59 – Lead on, Sherlock

 

  

 

They came in through the kitchen-- the subtler Spanish design marred from a dozen coats of paint and scrawling graffiti. The kitchen hadn't been used as a kitchen in decades, except for the three-times-a-day kettle for Jake's tea, part of the black man's fascination with things British. He equated it with class.

 "Which way now?" Dan asked nervously glancing around the room at the various doors leading into the maze of halls.

 Bobo pointed, staggering up several short steps and into a dim-lighted hall. It emptied into the lobby where the cop had been asleep.

 "Where did he go?" Dan asked, swinging his pistol around the room, a layer of dust covering what might have been the set for a 1930s movie, complete with potted palms and spittoons.

 The front desk, however, had been sealed in metal. The residents called it "the cage", wire mesh and a coin cup providing total contact between management and cliental. The three padlocks on its door had been wedged loose, its interior rifled. Even the heavy steel safe had been gutted.

 "Well?" Dan asked, standing a few feet back with his pistol roving over the stuffed chairs and front door.

 "Nothing," Bobo said. "Not even in the safe. But Jake wouldn't have put the drug in there."

 "Where then?"

 "I suppose we could look in his room."

 "Lead on, Sherlock," Dan said. "But be quick. This place gives me the creeps."

 Stairs rose to the left of the cage, branching at the top into a long rail and several dark halls. Most of the second floor stank of smoke from a fire a few years earlier. Underneath the rising stair, an unmarked door led to Jake's room. Bobo pushed in on it carefully. The air smelled stale from lack of ventilation. No windows to let out the scent of death.

 Bobo closed the door behind them and flicked on the overhead light. The unreasonable neatness struck him immediately, like a slice out of military life, and nearly as simple: a dresser, chair, bunk and bedside table defining the black man's total possessions.

 Only the ivory buddha stood out, sitting atop the dresser with bloated cheeks. Gook stuff, other troopers called it. Other men collected souvenirs, Jake had brought back a religion.

 "I don't see where he could have hidden anything here?" Dan mumbled, pushing up the brim of his hat with the barrel of his pistol.

 "Which is why I think he would have hidden it here," Bobo said, slowly surveying the room, looking for cracks in the walls or floor. "He'd want to keep it where he could lay his hands on it quickly."

 He even knocked on the wall, but it all sounded hollow. Then, turning again, his gaze again caught on the buddha.

 "Of course!" he said and went to the dresser. It lacked a drawer near the top, yet space had been left between it and the first drawer. More than enough room for the dope if Jake packed it carefully.

 Bobo moved the Buddha and felt along the rim of the dressed top until he found what he wanted and pressed. The top sprung open like the top to a trunk. Inside, he found the shopping bags in which he had transported the dope, torn handles and all. But they were empty.

 The door to the room slammed open, blue uniforms flowing through it with shotguns and pistols aimed at his head. Dan moved, but was swept up in the wave of police and shoved hard against the wall.

 "Move motherfucker," one of the cops said, "and I'll blow your brains out!"

 "Me?" Dan said innocently, letting the pistol tumble from his fingers to the floor. "Wouldn't think of it."

 They grabbed Bobo, too, shoving him beside Dan to pat him down. They cuffed them both and sat them on the cot.

 Demetre entered, straightening his tie. He paused and looked down into the open dresser top, nodding his approval. "Clever," he said and glanced at Dan and Bobo. A deep crease settled between his eyes, tightening the pale white scar down one cheek.

 "Leave us," he said to the others. They stared at him for a moment, then shuffled out.

 Dan squirmed.

 "Don't move!" Demetre barked, sounding like a Marine Drill Sergeant. "You move again I'll break your arms."

 "My wrists hurt," Dan complained. "Your boys put the cuffs on too tight."

 "You're lucky that's all they did," Demetre snapped. "Now which one of you killed Billy?"

 "Neither of us," Bobo said. "Someone shot him while we were talking to him."

 "How convenient," Demetre said, looking again at the dresser. "Is that where you hid the drugs?"

 "I didn't hide them. Jake did."

 "Liar!" Demetre barked. "Jake didn't handle drugs."

 "It was a personal favor to me."

 "For you?"

 "We were close," Bobo said.

 "Bullshit! Jake didn't have killers for friends."

 "I'm no killer. Those bones are buried back in Nam."

 "What's this for?" Demetre asked, retrieving Dan's pistol with two fingers. "It's hardly a keychain ornament."

 "Protection."

 "From whom?"

 Bobo stayed silent.

 "Answer me, asshole!"

 "Buckingham," Bobo muttered.

 The black cop laughed. "That hardly seems possible since you are Buckingham."

 Dan looked over sharply at Bobo, his mouth tightening and an odd, knowing light came into his eyes.

 "I'm not Buckingham," Bobo said, sweat forming on his skin near where the cuffs chaffed.

 A thoughtful humm escaped the back of the black cop's throat. "All right, tell me how you came to bring the drugs here."

 "Someone was following me. I begged Jake to hold onto them for me until I could lose the tail. I never figured on anyone killing him."

 "Which batch is this?"

 "The Albuquerque shipment. We think Buckingham snatched it."

 "And?"

 Again silence.

 "Listen, friend," Demetre said, taking two long strides across the room, his forefinger pressed up under Bobo's wobbling chins. "I've got enough to up you two away for the rest of your lives. Either you spill everything, or I'll have you hauled downtown."

 "How about a deal?"

 "You're in no position to make a deal."

 Bobo shrugged. "Then take us downtown."

 Demetre stared, finger clicking the top of his pen repeatedly. He grumbled and moved to the side of the dresser where Bobo had put the Buddha down on the chair. His long black fingers touched the pale surface.

 "Where do you know Jake from?" he asked.

 "Nam."

 Demetre turned, his gaze narrowing. "Where in Nam?"

 "Around Danang," Bobo said. "Though we did some R&R in Saigon."

 "And?"

 "And we saved each other's lives a time or two. Its hard to keep track, but I think I owed him more than he did me."

 "Some way to pay him back," the black cop said softly, staring off into space. He could have been talking to himself.

 "I know," Bobo mumbled.

 "What kind of deal did you have in mind?"

 Bobo looked up into the cop's dark eyes which studied him like an enemy. "You let us go, I'll give you Buckingham."

 "That's one poor fucking deal," the cop barked. "You can tell me anything you like."

 "And you could track us down just as easily."

 "Granted. But how are you going to give him to me when you don't even know who he is?"

 "Mike's set up a meeting."

 "Bobo, shut up!" Dan barked.

 "No," Bobo said. "Buckingham wants us dead. If the cops can stop him, that's fine with me."

 "Don't argue, talk," Demetre said.

 "Not until we have a deal."

 "All right we have a deal. Where and when?"

 "Tonight at midnight. Griffith's park."

 "That's a big park. Can you be more specific?"

 "Near the nature museum."

 "Not the bird sanctuary? The Museum?"

 "That's right."

 "And what exactly is Mike using for bait?"

 "Part of it is dope."

 "But the Albuquerque shipment was in there?" the cop said, indicating the dresser.

 "We had another shipment I picked up earlier."

 "What else does Buckingham expect from the meeting?"

 "Us," Bobo said. Me, Dan, Mike. Buckingham wants all of us."

 "Wants you dead if I know him," Demetre said.

 "I know. Mike knows that, too. But it's better than waiting for him to pick the time and place."

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