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Brady said, “But the citadel is near the officers’ quarters. You could take me there.”
“There are guys with guns in front of the door, don’t you get it? I’m not a fighter,” Lyle said. He plucked at his robe. “I put this on so they wouldn’t know I was crew.”
“You found a way to survive,” said Brady. “We need the officers and we have to get weapons. You have to want that, too, right? You’ve heard the expression ‘like shooting fish in a barrel’? Christ! That’s what this is. That’s what we are. You like being a fish, Lyle?”
The cabin steward shook his head madly, desperately.
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen. I’m going to be nineteen. Maybe.”
“Do you want to be a nineteen-year-old who helped put down a stinking paramilitary platoon of fucking crazy killers?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
Brady grinned.
“You’re going to like it better than you think.”
PART FOUR
WHERE’S THE BEEF?
CHAPTER 80
CONKLIN AND I were in Michael Jansing’s office with his dogged assistant, Caroline, who was plumbing Jansing’s computer for Chuck’s Prime’s personnel records. After a global search, the computer flagged a Walter Brenner, thirty-nine, truck driver, living in El Cerrito, just north of West Berkeley and Albany.
He’d been working at Chuck’s for about three years. He had gotten a two-dollar raise each year. There were no comments in the spaces provided for them, just check marks to show that he’d had satisfactory performance evaluations.
“Is there anything you can tell us about him?” I asked Caroline. “Anything at all?”
She shrugged. “I’m still pretty new here.” She printed out Brenner’s contact info, including his address, and also sent the file to my phone.
I thanked Caroline and bid her a fond adieu, and Conklin and I left the building. We boarded my antique Explorer and, setting out at warp speed, arrived at Belmont Avenue, a quiet street at the foot of Albany Hill Park, at just about 7:45 p.m.
The 1920s Craftsman-style homes in this residential street were garnished with a fringe of trees out front and had good-size backyards with gardens and swing sets and occasional shade trees. Although the homes were cute and folksy, the freeway provided a persistent industrial undertone.
Walt Brenner lived in a small, yellow house trimmed in white and squarely placed on a corner of the block. It had a slab-porch entry, a fruit tree in the front yard, and a stockade fence shielding the backyard from the roadway.
We didn’t stop at the house, but instead rounded the corner and stopped a block away. Stepping out and opening the hatch, I took out two vests and handed one to Conklin. I put mine on and zipped my Windbreaker over it.
We got back into the vehicle, crawled along Belmont Avenue, and returned to Brenner’s tidy little home.
Conklin pulled the Explorer into the driveway next to a newish black SUV, which seemed a little above a truck driver’s pay grade.
Conklin said, “I’m thinking softball approach. Walter makes a weekly drop-off to all the Chuck’s in this area. We ask him what are your thoughts on anyone who might be angry at the bosses, blah-blah-blah.”
I said, “I like it.”
I raised my fist to knock. But my knuckles never touched wood. The door opened, and to my utter amazement, Donna Timko was standing right there.
It was Donna, all right. She was wearing a flowered tent dress and slippers and had a quizzical look on her face.
I wondered what kind of expression she saw on mine.
Donna said, “Sergeant Boxer and, uh, Inspector Conklin. This is a surprise.”
Conklin said, “We didn’t realize you live here, Donna. This is Walter Brenner’s address, right?”
