Scam at 7th Street

CHAPTER ONE

It was Monday, 9 pm, but the hospital didn’t care. It was too busy taking care of Ted in the hospital bed. The room had a single fluorescent light that hummed intermittently like a trapped mosquito. The heart monitor’s steady beep cut through the hush, each pulse mapping his last stand. A nurse had hovered by the door, her face drawn tight around the truth she wouldn’t voice, but she had left.

Ted’s wife, Marie, sat on the chair beside him, one hand pressed to his chest where the bullet had been a few hours ago. Her gaze stayed fixed on the monitor, as if will alone would keep it from flatlining. Jack leaned back against the far wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched against the racket of his thoughts.

Moonlight cast straight shadows like bars, through the blinds and across the linoleum floor, turning the room into a cage of light and dark. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and regret. Outside, distant sirens mingled with a wind that rattled the window.

Ted’s breathing shallowed. An alarm went off, and the nurse arrived to check the IV drip, adjusting the tube with mechanical precision. Marie’s hands made fists, knuckles whitening. Jack rubbed his forehead, his gaze darting to the heart monitor. Time bled between heartbeats as if night had nowhere else to go.

Ted took a long breath, and it escaped as the monitor flatlined.

“Ted, where have you gone?” Marie held her dead husband’s head between her hands as it lay on the white hospital pillow. His final breath slipped away while his vacant eyes locked onto Marie as if they could see eternity.

Jack Rhodes knew Ted and Marie Clark were atheists, and at the last moment in Ted’s life, Marie’s question filled up the room like a fog. No one had an answer.

***

Ted had served alongside Sergeant Kenny Braithwaite in the San Francisco Police Department. Jack stood on the opposite side of the bed to Marie, giving her space, but she knew he was there. He would always be there for her. There was no one else at his passing.

Ted was in his late fifties and had served in the SFPD since he was eighteen. He had seen the worst that San Francisco had to offer. Jack didn’t know the details but knew from his own PTSD that it was like trying to keep the dark genie in the bottle. Had Ted seen one too many horrific incidents, or was it one particular incident that tipped the scales? Did it matter? To the allocated psychiatrist, from whom Ted was receiving treatment, it did. Ted didn’t take the prescribed medication, but every weekday, he attended Kenny’s morning martial arts class at the San Francisco Police Department Training Academy on Amber Drive. He trained like someone thirty years his junior, knowing it would release endorphins to improve his mood and the exercise would help him sleep. However, lately, Ted had been expressing dark thoughts.

One guy in Kenny’s class had committed suicide. It was a topic of conversation one morning.

“The trouble with suicide,” said Ted, “is that the insurance companies won’t pay out any of the policies. And it has a bigger impact on the family than just being run over by a bus.”

Some nodded, like reflections of Ted’s thoughts. Others, mostly the younger ones, chuckled at Ted’s comments. And then it seemed to be forgotten as they hit the showers. This topic was like a prairie dog sticking its head out of its burrow, then vanishing. You couldn’t see him, but everyone knew he was underground, waiting for another opportunity to show his face.

Jack relayed the conversation to Kenny, as he knew Kenny was worried about Ted.

***

That evening was to be a night out for Jack and Kenny to have a few drinks with Ted. Jack was not a fan of the bar Ted had chosen. It was a place where drowning souls clutched cheap whiskey and hid their sorrows in the shadows.

Rain-curdled neon bled across the cracked sidewalk as Jack pushed through the door. There was a bell on the door that made a tinny jangle, swallowed by the bar’s low hum. The air hung heavy with stale malt and unspoken debts, each breath a promise of regret. A lone bulb swung overhead, casting long shadows that danced across the scarred mahogany counter. The barkeep’s eyes were slate. He knew your secrets before you spilled them, and he measured your worth by the weight of your silence.

Booths lined the far wall like grave markers, their vinyl wounds oozing stories of last calls and broken hearts. In the corner, a crooked pool table groaned under the weight of crooked bets, its felt stained with desperation and chalk dust. The jukebox coughed out ragged blues, each note a lament that cut deeper than any blade. Regulars hunched over cards, faces etched in cigarette ash and hard years, trading glances that smelled of suspicion. In this part of South Market (SoMa) truth came cheap, and bitterness ran free. Outside, the city glittered in lies, blind to the souls hiding in its gutter-lit underbelly. Welcome to the heart of midnight, where hope checks its coat at the door.

Jack arrived five minutes early to find Ted already there, and in trouble. His bald head, with its broad forehead, was easily visible. His unbroken nose was straight and narrow. The square jaw sat below the thin-lipped mouth, which displayed a smirk as he stood with his back against the bar, surrounded by three mid-twenties steroid-looking types.

All three were hammering at Ted with a flurry of punches. Jack didn’t question how Ted got himself into this dilemma. When there’s a fight, be it in a ring, a street, or a bar, it’s like poker. You play the cards the dealer gave you.

The Cards. Jack was six feet tall and one hundred and eighty pounds. Ted was ten pounds lighter and two inches shorter. The one in the middle was doing most of the shouting and swearing, and was thirty pounds and three inches taller. The other two were Jack’s weight, but they only came up to Jack’s shoulder. A lot of information to absorb in one second. All three had purchased their T-shirts in a size too small. They looked like a set of primary colors on display. The one closest to Jack wore yellow, the big guy in the middle wore red, and the guy on the far side wore blue. They each wore a pale blue denim jacket. Perhaps they were members of a club, making a statement, or had the same mother who dressed them. They looked alike, but that was a discussion for later.

All Ted could do was defend. Jack knew that if the big guy went down, the fight was over, but first, he had to remove the shorter guy closest to him. This would have been a basic barroom brawl until Jack saw the closest guy pull a knife. All rules now vanished like smoke out the window.

Jack’s lizard brain kicked into the Krav Maga philosophy. Everything is a weapon. Jack grabbed a wooden barstool by the seat and swung it into the face of the closest guy. There was an eruption like lava as blood erupted from his nose and teeth, leaving a pattern on the yellow T-shirt like a child dabbling with paint for the first time. As he was falling, he grabbed the legs of the stool. Jack let go, and the wooden seat landed on the guy’s crotch when he hit the floor, where he grunted and rolled into the fetal position.

With a roar, the big guy turned his attention to Jack. Jack was unsure whether he was shouting to instill fear. He came at Jack with a right roundhouse kick to Jack’s knee, a straight left punch to the head, a left straight kick to Jack’s stomach, and a right cross punch to the head. Jack stepped back, slipping the punches and kicks as he looked past him to see that Ted had almost finished dispatching his opponent. One-on-one, Ted was a good fighter.

The big guy was clumsy but powerful and propped to set himself up for another round. Jack realized the four-part combination was the big guy’s practiced set piece, with the right cross being the knockout blow. Jack didn’t wait for him to start again, but threw a reverse roundhouse kick, catching the big guy in the temple with his heel, which dropped him onto his back, but he was still conscious. Ted’s opponent landed next to him. The big guy reached into the fallen man’s jacket and came away with a revolver. Jack saw him pull the hammer back, take a two-handed grip, shouting and swearing as he pointed it at Jack, and squeezed the trigger. Ted stepped in front of Jack, taking the bullet in the middle of the chest and falling back into Jack’s arms.

Kenny came in with a flying tackle onto the body of the yellow shirt, who grunted as Kenny reached past him and grabbed the revolver held by the big guy, twisting the gun from his grasp, stabbing him in the solar plexus with the butt, and rolling him over onto his stomach. Midway, the big guy put up a fight, which Kenny ended by bouncing the guy’s head on the floor, the force of which made him submit to Kenny’s strength.

In the gym during training, Kenny was all technique and discipline. In the field, like now, he was a thing of beauty. An angry, six-foot-three-inch, two hundred and ten-pound, red-haired ballerina with kicks, strikes, and throws, and a strength that he seemed to pull from his core.

Kenny glanced at the barman, shouted, and showed his badge. “SFPD. I’m SFPD. Bring me cable ties or a rope.”

Kenny pulled Ted’s opponent by his jacket over onto his back, frisked him for weapons, found another gun, and slid it in Jack’s direction, who was sitting on the floor, back against the bar, cradling Ted in his arms. Jack had his palm on the entry point of the bullet, trying to stem the flow of blood. Ted’s eyes closed, and his breathing rattled through his damaged lungs. Jack watched Ted’s blood seeping through the fingers on his right hand.

As the ambulance guys arrived, Ted’s eyes opened, and he made a thin-lipped smile as his lips moved. Jack had to lean forward to hear the words spoken with a one-second gap between each one. “You weren’t meant to be involved.”

The ambulance guys attended to Ted and rushed him away on a gurney. Eight SFPD cops were dealing with the three assailants, who were still on the floor. Jack could hear Kenny telling the cops that this must be handled by the book. Meaning he wanted the court to put them away for a long time, with no margin for a defense attorney to find a procedural gap.

***

The memory faded as the wardroom door opened. It was Freddie. He looked at Jack, indicating with his head for him to come outside. Marie didn’t move, an indication she hadn’t noticed Freddie had arrived or that Jack had stood.

Outside the room, they stopped in a corner, a complicated twosome bound through circumstance.

“He’s gone,” said Jack.

Freddie sighed, looked at the ceiling as if he were hoping to find an answer, and shook his head. “I’m going back to the office. Ted’s burial ceremony will be with full honors, and the insurance company will pay out his insurance policies without question to Marie in full.”

Jack knew Freddie had the authority and gravitas to make that happen. No one would object or stand in his way. “That’s great.”

“Kenny is busy processing Ted’s assailants.”

Sergeant Kenny Braithwaite reported to Freddie at the San Francisco Police Department Training Academy premises on Amber Drive. Jack could only guess at what Freddie’s unit did, even though he helped them monthly as a sideline to his forensic data analysis consultancy. It had nothing to do with training. The extent of the unit’s authority was a mystery to Jack.

Kenny had only recently returned from a sabbatical dealing with his own issues. A loved one lost. Jack knew Kenny was resonating with Marie, reliving his loss all over again. Freddie had done the paperwork to indicate that Kenny was on extended leave, whereas Kenny was MIA (Missing In Action) for over three months. There was no explanation of where he had been or what he had been doing when he walked onto the apartment’s roof, where Jack and Freddie were having a BBQ, and sat down with them without a word.

There was no luggage, and Kenny’s clothes were the same ones he’d worn when he’d left. When they asked him how he got to the apartment, Kenny said he’d walked. A shave, a haircut, a shower, and new clothes were mandatory. They gave him a steak and beer. He ate the steak like a wolf and pushed the beer aside.

“You know I don’t drink alcohol. May I please have a glass of water?”

Kenny was back.

Freddie and Jack had grown up in the same house ever since a drunk driver had run a red traffic light and crashed into Jack’s parents’ car, killing them both. Jack was five years old, strapped to the back seat in a high-tech baby chair. He remembered the quiet, the cold, and calling for his parents. Freddie’s father, Uncle Alan, took Jack out of the car and passed him to Aunt Louise, and they’d brought him home. Uncle Alan said Jack was family, and they would raise him as Jack’s father was his brother.

Freddie was a year older than Jack and had always assumed the role of the wiser one, the steadying influence. His legal training had only reinforced this persona. They knew each other well. In the hospital corridor, Freddie tilted his head to one side, put his hand on Jack’s shoulder, and turned him so he had to look Freddie in the eye. “What’s bugging you, Jack?”

“I’ve never had anyone take a bullet for me before.”

“Jack, Ted has been looking for that bullet for a while. This time, he found what he was looking for. My guys checked with the bartender. Ted intervened when three men became aggressive toward a college student and his girlfriend. Ted had his badge on him and never showed it or mentioned he was with the SFPD.”

“It doesn’t matter, Freddie,” said Jack. “I looked down that barrel. Did I get religion? Did my life flash before my eyes? Did I recall regrets? No. I felt it was all over. There was nothing. Then Ted fell back into my arms.”

Jack could still feel the weight of Ted’s body as he caught him under the arms, lowered him to the floor, and tried to stop the bleeding. In the background, he had heard Kenny on the phone, calling for an ambulance.

“Jack,” said Freddie, “it might be a good idea for you to visit one of our counselors who helps with PTSD.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I have other plans.”