Hard Exit, page 23
The call that morning, however, reassured me that Frank was on our side. He wasn’t bothered by the late call because he couldn’t sleep, not with his father being buried later that day. I told him everything I knew about Milford’s smuggling operation and distribution process, including the fact that Kenny had in his apartment what was likely the only red Wave Skimmer in existence. Frank was amazed and upset by what I’d told him, and he agreed to cooperate “in every way possible, including risking my life,” he said. “There’s no chance I’m going to let them get away with killing Dad.”
“Great. My first request is to allow the red kayak to be placed alongside your dad’s coffin.”
“Sure. Everyone else won’t think it’s weird because Wave Skimmer was, is, and always will be Dad—his life’s work. The kayak will let the bastards know we’ve got them.”
“They’ll know we’re onto them, but getting them will take some luck.”
“Right, but we’ll get them.”
“I hope so. Try to get some sleep because to make this work we’ll be awake for a long time.”
“Got it. See you there.”
“You, too. Be careful. Watch your back. They don’t know what we know, and that could cause them to strike blindly when they learn we’re onto them. By tomorrow afternoon, they’ll know they’re in trouble.”
I made one more call early that morning before I went back to the motel room. Then, later that morning, on our way to Jennifer’s, we stopped at the Malibu/Lost Hills Sheriff’s Station.
Because we entered the chapel after Milford and Mike did, I couldn’t see their expressions when they saw the red kayak next to Big Bill’s casket.
The funeral service was similar to nearly every funeral service I’d attended: The priest heaped praise on the deceased, whom he’d never met, and emphasized the close relationship that William had to Jesus Christ, although in the more than thirty years I’d known Big Bill, I’d never heard him called William nor heard him mention Jesus. Throughout most of the service, I didn’t listen to what the speakers were saying because I was focused on finding a way to ensure that Milford and Mike didn’t get away, while keeping Jen, Game, Frank, Kenny, and me alive.
But when Father Gerard said, “And now we shall hear from William and Sadie’s only child, Frank Watson,” I paid attention.
“First, I’d like to thank each of you individually for coming today,” Frank said at the lectern, “but that will likely prove to be impossible, so I will thank you now collectively. Dad would’ve been impressed by the number of people who came to honor him, but those of you who knew him well would know Dad would’ve hated the fuss we’re making over him. ‘I’m just a simple chemist. I got lucky. Anyone with a test tube could’ve done what I did. I just happened to do it first,’ he told me at least a dozen times. No, Dad, only you could’ve invented the Wave Skimmer and could’ve been the wonderful father to me, and the doting, attentive husband to Mom, and the understanding, fun-loving grandfather to our girls that you were. And it is because I know you so well, Dad, I feel very comfortable saying—regardless of what the official report eventually says—you were murdered, and the men responsible for your murder are sitting in this chapel now.”
The murmurs started when Frank said the word “murdered,” then turned to gasps of surprise and exclamations of “Oh, my,” “No,” and “Good Lord” when he said the murderers sat among us. People quickly glanced over their shoulders, some of them in both directions, as though they’d be able to spot the murderers and take the necessary precautions.
Frank said into the microphone, “Now we’ll hear from one of the murderers.” The expressions of surprise multiplied ten-fold. I heard the sounds of dress shoes running on the marble floor.
Kenny stood up and spoke loudly: “I know Big Bill was murdered because I helped do it.” I heard more people behind me fleeing, but I didn’t turn around to look because I stood and focused my attention on Milford and Mike, who were seated four pews in front of me. Both of them snapped their heads around to the left to see if what seemed to be happening really was. Kenny waved to them, as I’d told him to do if the plan played out as it was playing out.
Milford stood and started to raise his hand to point at Kenny and likely threaten him. He was furious, and his mouth seemed to be searching for words, but none came out. Mike grabbed Milford’s arm and forced him down into the pew. Nearly all the mourners in the first ten pews must’ve seen Milford’s reaction and contrasted it with their own. They were shocked, but he was seething.
Kenny said, “Most of you don’t know Big Bill had a silent business partner. That partner was Marty Milford, famous movie producer.” Milford jumped up and hustled out the nearest exit at the front of the chapel on the right side. “And,” Kenny continued, “I’ve worked for him the last two years—as a drug courier. We deal cocaine.”
The service abruptly ended as mourners hurried out of the chapel. An elderly woman in the middle aisle appeared to have fainted. I looked at Frank, who stood and watched everyone fleeing, and he was laughing hard. His poor mother, Sadie, who would have had a difficult time understanding what was happening at a normal funeral service, looked lost. She kept raising her hands, as if asking for a divine explanation. Next to me, Jen was laughing, too.
“It’s on,” she said.
“Looks like it. Let’s hope Game and Titan do what they have to do.”
Kenny sat down, looking exhausted. It took guts—and a solid belief in our plan—for him to confess publicly to murder and drug running. He’d resigned himself to a lousy future, but how lousy it would be had yet to be determined. Would it be the San Quentin, death-row kind of lousy? Or would it be the new-name, new-town, look-over-your-shoulder-for-the-rest-of-his-life kind of lousy provided by the witness-protection program? He hoped his cooperation would grant him the latter.
Before he headed out the front exit to his right, Mike turned toward me with a look on his face that seemed to express regret. He shrugged and turned his palms upward in a gesture I took to mean, “It is what it is.”
Jen drove Kenny and me to her house in the Range Rover, with the red kayak strapped to the top. My guess was that not many people heard the words Father Gerard said at Big Bill’s gravesite. I’m sure Frank and his mother were there, but probably only a few others, after that fiasco of a funeral.
Our plan was for Frank to meet us at Jen’s as soon as he could. I’d deduced that Milford would have only one place to go after he raced out of the chapel: The Wave Skimmer shop, where he would eliminate all traces of his cocaine operation. I wasn’t sure I needed Game to confirm Milford’s arrival at the shop, but I wasn’t sure I’d convinced Titan during our phone conversation early that morning of how screwed he was and how wise it would be for him to cooperate. I took a perverse pleasure in having concocted a plan that required Game to oversee Titan.
Titan was supposed to hit record on his phone’s recording app as Milford entered the shop, then unlock the front door, if Milford remembered to lock it behind him. Game was supposed to wait until Titan texted him before Game entered the shop. Game would walk in while recording video on his phone. At worst, we hoped to catch Milford dismantling or destroying the vats, hoses, beakers, scales, and ovens required to extract the cocaine. With luck, Titan would get Milford to implicate himself in the cocaine ring, acknowledging he was the mastermind. And if we were really lucky—or if Titan decided to beat a confession out of him—Milford would admit to having ordered Titan, Kenny, Alphonse, and Deion to murder Chris Cerveris, Big Bill Watson, and Jason Gilson. The best-case scenario would be to catch Marty Milford implicating himself in these crimes on Titan’s audio recording and on Game’s video recording.
On the ride to the house, I asked Kenny about the herky-jerky motions he’d used while delivering the threats to Amanda’s and Jen’s mailboxes.
“It was Mike’s idea. He wanted you to think I was trying to hide who I was because you might know me if I didn’t.”
“Are you a horror-movie fan?”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“Your Hunchback of Notre Dame walk. Not many people today could distinguish Lon Chaney from Dick Chaney.”
“Yeah, me and Mom used to watch old horror movies together. She’s a big fan.”
Jen pulled into her driveway, and I heard the text chime on my phone. It was from Game and said: Serious shit. Watch video. Call me after. I positioned my phone so Jen, Kenny, and I could see it and played the video. We watched as Game crept silently through the shop, through the swinging saloon doors, and across the workspace. On the far wall was a door I had no reason to take note of during my visit. Titan was supposed to make sure it was unlocked, and he’d played his part because Game opened the door silently and stuck his phone inside to film the action.
“Faster, you stupid oaf,” Milford said to Titan on the video. Titan was on the ground on his back, with only his legs visible, his torso out of view beneath a framework of pipes that supported two enormous beakers and a large pot. A track ran out of frame to the left, probably to set the kayaks on. The apparatus reminded me of a moonshine still. Titan was dismantling the apparatus. Milford lifted one of the large beakers, looked for a place to set it, then threw it against the wall out of frame to the right. Game’s phone captured the sound of shattering glass but not the visuals.
“This is bullshit, Marty. They can’t prove shit,” Titan said, still on his back.
“The residue alone will screw us. There’s no legitimate use for this shit.”
“You’re paranoid,” Titan said, wriggling out from underneath the apparatus. “Are you doing blow? Is that it?” He stood and glanced over Milford’s shoulder, looking directly at Game’s phone poking through the cracked door.
Titan said, “We didn’t kill those traitors so you could go soft on us. You said, ‘They’re threatening my millions, so take ’em out.’ We did what you told us.”
“Yeah, but that ship’s sailed. Drake’s screwing us. He’s next. But you gotta finish here first. You’re so goddamned slow. Are you fucking retarded?”
“Marty, I killed for you. What makes you think I won’t snap your head off for calling me retarded?”
“This,” Marty said, reaching into his jacket on his right side. His body blocked the video from showing the gun in his right hand, but it caught the muzzle flash and Titan’s response to the impact. Titan staggered backward and fell. Game pulled his phone through the door and had the presence of mind to ease the door closed and release the handle, so the door closed silently, preventing Milford from knowing he’d been seen, let alone filmed.
Just after Game pulled his hand through the door, the sounds of three additional gunshots were captured on the audio. The video became a blur as Game ran across the workspace, through the shop, and out the front door, his Adidas moving quickly in and out of frame. The audio caught Game saying, “Go, go, go.”
Instead of getting in the BMW, he kept running down the alley he’d run down while chasing the white van. I heard Game’s strained breathing as he ran. Thirty seconds later, after he had rounded two corners, he turned the camera toward his face and said, “How’s that for proof?”
“Amazing,” Jen said as Kenny said, “Yes!”
“He did it. He really did it,” Jen said.
“He sure did,” I said. “The kid came through, that’s for sure. Be in in a minute.”
Jen and Kenny went inside, and I called the Compton Sheriff’s Station to report the shooting of Titan, which was probably a murder, if Milford’s aim was good. The officer working the switchboard insisted I tell him my name after I tried to remain anonymous. “Jack Drake,” I said. “In a minute, I’ll send you video of the shooting. All you have to do is find Marty Milford.” I sent Game’s video to the Los Angeles County Sheriff, Oakville PD, and the Malibu/Lost Hills Sheriff’s Station.
“What you think, dawg?” Game said upon answering my call.
“You are a true champion, Game. The best. Great job. We can discuss it for as long as you want when you get to Jen’s, but right now, you have only one job to do—to stay safe. Make sure Milford has left the shop before you go back for the car. If you have any doubt—"
“Heard him tear outta there when I was running, but I’ll double-check.”
“Good. Again, great job. You couldn’t have done better, but don’t let adrenaline affect your speed on PCH. You’re still a sixteen-year-old African American driving a BMW through Malibu.”
“Gotcha, dawg.”
I went inside Jen’s house and locked the door. Kenny was pacing, and Jen sat on a couch.
“We got him,” Kenny said. “But Titan’s probably dead, huh?”
“He’s strong, but it doesn’t look good. If all four bullets hit him, he doesn’t have much of a chance.”
Jen looked shaken. “I … I can’t believe … I’ve never seen anyone killed in real life. That was a human being, not an actor. I hate this feeling, and I wasn’t even involved. Other than Titan killing Milford, that was the best we could hope for, right?”
“I thought I’d run the possible scenarios through my head, but I couldn’t picture Milford as a killer, as the guy who’d pull the trigger himself. Not the type to get his hands dirty. I thought there was a chance Titan would flip again because he didn’t think Kenny’s testimony against him would be enough to convict. That’s why I considered following Milford, instead of having Game do it. If Titan flipped again, anything could’ve happened, including Game being in real trouble. But even a guy stupid enough to believe the racist garbage Titan believes should understand that when accomplices are squeezed—he had three accomplices—they’ll finger their partners for lesser sentences. So, I gambled on that part of the plan and left with the kayak, hoping Mike, Milford, or their minions would see us carrying away the only hard evidence we had at the time. We’re much better off than we were before Milford shot Titan, but we’re not in the clear. We still need the rest of the plan to work, but I don’t think all of it will be necessary now.”
It was only 6:15, and all my experience said they wouldn’t show up until early morning, probably between 2 and 4. They’d arrived at Chris’ much earlier, about 11 p.m., but Chris hadn’t known they were coming for him, and we did. I was willing to bet they wouldn’t show up when we were wide awake. The best time to attack is 4 a.m., when night-owls have usually turned in, and early-birds aren’t yet awake. My calculated guesses had been correct lately, so, after instructing Jen and Kenny to go over the plan again with Frank when he arrived, I acted on another calculated guess, one that could eliminate one of our potential attackers and could prevent the attack itself.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I’d never been to Malibu Serenity. The only difference between it and the other rehabs that Amanda’d been treated in appeared to be the size of the pool. I hoped the doctors and therapists there were more willing to deal in hard truths than the medical professionals at the other rehabs had been. Awe of celebrities extends to professionals in every field, and everyone has the right to be impressed by, inspired by, or enamored of celebrities. But when fandom interferes with doctors doing their jobs, lives can be lost.
Getting sober requires “doing the work” and “working the steps,” as adherents of Alcoholics Anonymous enthusiastically declare, and no one who’s “gotten sober” would say that doing so was easy. The psychiatrists at those other rehabs might not have compromised their professionalism while treating Amanda, but I saw signed headshots of her in two doctors’ offices while she was still a patient in those facilities. As I drove to Malibu Serenity, I hoped this stay would be different for her, but when I saw Mike’s Corvette in a space to the left of the entrance, I knew she hadn’t changed and probably wouldn’t.
Mike was sitting in the lobby, waiting for the residents to finish dinner. He looked up as I walked in, smiled, and said, “Well, look what the cat dragged in.” He looked worse than I’d ever seen him—gaunt and exhausted. His pupils were huge, and his right leg was bouncing up and down like a needle in a sewing machine. We’d been as close as brothers—closer than most brothers, probably—since meeting during freshman orientation in college. We’d supported each other in a hundred ways over the years, so the emotional pain I felt when I saw him sitting there was extreme.
Normally we would’ve given each other a hug, but instead of approaching him, I sat in an upholstered chair ten feet away. I didn’t respond for a while, trying to decide if he would reach for the gun I suspected he wore under the leather jacket he was wearing. It was mid-June in Southern California, so the jacket was overkill, although it made sense because he’d driven to the rehab facility with the top of his Vette down. I believed he had a gun, although I didn’t want to believe he’d use it on me.
I said, “How long?”
“How long? How long, what, Jack?” he said, raising his arms and shrugging his shoulders. His overacting reminded me again why a man with his chiseled good looks would be relegated to modeling and roles without dialogue. With even a little acting ability, he would’ve been a star. But he couldn’t act at all, so he’d become a teacher. Unfortunately, he aspired to the movie-star lifestyle but only had a public servant’s income. This discrepancy, I was sure, contributed to us sitting in the Malibu Serenity lobby that night.
“You know.”
“No, really, I don’t. Please tell me, Mr. Detective.”
“How long have you been sleeping with Amanda?”
The receptionist had given me an unfriendly look when I’d sat down without greeting Mike or acknowledging her. I’d entered a medical facility without being a patient or accompanying one. When I asked Mike that question, she picked up the receiver of the landline on the desk and punched in an extension. “Yes, I think so,” she said into the receiver.
