DIRTBAG CHAPTER 15

    It was another risky, career ending move, but Moore was convinced the situation called for desperate measures and nothing was more important to him than finding his partner, even if that meant breaking a few rules.  Cooper Watts was a dead end, at least for now, but he had another idea.
    He drove over the hill to Half Moon Bay and hopped the gate, with a Totenkopf carving on it, through which the Junk Yard Dogs were seen entering the property on their bikes.  A narrow dirt road with one set of tire tracks lead through the tall vegetation and eucalyptus trees.  A breeze was rustling the leaves.
    He walked about a mile before he saw a large meeting hall, with high beam outside lights, illuminating the expansive lawn, black limos lined up end to end on a long driveway, leading to the main gate, that was guarded by men with guns, men in tuxedos smoking outside the entrance to the dance hall, while finely dressed women and men listened to a live band playing country music.
    A line of pine trees along the South edge of the lawn blocked the bright spotlights.  Moore stayed low, moving in the shadows, swiftly through the darkness, until he tripped over a small bush, grunting and going, “Aaaah,” grabbing his knee, trying to comfort the hurt, getting up slowly, testing it out.  He felt a bump; he had a limp.  Looking to see if anyone saw him, Moore carried on.
    Keeping to the shadows, he limped around the side of the building, looking for an opening.  A few darkened rooms were along the South wall and a window, through which he could gain entrance.  A light was on and he heard a voice, as if someone was talking on the phone.  The band inside was muffled by two walls and Moore could hear him fairly well, because he was yelling at someone on the phone, “Shut up about the cop and be ready to move him tomorrow.  You hear me?”

    The phone call ended abruptly.  If the man was talking about Cecil…  He had to get a look at him.  He stayed low and peaked over the window sill, just in time to see the man turning out the light and closing the door.  Moore climbed in through the window.
    Once inside, he saw the phone in the light of the moon, coming in from outside.  He was about to sit down in the desk chair, when the band music stopped and he heard a voice over the microphone;  “The man I am about to introduce to you, is known to you all, as the man who will lead us into the 21st century, a man who will carve out a future for us, so we may live in a world as pure as the driven snow, a man with great power and intellect…” and the name was drowned out by the cheers that he heard.
    Moore stumbled around, knocking into furniture and grabbing a lamp before it tipped over, then opening the door a crack and peering through the opening.
    A well groomed man, wearing a modest t-shirt and slacks took center stage.  Calming down the crowd until they were quiet, he began speaking, “What we all stand to accomplish here will further our cause, will bring forth a new vision, for a greater society, of like minded men, with the strength of iron; we will see a better tomorrow, the world we leave for our children to live in, will be more pure and honest and eventually, our values will be shared by one and all, all the people will have their health and a place will be made for them at the table, you will see it in our life time.  It will be revolutionary, as great as the first revolution that brought forth such change on this continent, the bloody struggle still goes on today, and not just here; all over the world!  By our will, we will rise out of the morass, this hideous human cesspool of suffering, the ghettos of dire need (said with disdain), we will be washed in the cleansing waters of heaven and a new people, a more advanced, intelligent people, a stronger more resilient people, resistant to disease, a genetic marvel to behold, will be our new future, your children's future!  You people, here before me tonight will be the few, who will help bring this change about, who will play a part in making it happen; it will take great courage to accomplish this, however, a truer, more noble purpose, my brothers, does not exist in this world today.”
    Rising up out of their seats, everyone cheered, giving their leader the Nazi salute.
    Moore gently closed the door and went to the desk and looked at the push button phone.  It had a re-dial feature.   The last number dialed came up on the screen and it had a San Carlos prefix, plus a name: Josh Henderson, labeled “the fixer,” on the push button pad.  When he answered, Moore hung up the phone.
    He was about to leave, out the way he came in, through the open window, when the phone rang and two men entered the room and turned on the light.  One face Moore recognized: definitely one of the Junk Yard Dogs, wearing a tux, he threw down his cigar. “Hey you!”  He shouted.
    Jumping, Moore hit the ground funny and felt a surge of pain in his right leg, and limped a few steps, before the pain diminished enough to put more pressure on it, while the man inside sounded out the alarm, his voice obscured by the music.
    On the patio, many men were smoking cigars, the alarmist told them of the intruder and pointed the way, as they started looking for the culprit.  They spread out and headed in Moore’s direction, when someone cried out, “There he is,” pointing toward the tree line and about ten men started running toward Moore and he put it in turbo drive, running through the pain, coming into the light, hitting the dirt road he came in on, glancing back, he saw a mob of 25 men, intent on getting him.  One man started firing on Moore and he pulled out his gun and returned fire.  The gate was in sight and a bullet whizzed by his ear, as he kept low, looking for cover and shooting back.  Once he made it to the low fence, he climbed over it, as a bullet grazed his leg and hit a wide board.  They reached fence, as he made it to his car and closed the door, locking it.
    Their hands were on the trunk as he started the engine; they began to circle the car, when he put it in drive and lurched forward, stalled, as they got in front of him and one of them pointed a gun at him, as he started the engine, put it in drive and floored the gas, a bullet cracked the windshield and hit the rear view mirror.   The car made tracks and the people in front ended up on the hood until the two men rolled off to either side.  One man hung onto the roof, as Moore accelerated to over 50 on a residential street and the man fell off, skidding on the pavement.

    While Moore was going off the rails to find his old friend Cecil, Lan and Stuart were interrogating Mike Aaron, one of the Junk Yard Dogs, with his lawyer present.  The urgency of the situation was in the serious lines on their faces, spelling out ‘impatience’.
    “While we’re waiting for someone from the DA’s office to get here, a man’s life is hanging in the balance!”  Lan said stoically.
    “Name your co-conspirators, tell us where Cecil is and the DA will agree to a lighter sentence.”  Stuart said angrily.  “Agreeing to help us find Cecil is your best shot at leniency here.  Stonewall us, refuse to answer our questions and we make the recovery ourselves and we don’t need you anymore, the DA is going to ask for the max, which means you’ll be spending life in prison.  The clock is ticking Mr. Aaron.  Make up your mind.”

    Josh Henderson: The fixer.  What did that mean?  Moore had to wonder what he fixed: people problems, he assumed and now, he had to find this man, find out what he knew about his partners abduction.  He knew Cecil was taken for some reason, if not money, then something, and he was sure in his gut the Junk Yard Dogs had him.
    He looked up Josh Henderson in the phone book and found an address on Old County Road in San Carlos.
    Old County Road ran along the railroad tracks.  Moore parked and found Josh Henderson’s office building and went around it.  The structure was right up against the property line, only a narrow alley ran along the back wall and a stairwell descended from the second story to a parking lot under the office space.
    Moore could hear something going kerplunk, like a loaded dolly descending a staircase.  He went around the front side of the property, that ran along the street and looked through the iron gate by the driveway.  He could see men in gray overalls, loading a filing cabinet into a white van.  He thought they must be on to him.  They must know he got the location of Henderson’s office and now they are cleaning it out to remove any incriminating evidence.
    At the front gate was a camera and a call box.  Moore pressed the button to speak.  Cement steps lead up to the second story office.  Windows were inaccessible or blacked out, complete with iron works.  Getting no answer, he checked out the parking lot again.  The back doors of the van were left open, but the moving men were gone.
    The iron fence was high and pointed at the top end, but he was tall enough to get over it and once he did, he had a look inside the van.  As he was about open a file drawer, he heard a noise: a door opened and closed, footsteps rushing over pavement in dress shoes and then he saw someone, a man in a suit fumbling with his keys to open his car door in a panic.
    Moore came up behind him, gun drawn and pointing at the well dressed stranger.  Letting him feel the barrel of the gun on his neck, the detective said, “Turn around slowly.”
    The man put his hands up and faced Moore, as the detective took his keys.
    “You Henderson?”  He asked, searching his pockets, finding a wallet and name: Henderson, Josh.     “I have solid intel that points directly at you in the abduction of a policeman named Cecil, Buddy Cecil?  Name ring a bell?”  He could see the man was alarmed.  He was beginning to sweat, if he wasn’t sweating already.
    “What do you do, arrange to have people eliminated?”  Moore asked, “Is that what a fixer does?”
    He was too stymied for words.  Moore was ready to bring him in when he heard the sound of moving men approaching with loaded dollies.  Watching the men load the van, he turned to Henderson and asked, “You cleaning out your office because you heard I was coming?”
    His answer was in the form of sobs and whimpers.
    “All right you, come with me.”  Moore put his captive in a head lock, gun at his back and walked him over to where the moving men were closing the back doors and coming around the side of the van.  One man was in sight.  The other guy was opening in the drivers door.
    “Freeze!”  Moore shouted and the mover put up his hands and froze in place when he saw the gun was turned on him, as the man in the vehicle started the engine.  The van jumped into reverse and quickly backed up, then went forward and came to an abrupt stop before the vehicle gate, that was opening slowly.
    Moore moved closer to Henderson’s car and had the driver in his sights, ready to kill him, when the target ducked out of sight, as the detective fired and missed and the vehicle sped off.  The other mover, a big guy started to move on Moore, when he turned the gun on him in time.  He had Henderson in a head lock and the gun trained on the big man.
    The detective asked, “Where are you taking those files?”
    Everyone stared in silence.  Moore was the only one to speak, shifting the gun from Henderson’s head, to the mover.
    “You’re obviously on the run.  You know where Cecil is.  Tell me where he is and I’ll let you go.”  Moore knew there was no point in arresting him anyway, not after he found his address by trespassing on private property.
    The mover was closing in on the detective, while Henderson was too frightened to try anything chancy.
    A bullet came out of nowhere and struck the mover in the chest and he went down.  Moore’s gun was pointed at Henderson’s head at the time.  He heard gun fire behind him and saw a man in sunglasses, dressed in black with a hand gun.  He ducked behind Henderson’s Mercedes Benz, pulling his captive down with him.
    “Keys, where are those keys,” the detective whispered, searching his own pockets, as the man in black climbed over the fence.
    Finding Henderson’s keys in his jacket pocket, Moore fumbled them and picked them up, then found the key that opened the passenger side door, yelling, “Get in, drive!”
    He was putting the keys in the ignition, when the man in black opened fire and shot out a side window.
    “Drive!  Drive!”  Moore shouted and helped him out by stomping on the gas pedal himself, then Henderson slammed on the breaks, less than an inch from the gate that was opening… slowly.
    The man aimed his weapon at Moore, but the detective saw him first and fired and missed. But it was enough to make the man in black duck behind another vehicle.
    “Lets go!”  Moore shouted, pointing the gun at Henderson’s head, “The gate’s open!”
    They hit Old County Road and Moore said, “How do you feel about living to see another day?”
    The man was so scared he was quivering and weeping.



 Copyright 2016  William Leslie