Middle Of Nowhere

C H A P T E R

36

Snookers was a biker's bar, a beer and pool hall with two voluptuous waitresses who wore plastic cowboy hats and tight jeans. The bartender was the size of Sasquatch. When Boldt and Gaynes entered, all but a handful of the twenty or so men in the bar noticed the pair immediately. A half dozen slipped quietly toward the back exit. There, these seven men encountered four patrol officers that Boldt had assigned to watch the back door. Two of the seven escaped. The remaining five were pushed up against a brick wall and searched.

Boldt and Gaynes walked past the back pool tables and let the screen door slam shut on their way out.

A patrolman informed Boldt, "We lost two of them, Lieutenant. Of what's left, we got two handguns, a blade, some pot and what looks like cocaine. Only one guy is clean out of all of them."

"We'll take the clean one first," Boldt informed the man, after studying each face for Flek and not finding him. Addressing the group as a whole, Boldt announced loudly, "We're Seattle PD. We have a few questions."

Gaynes spoke deliberately and slowly to the group. "Bryce . . . Abbott . . . Flek. Abby. Information or whereabouts buys you an instant out. David Ansel Flek. Davie. Abby's brother. Recently deceased. Information buys you an out."

Boldt dragged the "clean" suspect away from the others, out of earshot, Gaynes at his side. The officers kept the other suspects engaged to the wall. He said, "You get the first shot at a hall pass."

"You can't hold me," the young man complained. "On what charges?" He had some Latino blood in him, maybe some Asian as well. He was short but solid. He wore leather, jeans, and Air Jordans.

Gaynes fished out the man's wallet. "We can run your name though BCI and see if you've been a good boy or not. If you're on parole and any of these others guys turns out to have a record, well, then, that's a violation, isn't it?"

"Do whatever you have to do. But you can't hold me. And I don't have shit to say to you."

Gaynes stepped up like she was ready to hit him. Boldt signaled her to back off.

Boldt said, "Who are we interested in over there?" indicating the lineup against the wall.

"Third guy. Black hair. Name of Robert. Knows the one you're looking at."

Gaynes returned the wallet. "We know who you are. We know where to find you. If you're blowing smoke at us—"

"No way! He mentioned this guy Abby, okay?" the kid admitted. "Heard him saying something about him."

"Take off," Boldt said, releasing the kid.

The third one from the left, a tall, lanky kid, had junkie's jaundice and the smell of a boozer. As one of the two caught carrying a piece, Boldt had a noose to hang him. He led the man away from the others and launched into a discussion about unregistered handguns and mandatory prison time. It won the man's attention.

"Abby Flek," Boldt said, adding no editorial.

"Guy has flipped out."

"What was your business with him?"

"Me? No business, man."

Gaynes encouraged a closer intimacy with the brick wall. "Think harder," she said.

"No business with him."

Gaynes leaned her knee between the man's legs, and then lifted her leg sharply. "That gun you were carrying is going to cost you a year. The lieutenant here has run out of patience, and so have I. You want the year, you keep telling us you had no business with him, because we're too busy to give you a second chance. Got it?"

"Hardware," the man said.

"Weapons," Boldt said.

"Let's just say I'm connected, okay?"

"Let's just say you're a collector," Gaynes corrected. "Sound good? Nothing illegal about collecting a few weapons."

"Whatever. Abby has lost it, okay? The guy will start a fight over anything. He comes to me, I'm not about to say no."

"Of course not," Gaynes said.

"But I couldn't say yes either, because . . . my connections," he said, straining to meet eyes with Gaynes. "My collection . . ." he corrected, ". . . I didn't have what the man was looking to score."

"Which was?" Boldt asked.

"Semi-auto long rod. Russian-built was okay, but he wanted a particular German scope."

"A sniper's rifle?" she asked incredulously.

"Way out of my league," the guy said.

"And then some," Boldt said, wondering if he was the intended target. He added, "When was this?"

"Three, maybe four o'clock."

"Today?" Boldt gasped. They were only eight hours behind the man.

"And you referred him to a fellow collector," Gaynes said, leading him on.

"What would you have done?"

"And the name of this individual, this fellow collector?" she said.

"Macallister," the guy whispered so quietly that Boldt wasn't sure it had come from his lips.

"I know Macallister," Gaynes told her lieutenant. She slammed the suspect's groin again and warned, "This blows up in our hands and we're coming after you. Understood?"

"Yeah, I got it."

" 'Cause if Macallister hasn't heard of this guy, right or wrong, it's your ass we're coming after. And there will be no second chances. So take a moment to contemplate your existence, my friend—to ruminate—because you gotta be good with this, and I'm smelling that this is some bad shit you're peddling."

"Manny Wong," the man corrected. "Not Macallister, Manny Wong. Down in the District. Most of his stuff is Chinese, but Abby said Chinese was okay as long as he got that German scope."

"Don't know him," Gaynes warned Boldt. "Never heard of him."

"That's all right," Boldt answered. "I know someone who knows everyone down there."