“Yeah, good call Rachael. Make sure Elgin disables those pistols,” Staal said.
Staal’s phone chirped signaling he had a text message. He clicked through to the message on the screen. It was from Hennessey.
Chimera. I still want the greasers. Call you after 11 tonight. CUL8r.
Thomas Rodriquez stood in front of the shower room mirror combing his thick black hair. He was five-eight and around a hundred seventy pounds with a wiry build. Staal once saw him take down a 250-pound guy with one left hook.
“You and Rosy got anything going tonight, Jay?” Staal asked.
“Nah, her and I is kinda fucked up, man,” Rodriquez said. “How’re you and Hayes?”
“That’s too bad, T. Me and Gina are good.” Staal checked his own appearance and grimaced at his five o’clock shadow.
“That’s cool, man. So, what’s up?” He turned to face Staal.
“I need a ride-along tonight, with Fraser.”
Staal told Rodriquez about the night’s surveillance and how he hoped to bring Rodriquez in on the case, full time.
Rodriquez’s face lit up. “Are you kidding, man? Ole T-Rod is your guy. Shit, me and Kenny will rock and roll all over those cock-suckers!”
“All right, then. The squad is getting ready to head. I’ll see you upstairs in five.”
The detectives shook hands.
“Hey, I thought IHIT had this BB shit?” Rodriquez said.
“We’re just cooperating.” Staal smiled and Rodriquez nodded.
At the MCS table, Rodriquez pulled a chair over and sat next to Gina Hayes. “Can I see likenesses for our boys, Gina?” he asked.
“Sure, we got mug shots for Hennessey and Mohammed, and DL photos for Shultz and Posh.” Gina pulled copies from a file for Rodriquez.
“So, Hennessey does six years and then meets his old friend Mo at the Tech College?”
“Uh-huh, and then the other two, we think.”
“Mohammed did two years for robbery. But the other two have no sheet?”
Gina nodded.
Gooch stood and spoke first, “Okay, we’re all here. Fraser, do you have whereabouts for our boys?”
“Yeah. Posh, Shultz and Mohammed are online as we speak. I know they’re all at home.” Fraser handed out current address lists for the four men.
“You know for sure?” Gooch asked.
“Uh-huh,” Fraser said a little sharply. “I called and talked to Mohammed. He didn’t want an Am-Ex card. Dwight Shultz said he didn’t order no pizza, but decided that pepperoni was a good idea.” Sarcasm loaded Fraser’s voice.
“All right, we know where they’re at,” Staal interjected. “Gooch and I will join Hennessey at the DMV. Gina, you and Wakamatsu will sit over at Mohammed’s place. Kenny, you and Thomas are gonna watch Posh and Shultz.” Staal waited for any protests or questions. “Make sure your radios are working and your cells are charged.”
“Channel four, everyone.” Gooch added.
Rachael Gooch parked the Impala across the street from the DMV in a position that allowed the detectives to see the main entrance and Hennessey’s car. Hennessey drove a 1979 black Firebird with a vanity plate, BOOGYMN. Staal picked up the portable two-way Motorola.
“Team One to Team Three. Radio check,” Staal said into the radio microphone.
“Loud and clear, One,” Rodriquez’s voice said.
“This is Two. Clean and on the scene,” Gina’s voice said.
“Thanks, Two. Three, are you set and plugged in?”
“Affirmative, One. I’m watching our friends chit-chatting online right now.”
“Thanks, people. Good luck. One is clear.”
“Almost eleven thirty,” Gooch said. “He shouldn’t be much longer.”
Staal needed a cigarette, but he didn’t need his partner’s complaining. Instead, he sipped coffee and fiddled with the Motorola’s antenna. Then he picked up his cell phone and dialed Fraser.
“Yeah, Staal, the three of them are on and talking in that fucking code again. Sounds like they’re planning to buy some guns. They mentioned you. Well, Lynch, I mean.”
“There he is, Jack!” Gooch said.
“Okay, got our boy. Later,” Staal said.
Gooch started the Impala after Hennessey got behind the wheel of his Firebird. He pulled the coupe out of the employee parking lot and made a left on 207 NW Avenue. Gooch followed.
“Mr. H. is on the move,” Staal said into the radio.
“Mr. H. sent a note to his friends before he left the D,” Fraser came over the air.
Staal’s cell chirped as he began to dial Fraser. It was Kenny. “Jack, I thought you would want to know. The chatter sounds like the gun purchase is on at a nightclub, The Sanguinary. Our boys sound pretty excited.”
The Sanguinary was a little known after-hours club and hangout for the outcasts typically labeled as Goth. Hennessey drove on and Gooch kept the Impala at a safe distance.
“He’s heading for the Sanguinary. The others will probably meet him there,” Staal said.
“He’s taking a long route. Shit, he should have turned right on twelfth.”
“All teams,” Fraser said over the radio. “Our boys are out of the room and offline.” Mohammed and the others were no longer on the Internet.
Hennessey had changed direction and was driving back toward the DMV.
“Fuck, Rachael! He made us,” Staal barked.
“No, Jack.” She shook her head. “He’s on the phone. Instead of stopping, he’s just cruising.”
“No way. He made us, man.” Staal’s cell buzzed in his pocket, interrupting. He took it out and stared at the screen. “Jesus, it’s Hennessey.” Hennessey made a series of right turns that lead them toward the nightclub.
Staal flipped open his phone.
“Is this Chimera?” Hennessey spoke in the same false voice he used during his smoke break outside the DMV.
Staal remember how he spoke to Hennessey earlier and tried to use the same voice. “Yeah, Blood it’s me.”
“You got the greasers?”
“Yeah. You ready to deal.”
“You know the Sanguinary Club?”
“Yeah.”
“See you there in thirty minutes.” The call ended.
Gina said over the radio, “Our guy is leaving.” Then Fraser spoke, “Same with our boys here.”
Staal reached for his portable CB radio and told the others about his conversation with Hennessey. “Let’s meet up at the 24-Seven store a block east from the club in fifteen.”
To Gooch, Staal said, “We need to get our shit straight.”
After a brief stop at Staal’s home to pick up his Ford Mustang, he pulled into the convenience store parking lot. He noticed the three Impalas parked in a tight row in far North corner of the lot and six detectives talking through the open windows. He stopped next to Gina’s car, got out of the Mustang, and stood between the Impalas. Gooch did the same.
“Hennessey and Mohammed got here about ten minutes ago,” Hayes said.
“Posh and Shultz stopped at Pete’s Pool Hall, three blocks down,” Fraser said.
“They’ll rendezvous at Pete’s when the deal is done,” Gooch said. “Damn. That will make taking all four difficult.”
“We’ll grab up Posh and Shultz later if we get anything from their buddies,” Staal said. He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and then tossed the butt. “We all ready?” he glanced at his partners. Nods all round.
“Okay, I’ll go in with Thomas.” Staal paused. “I’m gonna have my portable on so you can all hear the bullshit.” He set his Motorola two-way so it would only broadcast and not receive.
“Thomas?” Gooch questioned.
“Yeah, when it goes down, you guys take me and Rodriquez too. Then Rach, you’ll lead the interviews.” He inhaled. “Gina and Waku will stay clear unless the shit hits.” Staal waited for Gooch to disagree, but she nodded. Staal glanced at Rodriquez. “Ready, to do this, T?”
“Yeah, man let’s roll.” Rodriquez got out of Fraser’s Impala and swung into the Mustang.
Staal drove from the 24-Seven, turned left on 198 NW, and pulled into the lane behind the Sanguinary Club. He parked the Mustang a few feet behind Hennessey’s Firebird.
Both detectives checked their weapons and Rodriquez spoke first. “Hey, man. I appreciate you bringing me in on this one, Jack-o.”
“No worries. I just hope this isn’t a waste of time,” Staal said. He got out of the Mustang and led the way through the rear entrance of the Sanguinary. Instantly a bass-heavy electronic dance beat attacked his ears. The only vocals were a man’s tortured scream and a woman’s orgasmic moans. The searing soundtrack of hell.
Just inside the doorway was a gray stone wall with a nine foot archway. Guarding the arch sat a shirtless, dozing bouncer in tight black jeans with sickly-pale skin devoid of body hair. The guard didn’t open his eyes, he only pointed to a sign above his bald head that read,
8$ Cover
.
Rodriquez stuffed a twenty between no-shirt’s folded arms and moved through the arch. Staal thought that a flash of their badges could have saved the cover charge. However, such a move could have caused baldy to alert the place to a police presence.
The main hall of the Sanguinary was a two-level stone affair with little or no lighting. The second level had a wrought iron railing to allow optimum viewing of dance-floor action. The ground floor included the D-jay booth, bar, and a perimeter of round wooden tables with two chairs each. On each table sat the expected skull with melting candle. Staal could see only four customers in the place; midnight was early for such an establishment.
Later, the Sanguinary would come alive with disillusioned young people with white grease painted faces, ebony makeup, and back-alley amateur body piercings and tattoos.
“You see them?” Rodriquez asked.
“No, not yet,” Staal answered. The song on the sound system changed to a faster beat with synthesized-guitar and a growling vocalist who sounded as though he was gargling broken glass.
Sitting at the bar were two twenty-something men dressed appropriately for the establishment. They weren’t Hennessey and Mohammed.
On one table was a wax replica of a human head. The tabletop was covered in paraffin blood. Whoever designed the fake head had crafted the dead eyes perfectly. They stared up at him, pleading for help.
Dead and dying children were all around him. His heart began to pound and he struggled to fill his lungs. He wanted to break and flee the dingy place.
“Jack, is that them?” It was Rodriquez. “Staal, are they our guys? Earth to Staal...” He pushed against Staal’s arm. “Fuck is with you, man?”
“What?” Staal blinked his vision away. “No, they’re not our guys.” “Shit, man. Are you okay—”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s do this.”
“—cause, dog, you waz in another time zone or somethin’”
“I’m good!” Staal snapped. “Shit.” These dreams were becoming a problem again.
“All right, you’re good,” Rodriquez said. “So what about those two; second level, three o’clock?”
Staal waited a few seconds before looking up. “Francis Hennessey, Come on down,” Staal said to Rodriquez while he pointed to the bar. Hennessey nodded that he understood.
At the bar, Staal ordered two Coronas and passed one to Thomas. Both men turned to watch the floor for their suspects. A door opened at the far corner of the room and Hennessey emerged, with a man following a few steps behind that could only be Abdul Mohammed.
Both men were dressed all in black. Hennessey certainly fit the description of the man in black seen in Stephanie McKay’s neighborhood before she was killed, and at Dell’s Diner before Kim Walker was murdered. He was thin, around five foot seven, and looked like a teenager despite his 32 years.
“Who the fuck is this?” Hennessey gestured toward Rodriquez. “I don’t know him.” He looked back to Staal. “What the fuck is this, huh, Chimera?”
“Hey, Bloodbath, chill. This is T-Rod. He’s with me.” Staal turned to face Mohammed. “And this must be Hate-Raven.”
Mohammed nodded.
“So, we all know each other,” Rodriquez said. “We gonna do business?”
“Yeah, okay, I guess,” Hennessey said. “You got our stuff?”
“Uh-huh, in the lane. You got the five hundred?” Staal said. He noticed how nervous Hennessey seemed, as though he suspected a setup.
“Five? Fuck dude, you said we could get it for two-fifty,” Mohammed said.
“Shut up, Abdul!” Hennessey barked.
“Both of you. Shut-the-fuck-up, ‘fore I bitch-slap the two of you!” Rodriquez said. “You wanna bargain. Get yo’ shit elsewhere.”
Staal almost smiled at Thomas in character. The man was a treat to work with. You could tell he enjoyed every minute of the con, exactly the reason that Staal had chosen him over Gooch or Fraser.
“No, no, we want the grease. But...but...can we do this outside?” Hennessey stammered.
“You guys know how to get out back from here?” Staal asked.