Jack Taggart Mysteries 7-Book Bundle. Don Easton
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I remember it because it was the Thursday before the May long weekend. Wizard has a boat out in White Rock. A big one, for fishin’ an’ crabbin’. My job was to bring a couple of oil drums an’ a wheelbarrow full of bricks out to his boat. We stuffed one guy in each drum, popped holes, weighed ’em down, and rolled ’em overboard.”
“You killed them on the boat?” asked Jack.
“Naw, actually I didn’t see who killed ’em and I didn’t ask. Wizard, Rolly, and I were already out on the boat. Wizard didn’t want to take a chance on haulin’ the bodies down the pier in White Rock. It’s too long and there’s lots of tourists. We left the dock an’ four of the guys delivered ’em to us in a speedboat. They were already dead. Shot once in the head. Wiz didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. There’s too many of them Asians, an’ they don’t give a fuck who they kill. Wizard decided it would be better if they disappeared, so we wouldn’t be startin’ any wars or anything.”
“Who were the four guys who delivered the bodies in the speed boat?”
“It was all guys from our chapter. Sparrow, Pan-Head, Halibut, an’ Rockin’ Ronnie. I think it was Rockin’ Ronnie who did ’em, but he’s dead now. Some old lady hung a left turn in front of ’im when he was ridin’ his bike this summer. He piled right into her.”
“What makes you think it was Rockin’ Ronnie who shot them?” asked Jack.
“Yeah, it’s kind of convenient,” said Danny, “the guy you say did it is now dead.”
“I didn’t say he fuckin’ done it, I said I think he fuckin’ done it!” replied Lance, glaring at Danny.
“Why?” asked Jack.
Lance looked back at Jack. “Well if Halibut had done it, he’d have probably gotten his patch soon after. But he’s still strikin’. That leaves Sparrow, Pan-Head, and Rockin’ Ronnie. I noticed that Rockin’ Ronnie had a fresh lookin’ DD tattoo about a week later. Sparrow and Pan-Head still don’t have one.”
“What tattoo?” asked Jack.
“The Dirty Dog. It first started about four or five years ago. You can earn it by doin’ a hit that’s sanctioned by the executive. It’s got to be verified, too.”
“The Dirty Dog,” Jack repeated. The words replayed through his brain.
“Yeah,” Lance replied. “I know he didn’t have it before, so I’m presumin’ that’s how he earned it.”
“How big is this tattoo?” asked Jack abruptly. “What does it look like? Could you see it, say, from across a room?”
“You could, if the lighting was good. I don’t have one, or I would show ya. It’s just the words Dirty Dog tattooed over the head of a pitbull. Most guys get it on their biceps, but if they already got a tattoo there, then they usually put it on their forearm.”
“Names!” Jack demanded harshly. “I want the names of everyone who has them!”
“I don’t know everyone for sure,” said Lance, nervously. “It’s not somethin’ most guys run around showin’ off right away, either. At least, not if they’re smart. Just off the top of my head, I’d say I know about six or seven guys who got it.”
“Write down their names!”
Lance slowly pulled open the desk drawer and retrieved a pen and a sheet of paper. A minute later, he pushed the list toward Jack. “There may be others, but these ones I know.”
Jack looked at the list: Wizard, Nails, Rockin’ Ronnie, Thumper, Whisky Jake, and Two-Forty Gordy.
“Who are Two-Forty Gordy, Whiskey Jake, and Thumper?”
“Just guys in the club. Different chapter than me. They’re from the east side. Two-Forty probably weighs three-forty now.”
“This is all of them?”
“All I can remember.”
“If you remember any more names, call me on my cell!” said Jack, ripping off a piece of paper and writing his number down. He stared intently at Lance’s face and asked, “The two Vietnamese brothers are the only other murders you know about?”
“Yeah. Them and Lenny and the whore on the freeway. I guess Red, too, if she was hit.”
“I don’t suppose the club, or the executive, keeps any list of who gets a Dirty Dog tattoo and when they get it?”
“Naw, are you kiddin’? Would be too risky in case it fell into the wrong hands.”
“Who does the tattooing?”
“A friend of the club owns a parlour down near the waterfront in Vancouver. He does all the club tattoos. It’s called Popeye’s. He’s had the place for years.”
Jack nodded, then asked nonchalantly, “By the way, who handles the speed coming in from Montreal?”
“Hey! I’m impressed! You know about that already? We only got that started a couple of months ago!”
“Tell us what you know about it. When’s the next shipment due?”
“Not much to tell. We either pay cash or swap blow for speed with our brothers in Montreal. Someday we’ll get our own labs out here, but for the moment, the French shit is excellent. Wizard went to Montreal and set up the original connection. I think we’ve only done one deal so far. Fifty keys is what Rolly told me.”
“Rolly is handling it?”
“He picked up the first shipment to make sure everything went smooth. It came by train. I think another shipment is due this Friday. They’ll probably get one of the strikers to handle it now. Likely either Halibut or Dragon.”
“No problems with the first shipment?” Jack studied Lance’s face carefully.
“Not as far as I know. That’s some of the same stuff you were buying from Red.”
“You guys got any heavy connections an hour or so drive out in the Valley? Someone that Rolly may have dealt with on that first shipment?”
“Nobody that I know of. I don’t think he would make a big delivery out there. Maybe some of the strikers got some people. I don’t know everyone.”
“Would it draw any heat on you if this next shipment gets taken down?” asked Jack.
“Don’t think so. Especially if it’s a striker. They might think the heat came from Montreal.”
Jack stood up and said, “Stay in touch. We’ll talk again in a couple of days.”
“I won’t be around if it’s this coming weekend.”
“Why not?”
“We’re taking our hawgs out for one last run before winter. Headin’ up to the interior for a big bash. Leavin’ Friday afternoon and comin’ back Sunday. Pretty well the whole club is going. Taking our ol’ ladies along too.”
“Then go. But if we find out you’re holding anything back on us, you’re dead meat.”
Lance didn’t respond, so Jack said, “Did you hear me?”
“I’ve got ears,” he replied sullenly.
When Jack and Danny were at the door, Lance asked, “So tell me, man, how close did we come to doin’ ya? I thought Wiz plugged ya.”
Jack yawned, then said, “Got me once, but it ricocheted off my back and through my arm. Rolly slashed my back with a knife. It did more damage than the bullet did.”
Lance nodded. “Yeah, I guess a .22 is okay if you got it stuck in someone’s ear or the base of their neck, but I figure if they’d been usin’ a 9 mm, you wouldn’t have been so lucky.”
“Yeah, you’re probably