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paused and sipped from a to-go cup. Turning, he
walked back into a bank of shadow at the rear of the bay. Its rack
up, Frank saw a black car on it. From his angle he could see only
the trunk and left rear panel. Something old, Frank could tell.
    Christ sake, he smirked as John Kirk came
out of the empty first bay. He was in blue coveralls. Son of a gun
was a mechanic. Frank watched him cross the lot, get into the BMW
and drive it onto the first bay’s rack.
    Perfect.
    Frank would have all day to do his research
while John Kirk played with his nuts and bolts. Relaxing behind the
wheel he went over what he had to do today. Take a look at the
channels. Use the daylight to map out where to dock the speedboat
tonight. Then have plenty of time to find the right spot to dump
the Lincoln with the body in it.
    His wife came to mind. Frank had told Ty he
would call her tonight, after he had gotten away with the money.
Tell her where to meet him.
    Fat chance, Frank smiled, seeing her waiting
for the call, her Uncle Eddie’s men on their way to question her.
Then after washing Ty’s blood off their knuckles, they would give
Emily a visit.
    “Poor Emily,” Frank sighed. He’d had no
choice but to let the word out about his red-headed playmate. He
needed Emily, along with Ty, to keep Eddie’s men occupied while he
went about the business of his getaway.
    “Women,” Frank muttered. That particular
word brought the hope of meeting one today. But that was something
he would have to be careful about. Stay out of trouble, he warned
himself. The stakes were way too high.

Chapter 12
    Ben Hicks’ tires kicked up dirt as he drove
into the lot of the Harbor Division police station. Damn, he
thought, city always sayin’ they’ll get it paved.
    Ten minutes early for his 9 o’clock, he
parked and left the Blakey CD on. Listening now to the tune “Are
You Real,” Benny Golson on sax.
    Hicks glanced out the passenger window and
saw Fat Cap’s car parked by the only tree in the lot. “Racist
fucker,” Hicks sneered aloud, knowing he wouldn’t have been
promoted to lieutenant if the Captain had been here 8 years
ago.
    His eyes went from Fat Cap’s car to the
tree, its bare wintertime branches gnarled, bark cracked and
peeling. If Hicks didn’t know the tree as he did, from year to
year, he would have sworn it was dead. Picturing it a few months
from now, decked out in its greenery, not a single gnarled limb to
be seen.
    Hicks unbuckled his seatbelt. He slouched
behind the wheel, knees of his long legs jammed against the dash.
He leaned his head back and shut his eyes, and the sound of
Golson’s tenor sent him back to his childhood:
    The original Blakey album on the record
player. The ol’ man, skinny as a rail, plays his sax along with
Golson and sways in rhythm to “Are You Real.” So smacked up he goes
off-balance, sax embraced as he falls and hits the floor. Little
Ben tearful, shaking his father awake.
    “Are You Real” came to an end. Hicks opened
his eyes, straightened and looked out at the police station. He
knew what he had to do: Yes ma’am, no ma’am, to whichever the
inspector general needed to hear. Fuck her, appointed by the police
commission to handle misconduct complaints.
    Hicks didn’t have to be a fortune teller to
see the future. Busted and thrown off the force. He had to get out
while the getting was good. Had maybe a week at the most to grab
onto a new life.
    Nothin’ for him here in San Pedro, he
sulked. Except for Burns. Wondering what it would be like to do
without him. Red-headed ex-drunk, only white man he had ever
befriended. Been through so much good and bad together.
    12,000 in the bank, he thought then. Ten of
it from the bribe he had taken four years ago. Four months after
burying his boy, two months after Celia had left him, taking the
bribe while Burns lay fighting for his life in ICU.
    Damn, Hicks grunted. Forty-two and runnin’
off to start a new life on a lousy 12 thousand.
    Sell the