J. Gonzalez - They

Five minutes later, shortly after ten o’clock in the morning, they entered a Coco’s restaurant on Talbert Avenue and were escorted by a twenty-something female hostess to a table where they refueled.

And made plans.

“THE PARTY YOU have called has turned their phone off or is not in the service area. Please try again—”

Goddamn ! Frank hit the disconnect button on his cell phone and shot a look at Mike. “Let me try again,” he said.

“What’s the matter?” Mike asked. He was standing near the doorway of the cramped motel room, waiting for Frank to finish collecting his things.

“Vince isn’t answering his goddamn cell phone,” Frank said.

Mike frowned. It was a quarter till one in the afternoon. They’d spent an hour at Coco’s eating breakfast, drinking coffee, and talking in low tones. Mike had called Billy Grecko and given him the Cliff Note’s version of what was happening and made plans to meet at his office at 1:30. Once Mike had a cup of coffee in him and put away half his breakfast—scrambled eggs, hash browns, and pancakes—he became more rational, more level-headed. He agreed with Frank that they couldn’t call the police even though his emotions begged him to simply drop everything and do so. Frank had taken his laptop in the restaurant for safe-keeping and it sat between them in the corner booth he’d requested. Mike had mostly listened as Frank quickly outlined a hasty plan: the first step was to get the laptop to Billy Grecko; the second step was to contact Vince and make coordinated steps to disappear again; the third was subject for debate. Frank needed to gather his things, then make like a leaf and blow. He suggested Mike disappear too. Mike insisted on being dropped off at his home first. “I’ve got to get a few things—”

“We’ll do a drive-by the house first,” Frank had said. “Make sure the police aren’t there. Then we’ll leave.”

That had been the plan. As they’d talked over breakfast, they ruminated over where the course of their actions would take them. Frank was confident that Bill Grecko’s FBI contact would produce results. The agent in question had broken up a large snuff-film ring last year that had been the result of Bill’s own hard work. According to Mike, Billy still didn’t like to talk about it.

Once they’d finished breakfast and paid the bill, they’d headed straight to Billy Grecko’s office in Santa Ana. The drive was made in funereal silence. Mike had placed a call to Billy on the way over and the lawyer had met them in the lobby of the building his law office was housed in. It was the first time Frank had met the lawyer; he appeared to be around Mike’s age, with graying, curling hair that was balding along the crown, with a somewhat slim figure and weathered features that told Frank he was an ex-drinker. They’d shaken hands quickly, and then Billy had escorted them to the elevator and whisked them up to his office.

Where behind closed doors they’d handed the laptop over. Billy had quickly summoned an IT tech into his office who began to promptly image Frank’s hard drive onto another laptop while Billy and Mike made small talk. Frank had sat on the sofa, trying not to fidget. When the IT tech was finished, he left both laptops in Billy’s office and exited the room. Billy nodded. “I take it this is everything?”

“Most of it,” Mike said. He handed Billy the box that contained thirty years of secrets along with the key. “This is the box Vince’s mother kept. I told you about it a few days ago. You should be able to match the clippings and photos with the documents from Frank’s laptop.”

Billy nodded. He held the box, his eyes never leaving Mike’s. “I can’t promise you anything,” he said. “But I know Hank, my Bureau friend, is very eager to see this.”

“Thank God he is.”

“Do either of you need any kind of professional surveillance or security?”

Frank had perked up at this. “Can you help us out in that?”

“I can arrange something. Pull a few strings. It might take me a few hours to get everything lined up.”

“If you can do that, yeah,” Frank said. “That would be great.”

“I’ll make some calls.” Billy looked at Mike. “You haven’t called the police yet?”

“No.” Mike shook his head.

“Don’t call them,” Billy said. “Hank and his team will take over once I get this material to him.”

“What should we do now?” Mike asked.

“I’d prefer if you stay here until I can arrange for you to go into hiding,” Billy said.

“What about Vince and Tracy? We told them to go to the Venice Beach area and wait for our call.”

Billy nodded at Frank. “You need to call them. Have them come here.”

“I have stuff at the motel room I’m staying at,” Frank said. “I should really head back to get it.”

“I’d like to get some things from the house too,” Mike said.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Billy said.

“Why not? I’ll be in and out in three minutes.”

“Because they know who you are now.”

“He has a point, Mike,” Frank said.

Mike turned to Frank. “Why haven’t they come after us then?”

Frank shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Billy Grecko spoke up. “Is it absolutely necessary for you to go back to your house?”

For a moment, Mike was silent. Then, in a soft whisper, he said, “If I’m going to live the rest of my life in some kind of witness protection program, I want… I want pictures of my kids. My wife…” He looked at Billy, at Frank, his soft blue eyes imploring them to understand. “If I have to spend the rest of my life away from them, I need… I have to—”

Frank sighed. “I can go in the house with him. I’m armed and I’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”

Billy Grecko appeared to think about it. Frank knew the lawyer had deep reservations about this, but he’d finally relented. “I want you both back here in an hour. If you aren’t back, I’m getting the police involved.”

Frank rose to his feet. “We’ll be back.”

And now they were in Frank’s motel room.

It hadn’t taken long for Frank to pack the rest of his stuff into the single duffel bag. Once packed, he’d paused quickly to call Vince. He even tried Vince at his home number and got the answering machine. He looked at Mike. “I’ll keep trying.”

“We should have gotten Tracy’s cell number,” Mike said.

“Yeah,” Frank agreed. He checked his bag, checked the handgun he had strapped to a holster around his waist, his T-shirt concealing it. He was ready to go.

He didn’t even bother to formally check out. He’d checked in under his real name. The electronic trail of Frank Black would end there, in that little dive-motel on the border of Costa Mesa and Huntington Beach.

On the drive to Mike’s house in Huntington Beach, Frank’s thoughts drifted to Brandy and the day he told her he was changing their identities and moving them to New England. He’d given her the barest glimpse of what he was working on—he’d told her the basics years before, when they first met—and when he told her he was moving her and the kids out of the state, under assumed names for their own safety, she’d finally lost it. “You’re going to risk our lives because you’re digging around in a past you don’t even remember much of? Because you think your parents might have been drugged out hippie-freak devil worshippers? I don’t believe you! Why do you need to find out what happened to you as a kid now? Why can’t you just let it go? You haven’t so much as given a shit about your mother in over twenty years? Why are you letting her freak you out now? Why don’t you just let her go?”