Sean Black: Deadlock

‘If I don’t find out what’s so important that they want to hire private security from the other side of the country, it’ll drive me nuts.’

Carrie gave a sleepy laugh. ‘She wasn’t lying about doing her research on you.’

As Lock got dressed, Angel skittered around his feet, disturbed by the change in routine.

Carrie propped herself up on one elbow. ‘You taking your partner?’

‘No, Angel’s staying here.’

‘You know who I mean.’

Lock walked back to the bed and sat down. He pushed away a strand of blonde hair which had fallen over Carrie’s face, then leaned in and kissed her gently on the lips. Before the lure of climbing back into bed with Carrie properly took hold, he stood back up.

‘I’m meeting him there. He’s out visiting family in California anyway. He said he’d drive up to San Francisco from LA.’

Lock was waiting for him now — his partner, Tyrone Johnson. They’d originally hooked up out in Iraq, where Ty was serving in the United States Marine Corps and Lock, despite the fact he’d been raised in the States, was working with the British Royal Military Police specialist close protection unit. The rapport had been immediate, and when Lock eventually left the military, Ty, who was already working in high-end private security, had secured Lock his first gig with a large pharmaceutical company which had been targeted by animal rights activists.

While he waited for Ty, Lock kept his gaze steady on Alcatraz. Little wonder that no one had escaped from the place. If the freezing temperature of the water surrounding the prison didn’t get you, and if the strong bay currents didn’t sweep you out into the Pacific, then the sharks would finish you off.

Lock saw Ty before Ty saw Lock, the young African-American’s long, basketball player’s strides making short work of the ground between sidewalk and pier. Lock caught his friend’s grimace as they bumped fists.

‘That was a long goddamn drive,’ Ty said, massaging the back of his neck.

‘Well, let’s hope it’s worth it.’

‘Come on,’ said Ty, tapping Lock’s elbow. ‘My ride’s over there.’

Lock picked it out immediately — a 1966 Lincoln Continental that had been resprayed in a migraine-inducing purple.

Ty’s chin jutted out. ‘Go on, get it out of the way.’

‘Get what out of the way?’ Lock asked.

‘Whatever you’re going to say about my ride.’

Their respective tastes in both cars and music were a long-running source of friction between them. Ty thought Lock’s choice of both automobiles and music boring, while Lock maintained that in their job the key was to appear as inconspicuous as possible. Something they clearly weren’t about to do in a pimped-out purple Continental.

‘It’s…’ Lock searched for the right word. ‘It’s very striking.’

Lock ducked in the front passenger side as Ty walked round to the driver’s door. The interior was black and purple leopard-spot suede. The sound system was a six-speaker Bose model guaranteed to make your ears bleed even at low volume. The two additional JL woofers mounted in the back looked capable of rearranging your internal organs.

Ty popped on a pair of mirrored Aviator sunglasses, gunned the engine and pulled away from the kerb.

‘Have to say, Tyrone, we’re really blending in this vehicle. All you’re missing is a fedora with a feather, Superfly.’

Ty scowled. ‘Where’s your sense of style, brother?’

‘Must have left it back in New York.’ Lock took another look around the Lincoln’s cabin. ‘You know what? I think this is a first.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Well, I don’t think I’ve ever been in a vehicle before and actually prayed that I’d be car-jacked.’

On the way to the Federal Building where they were scheduled to meet with Jalicia, Lock brought Ty a little more up to speed with his conversation the previous evening. After a pause, Ty said, ‘Makes no sense. They have the Marshals for this kind of stuff. You sure they want us for witness protection?’

‘That’s what it sounded like.’

Ty seemed to lighten a little. ‘So, we fly ’em down to Cancun, chill out for a few weeks, then fly ’em back home and pick up a big fat cheque from Uncle Sam. I mean, how hard can it be, right?’

Lock stared out of the window as they drove along Bay Street, past a bar called the Red Jack Saloon. A knot of four or five bikers sporting Hell’s Angel patches were chatting outside, as much a part of the local scenery as cable cars and the Golden Gate Bridge. He was guessing that Ty’s optimism was misplaced. Someone with Lock’s reputation wasn’t flown across the country first-class if the job was straightforward.

The conference room where Lock and Ty were meeting Jalicia faced out on to Golden Gate Avenue, a busy thoroughfare in the centre of downtown San Francisco. Barely a few blocks east lay the Tenderloin, one of the city’s sleaziest areas, where junkies sprawled on the sidewalk and transvestite prostitutes openly plied their trade. Lock wondered to himself whether the proximity of the courthouse to so many dope fiends and vagrants was altogether coincidental.

Ten storys below, Lock watched a homeless man wrestle with a wonky-wheeled shopping cart. The cart lurched sharply to the left, almost careening off the edge of the kerb. The homeless man pulled it back from the edge, his bedding roll spilling on to the sidewalk. As he let go of the cart to retrieve his bedding, the cart started to move again. Some people’s lives were like that, Lock reflected. Soon as you got one thing straightened out, you set another problem in motion. Lock wondered if he was about to get a taste of the same thing.

Behind Lock, the conference room door opened and a surprisingly young African-American woman with sharp, pretty features bustled in, hand out in greeting. Lock watched with amusement as Ty, who was already seated, immediately straightened in his seat. Ty saw himself as a ladies’ man, but Lock had a feeling that Jalicia Jones wasn’t someone who would share that opinion.

‘Mr Lock, I’m glad you made it,’ she said with a rehearsed smile.

Ty loudly cleared his throat.

‘Ms Jones, this is my partner, Tyrone Johnson,’ Lock said.

‘Call me Ty,’ said Ty, with a wide grin.

A grizzled white guy in his late fifties had followed Jalicia into the room. He identified himself to Lock as Special Agent Tommy Coburn of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. Muscular, with hair greying at the temples, and a hangdog expression, Lock would have put him down as an aging biker or an ex-con.

Coburn eyed Ty with suspicion but stuck out a hand in greeting. ‘Coburn.’

‘Hey,’ Ty said, propping his sneakers up on the conference room table and giving Coburn a wave.

Lock noticed Jalicia shoot Ty a look that suggested his charm offensive was falling flat.

‘OK, Mr Lock, Mr Johnson, here’s the 411. For the past couple of years, the Organized Crime Strike Force here in San Francisco, along with a number of other federal agencies, has been building a case against a prison gang called the Aryan Brotherhood and their associates.’ Jalicia paused for a moment. ‘I take it you’ve heard of them?’

‘Bad-ass white supremacist prison gang?’ Lock ventured. Living with a career-driven news reporter like Carrie, Lock found himself carrying a trove of usually useless information about all aspects of American life.

‘Nowadays, they don’t just operate inside prison,’ Jalicia continued. ‘As well as being linked to a number of far-right racist groups, they also control drugs, prostitution and a number of extortion rackets on the outside. You name it, they’re involved.