Nocturnal

Pookie’s Sister

Pookie parked the Buick on Union Street, next to Washington Square Park. As he got out, his hands did their automatic four-pat — a pat on the left pants pocket for his car keys, the right pants pocket for his cell, left breast for his gun, and rear-right pants pocket for his wallet. Everything was in its place.

Bryan was leaning on the Buick’s hood, left hand pressed against the chipped brown paint.

“Bri-Bri, you okay?”

Bryan shrugged. “Might be coming down with something.”

That would be the day. “Dude, you never get sick.”

Bryan looked up. Beneath his shaggy, dark-red hair, his face looked a bit pale. “You don’t feel anything, Pooks?”

“Other than guilt at hogging most of the universe’s available supply of awesome, no. I’m fine. You think you caught something at the Maloney site?”

“Maybe,” Bryan said.

Even if Bryan had caught something, they’d been there only a few hours ago. Flu didn’t set in that fast. Maybe Bryan was just tired. Most days, the guy hid in his darkened apartment like some nocturnal creature. Three day shifts in a row had probably played havoc with Bryan’s sleep patterns.

They walked down Union toward the corner of Mason Street. There lay the Trattoria Contadina restaurant. According to Tryon’s info, one Pete “the Fucking Jew” Goldblum had been seen there several times.

“Bri-Bri, know what’s bugging me?”

“That Polyester Rich has our case?”

“You’re psychic,” Pookie said. “You should be one of those fortune-tellers.”

“Just leave it alone.”

Like hell Pookie would leave it alone. Why would the chief want her best two inspectors off the Maloney case? It just didn’t make any sense. Maybe it had something to do with whatever was under that blue tarp.

Paul Maloney had deserved a lot of bad things, but not murder. His end couldn’t be considered justice, no matter what crimes he’d committed. Maloney had been tried and convicted by a jury of his peers — the court’s punishments had not included the death sentence.

Bryan coughed, then spit a nasty glob of yellow phlegm onto the sidewalk.

“Lovely,” Pookie said. “Maybe you are sick.”

“Maybe,” Bryan said. “You should be a detective or something.”

They passed San Francisco Evangelical Church. After arriving from Chicago ten years ago, Pookie had given that one a whirl. Not his taste. He’d tried several churches before finding his home at Glide Memorial. Pookie preferred his sermons served up with a side of soul music and a touch of R&B.

He realized he was walking alone. He looked back. Bryan was standing there, his face in his hands, slowly moving his head side to side like he was trying to shake away a thought.

“Bri-Bri, you sure you’re okay?”

Bryan looked up, blinked. He cleared his throat, let lose another goober-rocket, then nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Trattoria Contadina was only a block away from Washington Square. Concierges knew the restaurant and sent tourists there to dine, but for the most part the place belonged to the locals. Simple white letters on a dingy-green, bird-crap-strewn awning spelled out the corner restaurant’s name along both Union and Mason. A bell over the door rang as Bryan and Pookie walked inside.

The smell of meat, sauce and cheese smacked Pookie in the face. He’d forgotten about the place and made a mental note to come back soon for dinner — the eggplant antipasti was so good you’d slap your sister to get some. And Pookie liked his sister.

About half of the linen-covered tables were full, couples and groups talking and laughing to the accompaniment of clinking silverware. Pookie was about to pull out the pictures Tryon had provided when Bryan lightly elbowed him, then nodded toward the back corner. It took Pookie a second to recognize the half-lidded eyes of Pete Goldblum, who was sitting with two other men.

Pookie walked to the table. Bryan followed, just a step behind. That was the way they handled things. Even though Bryan was smaller, he was kind of the “heavy” of the partnership. Pookie did most of the talking until the time for talking had passed, then Bryan took over. The Terminator had a coldness about him that people couldn’t ignore.

Pookie stopped at the table. “Peter Goldblum?”

All three men looked up with that stare, the one that said we know you’re a cop and we don’t fucking like cops. They all wore suits. That was unusual; the era of the well-dressed mafioso had largely passed by. Nowadays, dressing flashy was for gangbangers — most of the really powerful guys dressed as inconspicuously as possible.

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.