Black Flag Rising: A James Jackson Thriller Page 2

  Jackson laughed, shaking his head. They didn’t make them like George anymore.

  George walked over and leaned into his window. “Got some lemons you’re gonna peddle to some gangstas this morning?” He was referring to the typical purchaser of their high mileage imports.

  “Another day, another low rider out the door. We can only hope,” Jackson snarked back.

  “Big day of Court TV planned?” Jackson asked sarcastically.

  It was their little ritual. George loved the banter.

  “I think I’ll start out with some gourmet Cheerios and talk radio, then check out the latest trial. Some puke that killed his wife. As guilty as Who Tied The Cat. Total rat bastard.”

  George had a lot of these little sayings. He never bothered to ask what they meant or why anyone would want to tie up a cat. He just liked them.

  “Aren’t they all, George?” Jackson asked.

  After retirement, George and his wife had sold their home and downsized, planning on traveling and seeing the world. That had all changed when Lucy had died from a sudden aneurysm only three months after moving in. It had devastated George, and he couldn’t bring himself to move away without her.

  “You know it, Super Cop,” George replied.

  “Keep eyes on the ‘hood, George. Gotta jet,” Jackson said.

  “Copy that, Jackson. Always do. Everything is gonna be fine. Good Lord willin’ and creek don’t rise,” George said and gave him a two fingered salute. He looked around, fake eagle-eyed.

  George patted the door and Jackson pulled out smiling. He had gotten close to the old guy in three years of living there.

  Ever since the Great Fall.

  The Scottsdale Chamber of Commerce wanted everyone to believe that it was the City of Wonders. Where the sun shone bright 365 days a year, and there wasn’t a blade of grass out of place, ever. For much of the city, that was true. But down here on the South Side, none of that stuff had caught up yet. It was still a dump.

  Most everyone else at the Desert Palms was either too poor to move or too stupid to figure it out. Hard to believe that Scottsdale, the home of some of the world’s most spectacular resorts, dining and shopping still had a ghetto, but this was it. And it was home for now.

  Jackson wheeled into the Circle K on the corner and dashed in for his morning roach coach breakfast burrito and dashed back out, avoiding the crush of the a.m. caffeine addicts piling in en masse.

  As he turned up Scottsdale Road, he dropped the top of the sporty little import and enjoyed the early October morning air. Finally, a break from the scorching summer heat.

  It had been one of the hottest on record and the whole valley was sighing with relief. Temps were finally dropping to the upper eighties after the never-ending days of triple digit perdition. He still loved the palm trees and the way the sun played colors off the stucco buildings, as much as when he had first moved down. Palm trees meant no snow. Scottsdale was a never-ending kaleidoscope of light and color, even when it was 117 degrees in the shade.

  October was the time of New Beginnings in the Valley of the Sun.

  “Eight months of heaven, four months of hell,” he muttered out loud. It was the mantra of the locals. If there was anywhere to be at the bottom of the heap, this was as good as one could hope for. He had decided the desert truly did have healing powers. Maybe this would be the year that everything started to turn around for him, like the great Phoenix, rising out of the ashes into glory. He could only hope.

  Pulling into the lot, he unlocked the gate and wheeled around back. Unlocking and opening the door, he made his way out front and checked all the gleaming metal for anything that happened overnight. This far south in town, you never knew. There had been mornings that he had found people actually sleeping under cars. He walked the entire lot and picked up a few empty beer cans and kicked away some cigarette butts as he made his way back into the office. He flipped on the Open light, turned on the TV, and made a pot of coffee.

  He sat down at his desk and saw the phone blinking, showing voicemails.

  “Can’t a dude get a few minutes to prep for the day?” he thought to himself.

  His head was still fuzzy from the coma-like sleep, from the God knows how many drinks he had last night. He was in no shape to deal with anything important this early.

  He took a few more sips from his cup, took a deep breath and hit the Listen button.

  Four messages. Crap.

  He hit Play and the first one rolled out.

  It was from the Arizona Republic, peddling a subscription.

  Delete.

  The next one was from a desperate homie two weeks late on his Mercedes payment. He was begging not to be repo’d. The owners of the lot had two giant Slavs on the payroll to repossess cars that customers ‘forgot’ to make the payments on. It was well-known that you didn’t want forget your payments.

  The Buy Here, Pay Here model of Scottsdale Luxury was a money machine for the Eastern European immigrant family that owned the place. They would sell the car, get a solid down payment, hold the paper on the note, then send the goons if they ever went late. Once the car was repo’d, they’d keep the down payment and any payments that had been made, but they’d also get the car back and sell it again. He’d started to think they actually wanted the customers to default.

  Better than the casinos that dotted the Valley these days. This was a lock. They could get paid two or three times on the same vehicle. Genius, really.

  Message forwarded to Paul.

  The next one was some autodialed election spam.

  Delete.

  And the last one stopped Jackson in his tracks.

  It was Adam Brunell, his former partner at The Spook House.

  A voice he hadn’t heard in more than three years.

  After the Great Fall, most all of his old teammates had shunned him, afraid of sullying themselves with any associations. He didn’t blame them. Things were so tight over there these days, no one knew whether to shit or go blind.

  Things had gone south when he was still there. The Feds had brought in their own people to ‘monitor’ the State agency. They had actually combined things a couple of years earlier with the Feds, and now called it the Fusion Center. A typical government name, designed to make it seem cool and politically correct. And as usual, it was the exact opposite of what the name meant.

  In reality, it was simply a way for the Feds to keep their fingers on every aspect of control in the State, stuff they had no business being involved in. It was all about funding these days. If the State played nice, they got the money. If not, they were on their own. Or worse, they were overrun and forced to sit on the sidelines.

  The whole thing was corrupt as all hell, but most of the people in there had so much time on the books, they didn’t want to blow up their coveted pensions. They were just pushing paper and biding time until they could get out. Not a good place to be nowadays. Everyone was miserable.

  Chief among the Fed weasels was a hack named Baldwin. They had brought him in a few months before Jackson’s fall, and the two had locked horns on multiple occasions. Baldwin had made it clear that he was out for Jackson from the day he had arrived, and had made his life a general hell.

  Hearing Brunell’s message now, and how nervous he sounded, brought back memories. Most of them bad.

  “Jackson, I found you. Hey… it’s me, Adam. Listen, please call me at this number as soon as possible. Important.” He gave his number.

  One thing Jackson knew was people, and this sounded bad. Very nervous. He was almost whispering.

  “What does he want from me now?” he said out loud, to no one.

  He sat and replayed the message and thought about his history with Brunell. They’d had some major busts together. Good times. But there had also been some moments where Jackson had wanted to do more and Brunell had been more concerned with protocol. That had always grated on him.

  Not saying he was an all-out butt kisser, but he was way too cautious for
Jackson. Yes, he was probably correct according to the letter, but correct didn’t get bad guys busted. Brunell usually looked the other way or covered for him when they had to go rogue, but he’d always made a big stink. It drove Jackson nuts.

  With what they’d dealt with at The Spook House in the last decade, things called for fighting fire with fire. The Feds did not like that at all. It gave the bad guys a serious advantage, and it pissed Jackson off to no end.

  Jackson didn’t want to call him back. No way, no how.

  “This doesn’t sound good. Not my circus or monkeys any more,” he thought to himself.

  He didn’t delete the message, but didn’t write it down either.

  A young, white gansta’ wannabe pulled up in a beater Impala and got out to look at a Lexus sitting on the front line. He had on a giant chain that hung down to his waist and his pants were almost falling off, they were pulled so far down his butt.

  Good. Saved by a customer. I’ll deal with that later.

  He stepped outside feeling the warm sun on his face, and made his way over to Mr. Jr Fitty Cent. He prepped his brain for the usual BS. He had developed an immunity to objections.

  “How you doing? Nice rig, huh?” Jackson asked.

  “Straight up. How many rounds?” the dude asked.

  “I’ll check, but if you don’t mind, could you flip the chain over? I don’t want to see the paint get scratched.”

  The punk rolled his eyes and flipped the giant chain onto his back.

  “This one has only 110,000 miles. That’s like new these days,” he replied.

  “F’sheezie. How much?”

  “This one is on special for 14,999, this week only,” Jackson said.

  “Too much scrilla. Ass up jank,” he replied.

  Jackson had developed an internal thesaurus of ghetto slang. Every kid talked this way now, no matter their background. He could sit and rap with these hood rats all day, and often did. He could get a gig as a ghetto interpreter by now.

  “Is that right? Ok. So what are you looking for?”

  “Like ‘dis. Dope color,” he said pointing at the very vehicle he had just dissed.

  “It’s nice. Were you thinking about trading yours in?”

  “Dat? Oh no, that my rollin’ rat’s. I got cabbage, bra!” the dude said angrily.

  “So that’s your friend’s car. Good. We still like cash around here.” He knew this dude didn’t have two plug nickels to rub together and probably had a FICO score of 205, but it kept him busy and he didn’t have to deal with Brunell’s message. Plus, he got a spiff if they carried the financing in-house. All the kid would need to do was bring in a utility bill to prove he lived somewhere.

  The Fog a Mirror car loan. If they were breathing, they were driving.

  “So, what up? Can I, like… bang it?” Now came the dilemma. Should he run the dude’s credit, or just take him around the block? He had stopped trying to figure these guys out any more. Sometimes, they actually DID have the money. From where, he didn’t want or need to know.

  “Tell you what, it’s slow right now. Let me set the voicemail up and we’ll take it around the block. I’ll be right back.” The dude nodded and pulled out a smoke.

  He walked inside, hit the VM button on the phone, grabbed the keys and got a Dealer plate.

  He put the plate on and they got in, Jackson driving. They pulled out and he turned down their normal circuit of side streets, behind the dealership and pulled over.

  “Alright, my man. Your turn.” He stepped out and came around the passenger side.

  The dude stood up out of the car and reached into his waistband. He pulled out a Taurus PT-92 Chrome 9mm pistol and stuck it in Jackson’s face.

  “You right, bruv. Mah turn.”

  Before Jackson could react, the hood reared back and smashed the butt of the heavy pistol down on his forehead. He slumped on the pavement and watched helplessly as the dude tore out in the Lexus, nothing but tires and exhaust hurtling into the distance.

  “Shit… I really gotta stop drinking,” he thought, just as he blacked out.

  He came to, looking at a FedEx guy’s face.

  “Are you OK? You’re lying in the street!” he said loudly.

  The guy pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the blood off Jackson’s forehead and face.

  “Uh… yeah. I think. I, uh… just got robbed.”

  “Robbed? Really? Here, let me help you sit up.”

  The man pulled him forward, and head pain went rocketing down his spine.

  “Ow! Damn. This is a hell of way to start the week off,” he winced.

  “Do you think you can stand up? Let me help you.”

  Jackson waved him off. “Yes, I can stand up. Give me a minute.”

  The FedEx guy pulled out his phone with his eyes suspiciously on Jackson. He drove this route often and knew that things weren’t always what they seemed.

  He dialed 911 and then reported in on his radio to his home office.

  “Do you live around here?” he asked suspiciously.

  “No, I work right over there. On Scottsdale. Scottsdale Luxury Imports.”

  “Oh, I see,” he said, relieved. “What happened?”

  “Some homie decided he needed a new car today is what happened,” he said as he rubbed his throbbing head.

  “That’s cold, man. I’m sorry. Can I help you back to the office?

  “No. I’m fine. I’m just gonna sit here on the curb for a couple minutes.”

  “I called the cops. They’re on the way. I’m behind schedule. Anything else I can do for you?”

  “No, thanks. I appreciate you pulling me out of the street.”

  “No problem. Sorry, man.” He hopped in his truck and drove off.

  Jackson stood up shakily and walked back to the lot through the apartment complex behind. “Boris Badenoff is gonna crap himself,” he muttered, referring to the name they called the owner.

  After today, he hoped he still had a job.

  Jackson rubbed his head and glanced down at the huge watch on his wrist, and felt the familiar pangs of regret that came every time he thought about the past.

  The Oris had been his ex-wife Sam’s gift to him on their fifteenth anniversary. Back in the day, he would to go into E.D. Marshall Jewelers and linger for hours, browsing their collection of Swiss watches. He loved learning everything about the intricate workings of each. Eventually, he’d fallen head over heels for the massive 51mm Oris. She had quietly bought it and had it engraved on the back.

  Gecko,

  All My Love Forever.

  Samantha

  Gecko was a reference to the matching tattoos they had inked on their shoulders, after they’d moved from Omaha almost twenty years earlier. The gecko symbolized that they were both now creatures of the desert, and they vowed never to return to cold country.

  Samantha had been better than good to him. She’d always told him how much she respected him and what a blessing he was to their family. She rarely spoke to him now. And that was only to hand out orders about where the kids needed to be, or to complain when he was late with child support - usually in text form to avoid speaking.

  He couldn’t blame her.

  Sam was a godly woman with a heart of gold and the looks to match. She still turned heads everywhere she went. At forty-four, she could easily pass for thirty. She’d always had plenty of outside interest, even when they were married, but she would have none of it. She had only cared about him and the kids.

  He often thought he kept the watch just to torture himself, holding out a sliver of hope that someday they might work things out. It was doubtful at this point. He couldn’t expect a fine woman like her to remain single forever, let alone hook back up with her ex-cop, ex-husband, who had a nasty alcohol problem.

  His fall to the bottom had been swift. ‘The incident’ had consisted of a jackass, new media company posting compromising pictures of him, in an agave stupor, with a half-naked blonde. The media had caug
ht him in the parking lot of one of the Old Town hot spots. The rich and famous, and those who wanted to be famous, went to Old Town. It was the trendy place to see and be seen.

  Back then, he and his team had been regulars at Old Town’s high-end meat markets. He’d always told Sam that he went for team unity, and he had been a good boy for a long time. But that night, things had gone over the edge. They’d been partying hard and he had been getting hit on by this pretty young thing. His teammates had kept buying him shots and egging him on. He knew he should have stopped way sooner, but they were having fun and burning off stress from a particularly tough case. He had been all over the news that night, and everyone wanted to rub up next to him.

  A new media troll that had been hovering the bar scene that night had stuck a camera in the rear window of his department Tahoe, and caught him with the hot little twenty-something. She, with her shirt open. He, looking like a deer in the headlights. He was fairly certain nothing had happened, as he had been far too hammered that night. But the images had shown up later in the evening on the tattle-tale website, Naughty Scottsdale. All of the morning news shows picked it up, starting at 5:00 a.m. They had blurred out everything but his face in the image, looking spooked.

  The suits at the patrol and his wife had seen them before he’d even had time to get up and visit the commode that morning. Nothing like a high profile cop sex scandal to send the media into a frenzy. Especially the Top Cop that actually wanted to fight crime and stop the criminal invasion at the border. His picture had been plastered on the front page of the Arizona Republic, the local rag. The story had led in every local newscast for four days straight.

  Poof! It was all was gone - his high profile job and, most importantly, his sixteen-year marriage and two young kids. Payton, age twelve, and James Jr., age nine. They called him Jackie.

  Facing the kids had nearly killed him. They were so innocent. It wasn’t their fault that their dad was a drunken moron. They already took plenty of persecution from the other kids at school. That part had nearly sent him into a full-on depression.

  Fortunately, Sam had kept them in their church group, and they knew who their real friends were. That place had been a lifesaver for all three of them.