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“Will you get me something?”
“If I can.”
“A motorcycle. A Harley. Black one.”
“No problem.”
“Really?”
“What about a peanut butter granola bar instead?”
“Sure,” said Sam. “That’ll be okay.”
The kid was a born negotiator.
“Go to sleep now,” Will said to his boy. “It’s late.”
Will kissed his youngest son, went down the hallway, and stopped to speak with Charlie, who was in his La-Z-Boy watching the news.
“Is that you, Hiram?”
“It’s Will, Charlie. Becky’s husband. I want to give you something.”
“Sure, what is it?”
“You need a good shake.”
“Ahhh-hah-hah.” Charlie laughed as Will leaned in and grabbed his father-in-law by both shoulders and shook him gently. Will said, “You’re a good man, Charlie Bean. I’ll see you later.”
“That’s fine, Hiram. I’ll wait up for you.”
Taking the stairs down to the garage, Will thought about what was coming that night. He took his jacket off the hook, put it on, then got the gun out of a toolbox near the pyramid of paint cans. He wrapped the gun in a plastic bag, stuck it inside his jacket pocket. Then he grabbed a flashlight and left the house by the back door.
Will knew cops would be watching Becky’s car on Golden Gate Avenue so he stayed on the deeply shadowed side of the street. There was an unmarked car at the corner of Scott, two guys in the front seat.
Will kept his head down and walked past it, kept going south another couple of blocks until he saw the silver Chevy Impala, probably a 2006 model.
The door was unlocked and Will got in, shutting off the dome light. It took him about five minutes by flashlight to remove the ignition plate and hot-wire the car, but the engine started right up and there was fuel in the tank.
The risk was building. But Will had already passed the point of no return.
Tonight was the night he’d been working toward for the last three months, the night when he would take his most personal revenge. He pulled the Impala out onto the street and headed for the Lower Haight.
Chapter 97
JIMMY LESKO HAD BEEN in bed when he’d gotten a text message from Buck Barry, who was desperate to make a buy. It was a pain in the butt, but Lesko needed the extra cash.
He parked his sparkling new Escalade on Haight, a two-way commercial corridor, crowded in on both sides by peeling Victorian houses. All of them were shades of gray at this time of night, mashed together with single-story concrete utility buildings and bars and shops and more residences after that.
Sitting in the driver’s seat, Lesko watched the entrance to Finnerty’s, a bar between Steiner and Fillmore known for its cheap suds and oversize burgers. Buck would be waiting for him in the men’s room in about five minutes.
A UCLA film-school dropout, former up-and-coming protégé of the late Chaz Smith, Lesko traded in good-quality dope, had protection from the cops, and sometimes, like now, could make good money.
Lesko anticipated a quick transaction and an equally quick return to his house and the delicious young medical student who was asleep in his bed. He looked at the time again and got out of the car, then locked it with his remote.
He was crossing the street when someone called his name.
He turned and saw a man coming up Haight on Finnerty’s side of the block. The guy was dark-haired, about forty, looked happy to see him.
