day. A shooting, handling the crime scene, giving his statement, the preliminary shooting review — too damn much. There would be more long days to come. With all those
witnesses, with a gunman opening fire in a crowded restaurant, Bryan wouldn’t catch any shit for this. That didn’t mean, however, that he didn’t have to go through the motions. A full shooting review board was already scheduled. That was always such a good time.

And at the crime scene itself, before he could even leave, there’d been the mandatory chat with the police shrink. Was Bryan okay? How did the shooting make him feel? Did he think he could be alone that night?

Bryan said what he always said — that killing a man felt awful.

And, as always, that was a lie.

Did he enjoy killing people? No. Did he feel bad about it? Not in the least. He knew that he
should
feel something, but just like the last four times, he did not.

The guy had fired a shotgun. If Bryan hadn’t put him down, it could have been Lanza in the body bag. Or Pookie. Or Bryan himself.

Lanza, such an idiot. Maybe on the East Coast people respected the Mafia enough to give them leeway, but not out here. Jimmy the Hat had been a sharp cat. His son? Not so much. Frank and his buddies dressed up like they wanted the golden age of crime to come back overnight. Well, now they knew a different story.

Adrenaline had kept Bryan pumped from the shooting right up through the talk with the shrink. But during that whole time, his body had been sneakily breaking down. Once the buzz of excitement wore off, he’d felt completely wiped out.

Bryan pressed the button to call the rickety old elevator. Instead of a click and the whir of machinery, he heard nothing. Dammit — the elevator was broken again.

He pushed his body up the stairs, each step feeling like he was lifting someone else’s much-larger foot. He reached the fourth floor and paused. Muscle pain you could ignore. Most of it, anyway. Aches, throbbing, fever … but now he felt a new pain that demanded his attention.

A pain in his chest.

Bryan ground his teeth, then rubbed his hand hard against his sternum. Was he having a heart attack? No … it felt like it was a little
above
his heart. But what did he know about heart attacks? Maybe that’s where they started.

And then, suddenly, the pain faded away. He took a long, deep breath. Maybe he should call a doctor, but he was so damn tired.

It was probably nothing. Just the flu, messing with his system. Maybe
he was more stressed about the shooting than he knew. If his chest felt like that the next day, he’d call a doc for sure.

Bryan walked into his apartment and started stripping off his weapons. He managed to remove most of his clothes before he crashed into his bed and fell asleep on top of his covers.