11th hour

Chapter 97

Jimmy Lesko had been in bed when he’d gotten a text message from Buck Barry, who was desperate to make a buy. It was a pain in the butt, but Lesko needed the extra cash.

He parked his sparkling new Escalade on Haight, a two-way commercial corridor, crowded in on both sides by peeling Victorian houses. All of them were shades of gray at this time of night, mashed together with single-story concrete utility buildings and bars and shops and more residences after that.

Sitting in the driver’s seat, Lesko watched the entrance to Finnerty’s, a bar between Steiner and Fillmore known for its cheap suds and oversize burgers. Buck would be waiting for him in the men’s room in about five minutes.

A UCLA film-school dropout, former up-and-coming protege of the late Chaz Smith, Lesko traded in good-quality dope, had protection from the cops, and sometimes, like now, could make good money.

Lesko anticipated a quick transaction and an equally quick return to his house and the delicious young medical student who was asleep in his bed. He looked at the time again and got out of the car, then locked it with his remote.

He was crossing the street when someone called his name.

He turned and saw a man coming up Haight on Finnerty’s side of the block. The guy was dark-haired, about forty, looked happy to see him.

“Jimmy. Jimmy Lesko.”

Lesko waited on the sidewalk for the guy to reach him, then said, “Do I know you?”

“I’m William Randall,” the guy said.

Lesko searched for some recognition. The name. The face. An association. Something. Nothing came up. Lesko had a good memory — but he didn’t know the guy.

“What’s this about?” he said.

“I want you to see this.”

The guy took his hand out of his pocket. He was holding something weird. It was a plastic bag covering what looked to be a gun.

Shit. A gun.

This was not happening. This was just not on.

Jimmy jerked back, but he was hemmed in by the clots of boozed-up pedestrians on the sidewalk and cars at the curb. He went for his gun, stuck into the waistband at the back of his pants. But this fucking asshole Randall had pushed him back onto a car and pinned him there. He put the gun right up to his forehead.

Lesko threw his hands up. Dropped his keys. Wet his pants.

What was this? What the hell was this?

Didn’t anybody see what was happening?

Lesko screamed, “What do you want? What do you want? Tell me what you want, for Christ’s sake!”

“I’m Link Randall’s father,” the guy said. “Any idea who that is? Doesn’t matter. You ruined my son’s life. And now I’m going to ruin you. Totally.”