Читать книгу A Delicate Matter - Don Easton - Страница 6

Corporal Jack Taggart drove into the parking lot of the Steinhouse Pub in Port Coquitlam. The pub was about a forty-minute drive from Vancouver, where he worked undercover for the Intelligence unit of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

He was driving a black SUV with tinted windows. Constable Laura Secord, who was both his partner and subordinate, sat beside him. Today her long auburn hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she wore a green rain jacket over blue jeans and a denim shirt.

Jack had shoulder-length hair and a bushy beard that was showing a hint of grey. He wore a black T-shirt under an open brown kangaroo jacket and black jeans.

Both Jack and Laura had received special training by the RCMP to work undercover. Their assignment was to combat organized crime. At the top of their list was Satans Wrath, a motorcycle gang involved in drug trafficking, prostitution, murder, and a host of other criminal activities.

Satans Wrath had developed over the years into a sophisticated criminal empire with seventy chapters in forty countries around the globe. It had, for the most part, insulated itself from its criminal activities by using other gangs as middlemen. Satans Wrath would use a puppet club to do its dirty work for a few years, after which some puppet-club members might be selected to join Satans Wrath. At that time the remainder of the puppet club would soon find it in its best interests to disband. In September, during the Labour Day ride, it was noted that the Gypsy Devils had been invited to tag along.

Bikers wear their club logo, called their “colours,” on the backs of sleeveless jackets, which for the Gypsy Devils was a skull adorned with a green bandana and a black patch over one eye. The name of the club, or the “top rocker,” was above the skull, while the “bottom rocker” beneath denoted the area they’re from. For the Gypsy Devils it simply read “Poco,” to denote Port Coquitlam.

Satans Wrath colours bore a full face-on skull with horns, purple eyes, and a sinister grin. Their bottom rockers bore the names of countless cities from many regions of the world.

Probationary members of the clubs, referred to as “prospects,” had only bottom rockers on their jackets. Prospects generally took part in the riskier areas of Satans Wrath’s criminal activity and then, after they’d been thoroughly screened for a couple of years, Satans Wrath members would vote on whether to allow the prospects entry into the club. If accepted, a prospect would receive the top rocker and complete logo, which was known as getting the “full patch,” or “colours.” Currently, the Gypsy Devils had nine full-patch members and three prospects.

What surprised Jack was that the Gypsy Devils tended to represent the more degenerate and filthy image of what outlaw biker clubs were thirty-five years ago. Although Satans Wrath didn’t hesitate to use extreme violence to protect its turf or expand its criminal tentacles, the members generally wore clean clothes and tried not to attract police attention and thereby jeopardize the financial gains from their criminal activity. The Gypsy Devils had not displayed the same intelligence.

In the past clubs like the Gypsy Devils would receive a warning from Satans Wrath to shut down, and if they didn’t the ramifications would involve lengthy hospital stays — if they were lucky.

Jack felt that Satans Wrath had displayed a friendlier attitude toward the Gypsy Devils than it had other puppet clubs. He believed the Gypsy Devils had something Satans Wrath wanted and he intended to find out what. All bikers were well aware of police wiretaps and seldom said anything of value over their phones. Biker informants were also a rare commodity, as loyalty and devotion to their respective clubs was extremely high.

Today Jack hoped that surveillance might lead to his discreetly busting someone the Gypsy Devils dealt with. He intended to try to turn that person into an informant and work his way up from there.

Laura eyed the cluster of Harley-Davidson motorcycles in the pub parking lot. One of the bikes, which had the logo of the Gypsy Devils painted on the gas tank, belonged to the club president, Carl Shepherd. “Looks like we’re in luck today,” she said.

Jack gave a satisfied nod. “This is their favourite watering hole. They were bound to turn up sooner or later.”

“You sure you want to go in there alone?”

“I’ll be fine,” Jack assured her. “These guys don’t know me. Besides, I’ve got Smith and Wesson to help, if need be. Stay put, collect the plate numbers, and act like the paparazzi.”

Laura frowned. “These guys don’t know you, but some of Satans Wrath do. What if they show up? I know you used to have a goatee, but even with your beard and longer hair, they could still recognize you.”

“I doubt any full-patch members of Satans Wrath would lower themselves to hang out with these yokels. Maybe one or two of their prospects might show up to conduct business, but those guys don’t know me. Besides, even if Satans Wrath members do show up, they aren’t stupid. They’d probably send me a beer to let me know I’d been spotted.”

“Yes, a beer with the date-rape drug so they could bend you over a table and … do you.”

Jack smiled to himself. Despite the years on the job and the type of work Laura did, she seldom used foul language. “Don’t worry if they do show. It’s the Gypsy Devils we need to be concerned about. They’re more dangerous because of their lack of cerebral development. I’ll call you if I need a hand. Speaking of which, time for a radio check.”

Laura flicked on a portable police radio and Jack whispered, “Test, test, test,” into a microphone hidden in his sleeve. His words echoed over Laura’s portable radio. He then tucked a receiver into his ear and covered it with his hair. Laura clicked her portable and Jack heard the click on his receiver. He gave her a thumbs-up and reached for a ball cap.

“The cap makes you look like Forrest Gump,” Laura noted. “You look meaner and tougher without it.”

“I know,” Jack replied. “Looking tough around these guys is inviting trouble. They’d want to find out who I am — or worse, how tough I really am.”

Moments later he wandered into the bar. It was relatively small and well lit. The Gypsy Devils had been forced by law to not display their colours in the pub, but were still easily identified by their appearance. They, along with an assortment of other representatives of the criminal element, occupied one side of the pub, while the other side was favoured by people from local businesses who often came in for lunch.

Jack found a small table on the fringe of where the bikers were and ordered a beer. Sitting alone tended to make him stand out, but Laura was a very attractive woman and he feared she’d attract unwanted attention from the Gypsy Devils. Unwanted attention that’d require a bare-knuckled response … or the need to use the 9mm Smith & Wesson pistol tucked in the back of his jeans and thereby blow his cover.

He’d only taken his first sip when he saw that he’d caught the attention of two women at the next table. One was a brunette in an outfit that looked like a chauffeur’s uniform. The other had her blonde hair in a braid over her shoulder and wore a blouse and slacks. She looked like an office worker.

The women gave him a friendly smile, then each said, “Hi.”

Jack nodded in response.

“You look lonely sitting there,” said the blonde. “My name’s Roxie.”

Yeah, and I guess I look stupid, too. Jack gave a curt nod and stood up. “Excuse me, I have to find a quiet place to make a call.” As he glanced around for another place to sit, he thought, Okay … the ripple effect … fourth table away should be okay. A Gypsy Devil by the name of Thorsen, who was the sergeant-at-arms for the club, was talking to a couple of his buddies at a nearby table. Ah, the guy they call Thor … looks like a gorilla and only half as smart. I better pick five tables away.

The women exchanged annoyed looks as Jack picked up his beer and moved five tables away from the bikers. He was no longer able to hear any of their conversation but he still had a good view.

Some minutes passed and Jack discreetly radioed Laura the descriptions of the few men who’d left the pub after sitting with the Gypsy Devils. He then saw two men enter and walk past him. Both were clean-cut and one was wearing a black leather bomber jacket and the other a light windbreaker. Jack noticed that the man with the bomber jacket had a jailhouse tattoo — a Celtic cross — on the crux of his thumb and forefinger. So his nice-boy image hides a sinister past, he thought.

Once, on an undercover assignment in prison, Jack watched a group of convicts use a lighter to melt a green plastic comb, then dip a pin into the melting plastic. Next they used the pin to make a row of prick marks on the recipient’s arm. The resulting tattoo was less than what one might call professional, but it did the trick.

Both men looked around the bar for a place to sit. It didn’t appear that they knew anyone. They then opted to sit at the table where Jack had originally sat.

Jack whispered into his sleeve, “Laura, you see the two guys who just entered? Black bomber jacket on one and a blue windbreaker on the other?”

“Ten-four. I got close-ups of both their faces. The driver is the one wearing the bomber jacket. I ran his name. He’s got a record for armed robbery and sexual assault.”

Jack grinned when he saw the two men being chatted up by the same two women who’d spoken to him minutes before. Oh, yeah, here it comes.

“You copy, Jack?”

“I copied. Sexual assault, eh? That’s perfect.”

“Why is it perfect?” Laura asked.

“I’ll explain later.”

“Are they with the GDs?”

“Definitely not,” Jack whispered. “Talk to you later.” He picked up his beer and held it above the table without taking a sip.

“You trying to fuck our women?” Thor roared at the newcomers, shoving himself back from his table.

Before the two men could respond, Thor lunged out of his chair, along with the other bikers, and attacked. Chairs and tables tipped over, sending drinks crashing to the floor, as the bikers pummelled their victims with a flurry of fists and boots.

The man in the windbreaker was knocked backward onto the floor, where he was kicked and given several rib-breaking stomps.

The man in the bomber jacket rose and managed to get one punch in, an action he’d soon regret. Seconds later he was on the floor being kicked and stomped on. Then he was dragged to his feet and thrust back against a pillar, where Thor pressed and twisted the jagged end of a broken beer bottle to his nose and mouth. The man’s lip drooped like a piece of liver. Another twist of the bottle around his eye gouged out a section of his eyebrow, along with the flesh on the bridge of his nose.

The bartender timidly approached. “Please, guys, can you take it outside? We’ll lose our licence again if you keep doing this in here.”

Thor hesitated, then nodded to the others. Two bikers dragged Thor’s bloody victim toward the exit. As they did, one biker backhanded the victim on the side of his face to gain his attention and said, “We’re gonna scoop your licence. If you’re stupid enough to say anything, remember that we know you and where you live.”

Seconds later they opened the door and flung the hapless victim outside, along with his looted wallet. In the meantime three other bikers took turns kicking the other man as he crawled toward the exit. Eventually they let him get to his feet and stumble outside.

The two women, who were both laughing, joined the Gypsy Devils while the overturned chairs and tables were righted.

Jack noted that the ripple effect of displaced beer and furniture had stopped next to where he sat. Hey, that’s pretty good. I predicted that one right on.

“Jack, what did you do to those two guys?” Laura radioed. “I know you don’t like sex offenders but … oh, man.”

“Wasn’t me,” Jack whispered. “Just the good ol’ boys and a couple of their women having some fun.”

“One guy’s face is covered in blood. His buddy’s trying to help him across the parking lot to their wheels … but he looks pretty messed up, too. I’m getting some close-ups but, hey, what happened?”

“Karma,” Jack replied. “Hang on, someone’s calling me on my cell.” He took the vibrating phone from his pocket and held it close to his ear.

“Jack, it’s Sophie White. I got your number from your boss and she said to call you direct.”

“Sophie White?” Jack asked. “Do I know you?”

“Now my feelings are really hurt,” she replied, sounding miffed. “We met seven years ago. You shoved me into the back seat of a car and climbed in on top of me. Guess I didn’t make much of an impression.”

Jack snorted. “Now I know who you are,” he said. “How’s your nose?”

“You mean the one you broke?”

“How many do you have?” Jack asked.

Sophie snickered, then her voice became serious. “You saved my life that night. I’ll never forget it.”

“We both got lucky that night,” Jack replied sombrely. “What can I do for you?”

“Maybe it’s what I can do for you. I’m still working uniform in Surrey, but I know you’re the guy to talk to about Satans Wrath. I caught one and he wants to talk.”

“Give me a sec,” Jack said. “I’m in a bar — let me step outside where I can talk.” Seconds later he continued his conversation while walking across the parking lot to where Laura waited in the SUV. “Who’d you catch?”

“His name’s Mack Cockerill. What I caught him on is nothing. Maybe probation if we’re lucky, but he says he’s willing to talk if I’ll drop the matter.”

“What’s he offering? A pipe bomb or a gun?”

“You got it,” Sophie said. “Also some bullshit about someone planning to shoot up an abortion clinic.”

“All of which he’ll arrange if you drop his charge.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured, but I thought I should call you. He seems really stressed. Mind you, he might be in pain. He leaped off the third storey of a parkade when I tried to arrest him and broke his ankle.”

“You didn’t tell me what you’re charging him with,” Jack said, stifling a yawn as he watched the man in the bomber jacket stumble and leave a bloody hand-streak down the side of a white Toyota Camry. His buddy was holding him by the other arm and trying to steer him while grasping his own rib cage.

“He’s a weenie wagger,” Sophie replied.

Jack immediately forgot about the victims in the parking lot. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said. “You got him for exposing himself?”

“Yeah. We’ve had three complaints in the last two weeks from women saying some guy has been jumping out at them in a parkade and waving his dick. We set up a sting and today he did the same thing with me. We’ve got it all on video. Enough that Defence won’t be able to say he had a bladder infection and was simply relieving himself.”

“That’s fantastic,” Jack said. “I mean it.”

“Why? It’s no big deal as far as the courts go. The judge will probably think it’s funny and give him thirty hours of community service. Maybe less if his lawyer can convince the court that his client suffered enough by having broken his ankle.”

“The judge might find it amusing, but Satans Wrath wouldn’t,” Jack said. “It’d be a huge embarrassment to the club. The jokes would be flying around the country saying they should change their top rocker from Satans Wrath to the Weenie Waggers.”

“That’d make for a good laugh.”

“They’d kill him if they found out — or put him in the intensive-care unit for a year and kick him out of the club. Personally I think it’d be the first option.”

“Think maybe he’ll give us more than he’s pretending to offer?”

“Damn right. Once he realizes you won’t go along with the bullshit he offered, he’ll offer you something genuine. Likely stolen property or dope to start with, but handle him right and he could be a gold mine for you.”

“For me?” Sophie sounded doubtful. “You should be the guy to talk to him. I’m smart enough to know that I don’t have the experience to handle a guy like him. The asshole would probably end up running me instead of me running him.”

“That wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened,” Jack said. “I’d be glad to take a run at him. I’m in Port Coquitlam at the moment, so I could be there in less than half an hour. Maybe we could work him together if you like.”

“I’ve got all the work I can handle,” Sophie responded. “Besides, I’m still in uniform. This guy’s more your department. If he doesn’t cooperate, I’ll charge him afterwards.”

“Oh, he’ll cooperate,” Jack said. “I’m sure about that.”

“Then he’s all yours if you want him.”

Jack smiled. Oh, yeah, I want him all right. Goodbye Gypsy Devils. You’ve been outtrumped by one weenie-wagger.