“No.”
Sol held his silence, waiting.
“There were two guys.”
He continued to wait, his eyes boring into me.
“Yeah, I guess they were trying to scare me off,” I said.
“Look, Jimmy, maybe we’d better call this off. I know it was my idea, but it’s a longshot, and it probably won’t work, anyway.”
“Hang on, Sol.”
He stood there with an eyebrow raised.
I glanced around, looking up and down the dock. “Sol, listen to me.” I wanted him to understand exactly how I felt. “There’s a lot going on here. It’s not just Webster’s threats, charging me with the Section 32 thing, or Hammer’s murder investigation that worries me the most. If that’s all there was to this, I’d quit now and fight them in court, and I’d win. But there’s more to it than that. There are madmen out there killing people, and the bastards are locking up kids in a bogus drug center. Don’t forget, Robbie’s still my client. He could be at the base. He could be in danger, and anyway, he still needs a lawyer. And what about Jane…?” I paused, letting my words sink in. “I can’t get her out of mind. A dead girl shows up alive, and now, because she talked to me, she’s going to get a beating. Christ, she could be killed. Murdered, just because she talked to me! We can’t let that go. Can we, Sol?”
“Jimmy, I’m more concerned about your safety. What kind of lawyer are you going to be for Robbie if you’re dead?”
“Better than most.”
Sol laughed. “You crazy idiot. Okay, you win. You’d probably go anyway, but you’re going to carry protection.” He reached under his suit coat and brought out a.45 automatic. “You’re gonna take this with you.”
I didn’t argue. “Put it in the truck. I’ll keep it with me, just in case.”
He nodded. “Yeah, just in case. By the way, the gun has no serial numbers anymore. It’s not traceable.” He walked back to his men.
I put on a milkman’s cap, which would cover the scar on my forehead, after changing into a white uniform that I grabbed from an employee’s locker. ‘Chip’ was the name embroidered above the left breast pocket. Then I got a knockdown on the peculiarities of the route from the regular driver, Roger. I asked him if he saw teenagers being mistreated at the base. He said he saw youngsters working in the commissary, but he didn’t know if anyone mistreated them. He figured they just worked there, like kids work at McDonald’s. He had never been beyond the commissary, though. The commissary building was close to the main gate, and the security was tight: men in uniforms with guns. They would only let him out of the truck to unload his order. Roger wished me luck; he was happy to have the day off.
I’d be Chip for the day, and I’d be working Roger’s route. I’d have to make ten stops before the last one, Rattlesnake Lake Sportsmen’s Rod and Gun Club. The milk order seemed fairly large for a gun club. More than most of the other restaurant stops that I was supposed to make. They had to be feeding a lot of people out there at Rattlesnake Lake, and I hoped Robbie was one of them.
I walked back to the dock and met up with Sol and his men. Van Hoek had left, allowing us the privacy we needed to plan our strategy. The Deacon, Cubby, and I huddled at the cab of the large bobtail truck and, of course, Sol took charge.
“Chip,” he said, noticing my nametag. “I don’t want you to worry about a thing. Just go along on the route like you do every day…”
“Sol, I’m a lawyer, not a truck driver.”
“See, goddamn it, that’s what I mean. You’ve gotta get into the role. Forget about being a goddamn lawyer. You’ve gotta make sure those hooligans out there think you’re the goddamn milkman, or you’re gonna be a goddamn goner.”
“Thought I wasn’t supposed to worry.”
Sol let out an exaggerated sigh. “Shut up, Jimmy. Now where was I? Oh yeah, Cubby, show Jimmy the gizmo.”
Cubby held up a rectangular gadget. It was black, about the size and shape of a pack of cigarettes, and appeared to be made of metal.
“It’s a beauty, military issue, the latest technology,” he said.
“Tell, him how it works.”
“It’s magnetized and sticks to steel.”
“He knows a magnet sticks to steel, for chrissakes,” Sol said. “Just tell him what it is.”
“It’s a radio tracking transmitter. We’ll hide it on the truck, and we’ll be able to follow you in the limo.”
Cubby pointed to Sol’s tricked-out black limousine parked close by. After Sol had seen his first James Bond movie and saw how Q had rigged Bond’s cars, he’d outfitted his fleet of company limos with the latest available spy doohickeys. He also installed a couple of doohickeys that weren’t so available. He had sources.
“The device transmits on an FM frequency,” Cubby continued. “And the signal can be picked up within a half-mile of the subject vehicle. We have a direction finder in the limo.”
“Yeah, it’s an XB-7, special issue. Terrific.” Sol beamed. “Anyone with an FM radio can get the signal, but unless you have the corresponding direction finder, you’re out of luck. We’ll be right behind you the whole time, but we’ll be out of sight. Tell him about the panic button, Cubby.”
“Okay. The gizmo broadcasts on 106.7 FM and normally sends out a beep like this.” He licked his lips. “Beep… beep… beep.” He articulated the beeping sound in a slow steady manner. “But if you flip the switch we’ve hooked to the dash on the truck…” He pointed out a small toggle switch screwed under the dashboard in the cab of the milk truck. “…the receiver in the limo will hear a signal like this, beep-beep, beep-beep.” He sounded like the Roadrunner. “So, if you need help, flip the panic switch and we’ll close the gap.”
“Yeah, you flip that switch, buddy boy, and we’ll be there, guns blazing,” the Deacon said, a big grin spreading across his face.
Sol shot a glance at the Deacon, whose eyes fell. He then looked at me. “Well, what do you think, Jimmy? I mean about the tracking thing?”
“Provocative.”
I climbed in the cab of the bobtail. A clipboard with the route customers and instructions lay on the seat. The.45 rested on top of it. I quickly shoved the gun under the seat.
Sol climbed on the running board and leaned in through the open door. “Don’t forget, Jimmy, in and out. If you spot Robbie, snatch him. It’s legal-he’s an escaped fugitive-but Jane’s another story. If she doesn’t want to go, leave her there.”
We had assumed Jane Simon would be working in the kitchen where I was to unload the milk order. I might spot her even without snooping around the base. Nonetheless, if I grabbed her and she didn’t want to leave with me, then I could be nailed with an additional kidnapping charge on top of the Section 32 thing and the murder rap.
I sat there looking out the front windshield, my hands tightly gripping the steering wheel. “I won’t be stupid. I’m no hero, Sol.”
He didn’t say anything, just studied me for a moment. He didn’t have to say a word; I knew what he was thinking. Friends know things like that about each other.
Finally, he hopped down from the running board and turned back to Cubby and the Deacon. “We all know you’re not a hero, don’t we, boys?”
The men nodded in unison. Sol turned back to me, smiling. “But I’m a little worried about the stupid part.” He laughed. Then he suddenly grew serious. “Be careful, my boy, and remember, we’ll be right behind you. Unseen, but we’ll be there.”
Four hours later I was over the hill, down the mountain, and cruising east on the new I-15 freeway, heading deeper into the Antelope Valley. My ribs hurt, my head throbbed and, after unloading dozens of cases of milk at several convenience stores and restaurants in San Bernardino, I felt like a punch-drunk fighter making his last stand.
The next stop on my way to Rattlesnake Lake, according to the sheet on the clipboard, was a roadside cafe/gas station called Twin Oaks. It stood on a lonely stretch of Stoddard Wells Road five miles outside of Victorville. The instructions said the place would be closed for the night, but I was supposed to pull around to the back of the cafe where the cleanup man would let me in to unload the order.