Chapter 9
It was a beautiful, dreary, drizzly, San Francisco Saturday and Andy still felt curiously alive as he walked up the sidewalk on his side of the street. It felt good outside. Cool and wet. He felt like an old grizzly waking from months of hibernation, enjoying the brisk jolt of the elements. As he approached the corner light that would lead him across to Martin’s Corner Deli, he pushed the dripping button and stood back from the curb to avoid being splashed by smart guys in their rice-burners taking the corner too fast, thinking only of themselves. “Guy’s like me,” Andy admitted to himself.
As he waited for the light, the door to Martin’s swung open sending the string of bells airborne before they slammed hard against the glass. A thin young man, probably in his twenties, in a red warm-up jacket and jeans stormed out of the deli, one hand shoved in a jacket pocket and the other zipping the jacket up high on his neck. He had wet, scraggily hair and old black Converse All-stars that looked soaked. He stepped quickly to the curb, looked both ways and then turned and started running back north, down the side street. The light changed and a little white stick figure appeared in the Walk/Don’t Walk box across the street along with a serenade by some kind of repeating goose honk for the benefit of seeing impaired walkers. Andy walked on the right side line of the crosswalk in order to have an unobstructed view down the street where the young man had fled, but the kid was long gone.
The deli was quiet save the hum of the fans and the muffled voices at the occupied tables. The opera music was playing softly and Mrs. Martin was sitting at the register working a puzzle in the Chronicle. Andy hung up his coat on the little rack that was provided for that purpose and turned toward the register. Mrs. Martin looked up and returned a forced smile. Andy could tell she was anxious. “Maybe that was the nephew,” he thought. “Maybe he came and made some trouble... Stupid kid.”
“Andy, buon giorno. What can I fix for you today? Something special, yes?”
“Buon giorno Mrs. Martin. I think I’ll have an Antipasto salad. Mr. Martin made one yesterday that was excellent.”
“Si, yes, okay,” she said. “I make for you.” She leaned in slightly and looked to her side as if making sure they were alone, and said, “I make it better than Albert.” She smiled and shrugged her shoulders causing Andy to smile with her. The best available table, one in which he wouldn’t feel claustrophobic, was located across from the far end of the deli case, near the saloon door and the restrooms. He sat with his back against the wall and looked across to where others now sat, at his customary tables by the window. This seat offered him a different perspective of the little deli. The roar of the deli case motor was more evident here, as were all the mechanical noises of the little shop. The light wasn’t as good here, either. The light from the windows lost some of its strength and all of its heat by the time it got to this table, leaving the duty up to the fluorescent tubes suspended from the high ceiling. But Andy kind of liked the seat. He pictured that this is where the Godfather would have sat if he were a Martin’s regular. He could see big Marlon Brando, a guy probably about Andy’s size, coming in, his men taking his hat and coat, hanging them on the little rack and then pulling out the table allowing the Godfather to sit here, against the wall, in this exact seat. “Da da da-da da da da-da da da do duh.” Andy enjoyed the moment and then thought, “That kid wouldn’t have made it across the street if he came in and made trouble when the Godfather was here.”
He pictured himself, not as the Godfather, but as Rance Broadback, stepping in between Mr. Martin and his nephew, the kid looks sick with glassy eyes and dry lips, his breath is foul. He’s on the run and he wants his stuff. He takes a swing at Andy, but Andy dodges it, grabbing the skinny wrist and twisting it behind the punks back. He slams the nephews face against the glass of the deli case. “You don’t storm in here showing disrespect to your aunt and uncle, my young friend.” And with that Andy tosses him out to the sidewalk. Mrs. Martin standing in front of him with an Antipasto salad big enough for a family of four interrupted his dream.
“Andy? Andy, you ready for thees?”
“Oh, uh, sure.” He felt stupid and hoped she hadn’t seen into his dream.
She smiled as she presented her work of art, a salad in an entirely different league that the pittance he’d eaten the day before. If this was supposed to be served before a meal, then Andy was born in the wrong country. He had enjoyed a multi-course Italian meal before, after a book reception with his publisher and agent. He remembered thinking at the time that he wished he’d been born Italian and that he could eat like that every day. Of course he probably did eat that much every day, just not that well. As he was admiring the salad and adding just the right amount of salt and pepper, Mr. Martin pushed through the saloon door, wiping his hands on his apron, as usual. He greeted Andy with a nod and sat down at his table, oblivious to the food.
“He knows,” Mr. Martin began with equal amounts of concern and anger.
“What? Who knows?” Andy said, not wanting to jump to any conclusions.
“My nephew. He knows about the delivery. You were right. He sent it here. So it would be safe.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“Ja. Yes.”
“Did you tell him that you have it? You do still have it, don’t you?”
“Ja. No, I didn’t tell him anything... He comes in here very kind and nice and hugs his aunty and says, ‘Uncle, how are you? You look good. Oh, hey, did you get a package for me? It is very important.’ And I think, how can you think I am so stupid?”
“Did you tell him that?”
“No. I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about.”
“And?”
“He gets very mad. Scared. Like he is in trouble, you know? He gets very shaky and nervous and looks at me very hard, then he turns and runs from the store.”
“He believed you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“Are you going to turn it in to the police, or, get rid of it?
“I don’t know... Andy, I don’t want to have it here, you know, dangerous for my wife. I don’t like it.”
“I understand, I understand.” Andy picked at a few pieces of sausage and cheese, but his appetite had gone into hiding for the time being. Any thought of eating snuck deeper into the back of his mind as the door to the deli opened again and two more customers entered. Only these two men didn’t look like customers. In Andy’s wild imagination they looked like gangsters, strong-arms, guys who collect money or break legs. One was wearing a brown topcoat, scarf and hat, very old school. The other, larger man was in a black bomber jacket and black jeans. He removed a hand the size of a boxing glove out of a jacket pocket to remove his hat, which he hung on the rack near Andy’s. Then helped the other man out of his topcoat, hanging his gear, carefully, on the rack. They were very deliberate as they found the table they wanted, between Andy and the door, the older man, forty-five, maybe fifty, sat with his back against the wall, just like Andy, as the other man went to the counter to order.
The guy in the suit scanned the room, looking first at the customers by the windows, then at the register area and Mrs. Martin. His eyes made it around the deli case, saloon door and back over to Andy and Mr. Martin. “Why’s this guy wearing a full suit on a Saturday,” Andy thought. Andy noticed him scanning the room but couldn’t pull his eyes away from the man quick enough to avoid making eye contact. When their eyes met, the man smiled and nodded, snapping his gum in violent little chews against his front teeth.
“What’s good?” he said across an empty table in Andy’s direction. Andy momentarily froze. Then he realized that he was probably just inventing this mobster scenario and he snapped out of it.
“Everything is great. The Italian Special is the best sandwich in the City,” he managed.
The big guy at the register had been eyeing the handwritten menu on the wall above Mrs. Martin’s head and was having a hard time deciding. He looked over at Andy and Mr. Martin
as his partner asked the question and listened to Andy’s response. He glanced at the Suit who nodded slightly and then smiled back in Andy’s direction, “We’ll try it. See if it’s as good as you say. Grazie.”
Andy couldn’t tell if the guy was Italian or just a wanna-be, but so far, the scene was right out of the Soprano’s. Andy watched an episode with amazement from a hotel room in New York one time when he was visiting the publisher. It affected him so much that he had a hard time walking the streets the following day. He remembered thinking that if all television was like that, then he didn’t need one. It was too real. He couldn’t understand why people would create a show like that, or, more importantly, why people would watch it. It scared the be-jeebers out of Andy Boyd. No thanks. Then, today, he walks in to the real thing, or at least it felt like it. Mr. Martin didn’t seem to be on the same page.
“I go back and help my wife,” he said and stepped back through the saloon door to assist Maria.
After Bomber Jacket ordered he lumbered slowly back, past Andy, to the restroom. He seemed like a very observant guy, looking everywhere, scanning everything. He studied Andy’s salad as he passed the table, his black eyes looked right through Andy as Andy glanced up at him on his way by. He had a weathered, unhappy face with a low dense hairline. He looked thick and heavy, like an offensive lineman, giant shoulders and no neck. He disappeared into the restroom. Andy tried to concentrate on his salad. The other man had opened a newspaper and had it folded in half and in half again so he could hold it in one hand as he held an unlit cigarette in the other. He looked older now, having donned reading glasses, which he occasionally looked over, as if monitoring the activity behind the deli case.
Andy decided to eat as slowly as possible. He didn’t want to leave the unsuspecting Martins alone with these thugs, if that’s what they were. It turned out that they ate just as slowly. The deli emptied out and Mrs. Martin bussed all the tables except the two that were still occupied. She went back to her crossword and Mr. Martin busied himself with cleaning dishes and taking inventory.
“My friend, you were 100% right,” Gucci-suit finally said in Andy’s direction. “That was the best Italian sandwich I’ve had in years. Johnny?” The big guy nodded, glancing over at Andy without turning his head.
“Glad you enjoyed it,” Andy said, not really knowing what to say. The guy in the suit nodded with a toothless grin, his mouth just a slit with the edges curled up. He pushed the table slightly forward, crowding the big guy a little, as he excused himself and stood, dusting his suit of any bread crumbs and straightening his jacket and tie. He walked to the counter and leaned in, the noise of the deli case from this distance prohibited Andy from hearing what he was saying, but Mrs. Martin was nodding in appreciation, as the man smiled and kissed at his fingers as if to say the meal was great. He leaned further in and motioned for Mr. Martin to come closer, when the deli owner did, Suit man appeared to be asking a question, very gentlemanly, smiling and engaging Mr. Martin.
Martin pursed his lips up under his big mustache and shook his head. Suit man raised his eyebrows and shrugged with a gesture that looked to Andy like, “Okay, just thought I’d ask.” The man straightened his tie again, using the mirror on the wall behind the cash register, then picked up a toothpick and started for the door. Johnny stood quickly and arrived there in time to help the sharply dressed man into his coat. Gucci-suit stepped outside while no-neck pulled two bills from a money clip and tossed them on the counter. He left to a clanging of the bells. Waiting an eternal three or four seconds, Andy hurried over to the door. He arrived in time to see them pull away in a charcoal colored Lincoln.
Andy sat back down. He wasn’t leaving until Mr. Martin filled him in. In a few minutes Mr. Martin pushed through the saloon door and smiled at his neighbor. “Good salad today, ja?”
“Excellent,” Andy said, inviting Mr. Martin to take a seat.
“Have those guys been in before?” Andy asked.
“Nein.”
“What did the man say to you, if I may ask.”
“Him? Oh, he just said Thank you for the wonderful meal. He said the name is very unique, the pronunciation, you know. And, do I have any relatives in the City... I said no, my brothers and sisters are in Germany and my wife’s family, they are in Sicily.”
“Do you think he was asking about your nephew?”
Mr. Martin shrugged and looked at the table. “I am scared. Maybe they are looking for him. My God, Andy...”
“Mr. Martin, the longer you hang on to that package, the more dangerous it will become. Drugs lead to violence.”
“My God, Andy. My God. I will call the police. Ja.”
Andy nodded and stood. He paid for his meal and walked back to his house, though he didn’t remember the short trip as his mind was caught up in Mr. Martin’s dilemma. He found himself staring back at the deli from his front window, expecting something dramatic to happen. After thirty minutes he gathered his senses, splashed some water on his face, and returned to the story.
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Appalachian Malady - 3
Rance stood in the dark room and looked through the tinted glass at the lights of his neighborhood. In the distance he could see the lights of D.C. and he could sense the tension that the federal security agencies must feel, racing around, deploying teams, chasing leads. “Anyone stupid enough to murder a Senator right in the capitol city has got to be pretty easy to find,” he thought. He ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed sleepy eyes. “Somebody else’s problem,” he reminded himself. He had just pulled back the cover on his bed when his cell phone rang. He recognized the number.
“Broadback,” he answered.
“Secure line?” came the response. Rance pulled away from the phone without a word and looked at the row of light emitting diodes burning red across the portable receiver confirming the secure connection.
“Affirmative,” Rance said.
“Hey, Rance, you up?” General George Madden, Rance’s former C.O., didn’t actually care if Broadback were up or not; he called when he needed to, night or day. A call from the General was never social, though he always tried to ease into his point.
“No sir, been asleep for hours.”
“Good. Good to hear,” the General said, not adapt at small talk. “Listen, Ran, we’ve got a situation.”
“Ready to go active, sir. Say the word.” Rance didn’t know what the situation was, the General never said. In fact, this would be the only conversation they would have concerning whatever operation the General was calling him in to. The arrangement was simple. When the General called, it told Rance two things: One, the Operation had Red Status, which meant it was a matter of National Security; and Two, that the Operation was off the books, it didn’t exist. Rance was on his own, an agency of one. Similar to the FBI, the CIA, or the Department of Homeland Security, with the basic difference being that he wasn’t an employee, he was a contractor, which was good and bad. Good, in the sense that he was paid handsomely and worked independently, and bad in that he didn’t have the resources or back up that the other agencies enjoyed. Broadback insisted that operations be triggered this way since Madden was the only person in government that he trusted. If the old man ever stopped running contractors, retired or died, Rance would think long and hard about agreeing to another government job. General George Madden was America to Rance Broadback—an honor to serve and impossible to replace.
“Consider yourself active,” the General said, and disconnected the call.
Rance clicked the phone shut and sat it on the bedside table. He knew better than to allow his mind to build scenarios of possible situations, because while headlines sometimes provided clues, some jobs involved situations that were totally outside the sphere of the public conscience. He set his alarm for 3:00 am, his calm nerves allowing a peaceful nap. He didn’t know when he would get a chance to sleep again.
He lit out of his townhouse garage at 3:27 am, the Buell was quiet and fast and at this
time of the morning a tail was impossible. He took a maze of surface streets to the Falls Road Golf Course, just north of the Beltway. He parked the bike and traded his helmet for a pair of night-vision goggles, scanned the area, then made his way to the third tee, there was a rocky stream running beside the tee. Rance walked into the stream bed and crouched beneath the small cart-path bridge. There was an envelope taped to the concrete underside of the bridge. He extracted it and stowed it in a zipper pocket of his jacket. He carefully returned to the motorcycle aware of every footfall. Comfortable that he had been completely alone, he returned to the warehouse.
It was 4:35 am when he sat down at his desk and opened the unmarked envelope. Its contents included a series of 8x10 photographs with laser printed white 1x4 labels stuck to the bottom corner of each, naming the persons in the image. The first two were of former Senator Hagin at some political event, yucking it up with some supporters. Rance only recognized one of the names, that from the second photo, one, James Rafferty. Mr. Rafferty, in the shot, was standing behind and to the side of the Senator, nearly off camera, and not the subject of the image. The third photo was another fundraiser-type event and another Senator, this one from Indiana, Phyllis Lecter. She was from the other side of the aisle as Mr. Hagin, although the two had at least two common supporters, a William Prate and the aforementioned James Rafferty. “Okay, the horse guy is supporting both sides, nothing against the law there,” Rance said to himself as he studied the photo and then turned to the next one. This image was of a small, mountain town, which could have been right off the set of The Walton’s, although not as well kept. The town was identified as Rose Park, KY, which meant nothing to Broadback. The next image was a campaign photo for Sheriff William “Buddy” McCoy, “Serving Alta Loma County for 16 years.” And the last photo was of Sheriff “Buddy” at Churchill downs, smoking a cigar in a private box with a bunch of other people, including James Rafferty.
The only other thing in the package was a single sheet of copy paper that included a brief paragraph of known, or theorized background and, most importantly, the operational goal.
Dear Friend,
We believe our esteemed colleague, Mr. Hagin, had acquired information about the revival of a criminal cell once referred to as the Cornbread Mafia. This cartel, the largest marijuana ring in U.S. history, was broken up by federal sting over two decades ago. While the region is responsible for a large percentage of the nations illegal marijuana production, eradication efforts are ongoing and extremely effective. He pointed to Mr. James Rafferty, a noted equestrian, as a possible kingpin in the revived organization. Surveillance has unveiled a relationship between Mr. Rafferty and Sheriff William McCoy of Alta Loma County.
Efforts to infiltrate the cartel have proven unfruitful supporting the belief that there may be well placed operatives inside the Beltway that are involved with the organization at the highest levels. Your operational goal is to identify and infiltrate the organization, expose the principle players, and prepare evidence for federal indictments. The operation term cannot exceed fourteen days.
Compensation shall be according to normal terms.
Thank you.
Rance read the brief through two more times before secure-shredding the entire package contents. Two weeks isn’t a lot of time to work your way in to an underground crime organization and root out its senior members. He opened his safe and extracted one of several complete sets of false I.D. and enough cash for two weeks of cover. For the operation he decided to become Michael Pena, a Spanish/American business owner who ran a small logistics company specializing in intermodal freight. It was a bulletproof cover. Michael was the son of Spanish shipping mogul Enrique Pena and his American beauty queen wife, Eva. Pena International, the parent company, was based in Spain and primarily traveled shipping lanes between the United States and Europe. Son Michael had received a permanent visa and grew up with an aunt in California, completing high school and college before beginning his company with one Freightliner two-axle tractor and a little help from his father. Rance and Michael played football together in High School. Logistics seemed like a perfect cover for a trafficking operation. Rance logged on to the Churchill Downs website to check the following day’s races and found that James Rafferty had horses in the 2nd and fifth race.
Broadback had an airport shuttle pick him up in front of Curious Georgetown at 5:30 am and take him to Dulles where he paid cash for a one-way flight to Lexington. He rented an SUV and headed east toward Louisville. He walked through the gates at 10:35 am. Since it was a weekday, he was able to rent an open suite in the Jockey Club for the day. Meant to entertain large groups, Club suites were not normally rented out to a single man who was, admittedly, just there to watch a few races. Rance allowed the servers to attend to his every need, playing the reclusive, rich young businessman part. He tipped big and counted on them spreading the word about his presence around the executive levels of the track, but just in case they didn’t, he placed a few bets that would be sure to get some attention.
At 11:45 am, the maitre di informed him that Mr. Rafferty would like to invite him to his suite for lunch. Mr. Pena graciously declined. He thought playing hard to get might present the gambler with a little challenge. His hunch proved correct. At 12:45 pm, just after the posting of the fourth race, Mr. Rafferty personally knocked on the door of Suite 16. One of the servers answered the door, “Mr. Rafferty. May I help you?”
“Yes, thank you. Could you tell Mr. Pena that I am here to meet him?”
The server disappeared and came back to the closed door moments later. “Come right in, Sir.” Rafferty sized up Pena as they shook hands.
“So, Mr. Pena, I’m sorry you couldn’t make it over for lunch.” Rafferty said in a most gentlemanly southern drawl.
“Yes, thank you for the invitation, though.” Pena said without offering an excuse.
“And what brings you to the Downs this fine day?”
“Well, Sir. I am interested in horses. I suppose it is in my genes. As you know, Spain has a proud equestrian heritage.”
“And you are from Spain?”
“Originally. But I grew up in the States. My business is here, but I long for my homeland.”
“I have a few Spanish/Arabians, myself,” Rafferty offered.
“You are an owner, Sir?”
Rafferty laughed. How could anyone come into Churchill Downs and not know James Rafferty. But he was too curious to be offended, “Yes, I have a few. In fact, I have a horse running in the next race, a little two-year old colt that we are pretty excited about named Here Comes Trouble.”
“I see,” said Pena. “Very Exciting.” He made a point to look at his race card, “I have to admit, Mr. Rafferty, that I picked another horse in that race.”
“Oh, that’s okay, that’s why it’s called a gamble, after all,” Rafferty smiled. “Shall we watch the race together?”
“By all means, please, come in and have a drink.”
Rafferty ordered a Cuba Libre, which Mr. Pena acknowledged as a good choice, and the men went to the window to sit and watch the race. As the horses entered the gate Pena sat forward in his chair, genuinely excited about the race. Rafferty watched with amusement. He couldn’t figure out what this guy was doing. Was he really just a Spaniard with more money than sense?
“May I ask if you visit the race track very often,” Rafferty said.
“This is my first time. Does it show?”
“Well, let’s just say it is refreshing to see such a pure excitement for the sport.”
Neither mans horse garnered a top three finish, with Pena’s horse really falling off the pace down the last stretch. “I might not have a knack for this,” he laughed. “Like everything, I usually just go with the biggest long-shot. Win big, lose big.”
“Nothing wrong with that strategy, my friend...”
“Please, call me Michael.”
“... Michael, then. Nothing wrong with that style of betting. I’m the kind that te
nds to hedge my bets a little, but each style has its place.”
“Hedge?”
“Well, in this race, for instance. My horse had 10/1 odds—that can be nice if you win. So I put some money on him in the event that he won I would see a good payday. But, then again, at ten to one, it would have taken a pretty good kick in the ass for him to win,” Rafferty smiled. “But the top three horses, were going at 2/1, 4/1, and 7/1, so I put money on all three of them as well, at different levels. The four to one horse was the winner, so, adjusting for what I placed on the other horses, I still came out ahead. Hedging my bet,” Rafferty explained and swiveled around in his chair, facing Michael Pena.
“So, Michael, what kind of work do you do, anyway?” Rafferty said, confirming the cursory background check that he had already received on the visitor.
“I am in logistics.”
“I don’t see you as a truck driver.”
“No, although I have driven. My family in Spain has a small shipping company and, when we decided to expand, I formed a logistics company specializing in Intermodal Freight. It’s a small operation.”
“So you own a trucking company like Swift or Schneider, one of those?”
“Kind of, yes. Only our niche is containers. We specialize in bringing the containers from the shipyard out to the rail lines, and from the rail lines out to individual terminals. We are kind of the middle-men of the process,” Pena described.
“Interesting,” Rafferty said, honestly. “And where is your company located?”
“Like many Intermodals, where ever there are shipping lanes and rail lanes, we would like to have an terminal. Our home is Oakland, California,” Pena said. “But here I am, talking about truck driving when I am in the presence of a race horse owner. I must hear what it is like to raise these beautiful animals.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Rafferty began, his greedy mind moving well out in front of his common sense. “I’m having a little get-together out at the farm with a few friends tomorrow evening. If you are still in town, how about coming out to the house?”
Pena thought for a moment, mentally realigning his schedule. “I can do it,” he finally said. “It would be an honor for me.”
“Great,” Rafferty said, standing and reaching to shake the younger mans hand. “Where are you staying, I’ll have a car come for you.”
“21c,” Pena said.
“Very nice. How does 6:00 pm sound?”
“I will be ready,” Pena assured. “And Mr. Rafferty, thank you for your hospitality today. I am very honored.”
“Hey, it’s the South, that’s what we do,” he said with a wave. Rafferty placed a twenty in the palm of the server as he stepped out the door and disappeared.
Rance sat back in his chair and watched the race, his mind running ahead to the next move.
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“Oooh, the plot thickens,” Andy said to his computer as he saved his work and stood. He stopped by the refrigerator for regular inspection and then by the front window to look down the street at the Martin’s. All seemed quiet in this world, so he retired to the other.
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James Rafferty was nobody’s fool. Before he ever considered inviting the high rolling stranger to lunch in his suite he called the private cell number of a contact at the FBI and asked for a quick background check. When the initial report came back clean, he made the invitation. When his generosity was rebuffed, his curiosity was peaked. Now back in his palatial suite having met and become intrigued by the young entrepreneur, Rafferty used every grey connection he had around the country checking the background of Michael Pena and the Pena shipping empire in Spain and the United States. His last call was to Phyllis Lecter, a Senator from the bordering state of Indiana who sat on the Federal Transportation Committee. She was the ranking member of the committee and a regular beneficiary of James Rafferty’s hospitality and generosity.
“Phyllis, Jim here.”
“Well, James, to what do I owe this surprise?” she said.
“Two things. One, I would love to have you over tomorrow evening, just a few guests, drinks, I’d like you to meet someone.”
“Jim, it is rather tense around here at the present time, what with Senator Hagin’s unfortunate death.”
“Yes, I heard about that, I am so sorry. I have sent my condolences to Mrs. Hagin and the family. Terrible tragedy... But, on the other hand, it would be completely understandable for you to take an evening off and spend it with your family, don’t you think?”
“What was the second thing?”
“A favor. Are you familiar with Michael Pena? Some kind of intermodal shipping company, based out of Oakland?”
“No, why?”
“He showed up at the track today, pleasant young man.”
“I can look in to him a little.”
“He’ll be at my place tomorrow night. I’d like to introduce you.”
“Listen, don’t count on me, but I’ll try to make it. How’s that?”
“Very Senatorial.”
“It’s what we do, right? Everything is a definite maybe.”
“Hope to see you tomorrow, then.”
“Bye Jim.”
Rance spent the evening at a coffee house that provided free wireless connection. This was a better option than the free internet connection provided by the upscale hotel the government didn’t know they were paying for as it was harder to trace and even if someone was able to get the IP address, individual users were coming in and out of here all the time. His primary interest was to grab an afternoon call log from the cell number he’d received from his new friend. He hacked in to the provider, downloaded the day’s activity report and began tracing each call made after 10:30 am. “James Rafferty is a careful business man,” Rance thought. “Hedging his bets.” Rafferty’s phone had dialed two law firms, three police agencies, someone at the FBI, and two government officials, one of which was the office of a certain Phyllis Lecter, Senator from the great state of Indiana. “Checking up on the Spaniard, good thinking, I would do the same thing,” Rance said to himself.
He remembered Senator Lecter from the photos in the mission packet. He dug into her a little and found out that she had deep ties in Kentucky, with nearly thirty percent of her campaign’s war chest coming from organizations whose funding could be traced to the Bluegrass state. Helen Greenley, the Senators mother, now deceased, grew up in the community of Moorehead, KY, a little college town in the foothills of the Daniel Boone National Forest. Rance ran a computer search on the Greenley name and found forty or more scattered across the region with one, Charlotte, who appeared to be a first cousin to Senator Lecter, currently living in Alta Loma County and married to the honorable William “Buddy” McCoy, county Sheriff. “Small world,” Rance thought.
Rance closed his eyes and considered the information he had thus far. Pretty much nothing more than contained in the brief. Things were slowing down in the coffee shop and outside, “Must be about closing time,” he thought, and looked at his watch, 9:30 pm. “Wow, I’m not in DC anymore,” he chuckled to himself. An old John Denver song about rolling up the sidewalks precisely at ten popped in to his mind briefly and he decided to take a little road trip.
He shut down his computer and returned to his rented Forerunner. He picked up an Atlas from a 24-hour Wal-Mart a few miles east of town and located Alta Loma County and the town of Rose Park. It looked to be a two-hour drive southeast which would put him in the area a little before midnight. He imagined that little mountain town would be closed for business at that hour, which he was counting on in order to protect his cover. Rance opened a Powerbar he picked up in the store and settled in for the drive.
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Andy was able to get his altar ego settled in for a drive, but he himself was unable to settle back in to the story. The door to that room in his mind where Rance Broadback lived had closed and Andy couldn’t find the right key. He needed a break. The sun had retreated beneath the Pacific,
leaving the layer of foggy clouds to be illuminated by the city lights. It was a dreary, foggy, beautiful San Francisco Saturday night.