“I was flying, Daddy.”
“Like a bird? Or like a plane?”
“Like a rock-et.”
“Was it fun?”
“So fun. I’m going to go back now…”
Will covered Sara’s shoulders with her quilt, said, “Have a safe flight, sweetheart,” then went to the boys’ room across the hall.
The hamster was running on the endless track of his wheel. The two goldfish stared at him, almost motionless in the stream of bubbles coming up from the little ceramic diver at the bottom of the bowl.
Willie was asleep on his stomach, but Sam was awake and he grabbed Will’s hand and wouldn’t let go.
Will smiled at his boy, sat down on the bed beside him. “What, son? What can I do for you?”
“Are you going out?”
“Yeah, the car’s gas tank is empty and I don’t want to stop tomorrow when I’m on the way to work. Rush hour, you know?”
“Will you get me something?”
“If I can.”
“A motorcycle. A Harley. Black one.”
“No problem.”
“Really?”
“What about a peanut butter granola bar instead?”
“Sure,” said Sam. “That’ll be okay.”
The kid was a born negotiator.
“Go to sleep now,” Will said to his boy. “It’s late.”
Will kissed his youngest son, went down the hallway, and stopped to speak with Charlie, who was in his La- Z-Boy watching the news.
“Is that you, Hiram?”
“It’s Will, Charlie. Becky’s husband. I want to give you something.”
“Sure, what is it?”
“You need a good shake.”
“Ahhh-hah-hah.” Charlie laughed as Will leaned in and grabbed his father-in-law by both shoulders and shook him gently. Will said, “You’re a good man, Charlie Bean. I’ll see you later.”
“That’s fine, Hiram. I’ll wait up for you.”
Taking the stairs down to the garage, Will thought about what was coming that night. He took his jacket off the hook, put it on, then got the gun out of a toolbox near the pyramid of paint cans. He wrapped the gun in a plastic bag, stuck it inside his jacket pocket. Then he grabbed a flashlight and left the house by the back door.
Will knew cops would be watching Becky’s car on Golden Gate Avenue so he stayed on the deeply shadowed side of the street. There was an unmarked car at the corner of Scott, two guys in the front seat.
Will kept his head down and walked past it, kept going south another couple of blocks until he saw the silver Chevy Impala, probably a 2006 model.
The door was unlocked and Will got in, shutting off the dome light. It took him about five minutes by flashlight to remove the ignition plate and hot-wire the car, but the engine started right up and there was fuel in the tank.
The risk was building. But Will had already passed the point of no return.
Tonight was the night he’d been working toward for the last three months, the night when he would take his most personal revenge. He pulled the Impala out onto the street and headed for the Lower Haight.
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.”
Chapter 98
As Will Randall pulled the trigger, he was jostled by a lurching bum in a woman’s coat who grabbed on to his arm to steady himself, saying, “Whooaaa.”
Will’s shot went wild, and Lesko took the split second of confusion to get away.
Will stiff-armed the bum and knocked him aside, then he aimed at Lesko. Jimmy was now a moving target in the dark, running like he was carrying a football under his arm, smashing into a couple of kids holding hands, ramming into a homeless grandma with a shopping cart. He knocked both the cart and grandma to the sidewalk, and she lay there with her limbs splayed out, her cart’s wheels spinning, garbage everywhere.
Forward motion blocked, Lesko took the clearest path, bounding up steps that led to the front deck of a
