Get Real Page 7

  “‘Tell the truth about the quake.’” He flipped to the second image. “‘A lie…’” He let his mind wander for a moment, staring past Britta. Then he looked at her again. “Felix seems to think that the inaccurate death total was somehow orchestrated by someone.”

  “I would be inclined to agree,” she said and plunged her hand back into the boxful of research. She rummaged around for a moment, wrenched her lips to the side as she reached down low into the box, and pulled out a stack of papers clipped together at the top. She removed the clip and handed the stack to Dale.

  It was a collection of black-and-white photocopies of post-earthquake images. Badly damaged buildings. Utter destruction. They looked like post-bombing war photographs, London during the Blitz. Dale flipped through them. A wry smile came to the corners of Britta’s lips, and she stood up, walked behind him.

  “Anything look funny about those pictures to you?” she said.

  “Funny?” Dale said. “Not in the slightest. Looks like a whole lot of carnage to me.”

  “A lot, yes,” she said. “But what if I told you there was even more damage than is in the images?”

  Dale glanced up at her, raised an eyebrow.

  She pointed to one of the ruined buildings. “Just look at the windows in that building there.”

  Dale got his face closer to the image.

  And he saw it.

  “I’ll be damned. The shading looks slightly different in this row of windows than those,” he said, moving a finger between two sets of intact windows.

  Britta nodded enthusiastically. “That’s right. The photos have been touched up, making the damage look less severe.”

  Dale set the copies in his lap. “A cover-up…” He thought for another moment. “San Francisco was corrupt. Controlled by Abe Ruef and administered through his mayor, Handsome Gene Schmitz. It would make sense that the cover-up went from the top down. But what would Schmitz and Ruef have to gain by concealing the truth about the quake?”

  Britta sat back down. “San Francisco needed to appear like a city of quick repair, a vibrant comeback story. How would they have piqued the interest of future investors if their city was seen as the epicenter of death that it was? And, remember—there was a world’s fair coming to town in a few years.”

  “Right,” Dale said. “The 1915 Panama-Pacific Exposition.”

  The fair had been a celebration of the completion of the Panama Canal, and it left the city of San Francisco with one of its most celebrated and beautiful landmarks—the Palace of Fine Arts.

  “And don’t forget the railroad,” Britta said.

  “Southern Pacific?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Southern Pacific controlled both political parties in California. My thought is that Schmitz plotted with Southern Pacific to downplay the disaster so as not to scare off any financing to rebuild the city.”

  Dale nodded.

  Like many large companies, there was corruption in Southern Pacific Railroad’s corporate history. But Southern Pacific had gone on to do many amazing things as well. They founded hospitals in several cities, and recently they’d formed a telecommunications network with advanced microwave and fiber optic technologies. They named the network the Southern Pacific Railroad Internal Networking Telephony. Or, Sprint.

  Britta sat her mug of tea on a stack of folders. It wavered for a moment, and she made sure it was steady. “But don’t blame the government for everything. There was likely a lot of insurance fraud as well. Folks’ coverage didn’t extend to earthquake damage, but it would cover fire damage. So what sort of claims do you think they filed with their insurance companies? And then there was looting, too. There was so much looting that Schmitz made a public proclamation giving police shoot-to-kill powers. Even some of the California National Guard members who had been called in to help were reported to have looted.”

  The wealth of information that Britta had provided made a cannonball splash in the pool of research Dale had done that morning. His mind furiously mulled over everything. Connections began to form.

  And a crazy thought came to him.

  He bolted out of his chair.

  “May I use your phone?”

  Dale stood in Britta’s kitchen, awkwardly propping himself against the cabinets—which were painted a bright, canary yellow—to keep his balance among the towering stacks of National Geographic magazines around him. The cat—who went by the name Edamame, Britta had told him—had reappeared and was rubbing against his ankle happily.

  “Yorke, listen to me. I know what Jonathan Fair is doing.”

  Dale heard Yorke breathe in. She clicked her tongue.

  “I hope you’re onto something, Conley, because Fair struck again. Robbed a pool hall this morning.”

  “Let me guess. The pool hall was another Alfonsi front operation.”

  “Well, yes, but how do you—”

  “I have a pattern to track down Fair,” Dale said. “When he was first arrested, Fair was Felix Lyons, thinking he was journalist living in 1906. That’s all they could get out of him. He refused to tell them about his supposed mission. But we know that Felix thinks the earthquake casualty numbers were a lie, and from what I just learned, he’s undoubtedly correct. Like I said, reality is always the most important thing.”

  “Get to the point, Conley.”

  “Felix’s first message, ‘Tell the truth about the quake’ was clearly aimed at someone he thought was involved in a cover-up. All the places he’s hit so far have been connected to Angelo Alfonsi, a modern-day criminal boss with a stranglehold on San Francisco—much like the political boss, Abe Ruef, who had a stranglehold on the city in 1906. Felix is a whistleblower; he’s trying to inform the public about the earthquake cover-up. And he’s doing so by attacking Abe Ruef.”

  “Which means, he’s actually...” Yorke trailed off as she was clearly putting the pieces together.

  “Exactly. Somehow Felix’s interpretation of our modern world has substituted Alfonsi for Ruef,” Dale said. “Felix Lyons is attacking Angelo Alfonsi.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Paulie waived the men off. They exited the study, leaving him and Danny standing by the desk with the three photographs.

  Paulie slapped the photos on the surface of the desk. The first photo showed Marv, on the cement, his head smashed in. Next was Bram, hands over his stomach, drenched in blood. A gunshot wound. The third photo was of their vehicle. It was crushed in the back, rear window shattered. A symbol have been scratched into the passenger door.

  Danny leaned over and studied the symbol. “It’s El Vacío...”

  Paulie didn’t need his son to decipher it. He was more than familiar with the marking. Everyone in the darker realms of the world recognized it.

  Paulie had only considered employing the services of El Vacío once, when there was a particularly problematic leader within the Japanese Yakuza who had been giving him grief at the docks. But, even then, Paulie had found a way to handle the issue in-house. He would rather go his entire career without associating with El Vacío. It was like signing a contract with the Devil himself.

  Paulie shoved the photos aside, rolled out his desk chair and sat. The springs squeaked beneath his mass.

  Anger surged through him, something like he’d never felt before. How could Angelo Alfonsi be so bold? Bringing someone like El Vacío into the fold ... to hunt down his son. He put his hands on the desk and saw that his fingertips were quivering. He squeezed them into fists.

  Danny picked up the photos and stared. There was concern in his eyes but almost a bit of twisted admiration for El Vacío’s handiwork.

  “What does this mean?” he said.

  “It means the Italians have brought one of the world’s deadliest assassins to San Francisco to kill your brother, Danny.” He looked at his son. “And we have to take immediate action.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Marco strode confidently down the hall. He held his chin up proud, back straight, and had Simona on his arm. He
didn’t care what anyone thought about his brazenly walking with her as she wore another one of her ludicrous dresses—skin-tight, halfway up her thighs, everything bouncing and shaking. He didn’t give a damn who he pissed off.

  She gave his arm a little squeeze. “This is soooo amazing, Marky. You told him your plan?”

  Marco shook his head. He didn’t turn to her as he replied, just kept his self-assured gaze facing forward. “That’s the thing. I haven’t told him yet. He came to this decision on his own.”

  Simona squeezed his arm again and put her head on his shoulder. Her big, curly hair pressed against his cheek. The smell of her hairspray and mousse was overwhelming. “So proud of you.”

  At the end of the hall, the other men were entering the conference room—shaking hands, straightening ties—and Marco could see them stealing glances at him as he approached.

  Let them look.

  As he made it to the conference room door, he guided Simona away by the lower back, gave her a little smack to the butt.

  Moments later, he was seated at the conference table. A few seats away from him was Matt, and when Marco looked a him, his brother gave him a small smile and a respectful nod that said, I knew you could do it.

  Marco felt all those other eyes upon him again. Across the table was Carlo Torrisi, the consigliere, who had been one of Marco’s long-time skeptics. They made eye contact. The old man stared upon him for a moment. It was clear that Torrisi was dubious of his presence at the table. Some of the capos also eyed him with disdain, though they tried to hide it.

  Marco couldn’t care less. This crisis with Jonathan Fair was Marco’s opportunity to shine, and someday Matt would undoubtedly be running the show, which meant that everyone but Matt himself would be working for Marco.

  So they could stare all they wanted.

  Papà stepped into the room, closed the door behind him. Immaculate suit, silver hair slicked back. He took his seat at the head of the table and looked upon his men for a moment before speaking.

  “We’re at war. If there was any doubt that Jonathan Fair is competent and is attacking us, that’s been completely erased now. He hit us again. One of our pool halls. Took cash. Left another message.” He took in a long breath and leaned forward, crossed his arms on the table, swung his gaze over all the other men, making sure they saw the gravity in his eyes. “Unfortunately, that’s not our worst piece of news. El Vacío has been seen in the city.”

  Gasps from the men. They sat up taller, looked at each other.

  Torrisi spoke. “You didn’t—”

  “Of course I didn’t,” Papà snapped. Marco had never seen him be so rude to Torrisi, to whom he was always very respectful.

  “Then who did?” Torrisi said.

  Papà shook his head. “Yakuza. Or the Chinese, perhaps. Someone else who has beef with the Fairs, someone using this Second Alcatraz fiasco as an opportunity to take Jonathan out, make a statement. Or it’s someone who has beef with us, trying to convince Big Paul that we’re the ones who hired him. But now’s not the time for speculation. What we know for certain is the Fairs’ prodigal son is out there attacking us. And we have to strike back hard and fast. Starting this very afternoon.”

  Angelo’s attention now fell directly on Marco.

  He sat up taller.

  “And I’m glad to welcome my son, Marco, back to the table for this operation.”

  Marco felt prideful, vengeful as all those eyes looked upon him again.

  Papà continued. “Marco will be heading a team for Oliver.”

  Marco started. His eyes flicked to Oliver and back to his father.

  “You’re putting me under one of the capos?” he said. “I was already a capo myself.”

  There was tension at the table. Shifting in chairs. Movement of pens and paper. Hints of stifled laughs.

  Papà nodded. “A man has to prove himself. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  His father had asked him a question, but it wasn’t really a question. Marco had to reply in the affirmative. He had to lower himself, in front of all the other men.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Marco shrunk back in his seat and looked forward, keeping his attention squarely on the glass of water on the table in front of him, not looking at any of the others. But he could still feel their stares. He’d been so prideful. And now the other men were savoring the reversal.

  Marco would go along with his father’s wishes for the operation. But he was going to prove himself in his own way.

  Once his plan came to fruition.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jane woke up screaming. A deep, piercing, and resonant scream.

  The man had visited again, straddling her, hands upon her, stealing her breath.

  She gasped, taking in big lungfuls of air.

  Her telephone rang. Mrs. Wang.

  Jane picked up the receiver, lifted it a couple inches off the cradle, and dropped it back down.

  Not today.

  She took a few deep breaths, cleared her head, and regained her bearings. It was daytime. Afternoon. Sunlight snuck into the room around the edges of the drapes hanging from her window. She was seated at her desk, still in her waitress uniform and apron. She’d fallen asleep again. This had been happening a lot lately. Her sleep quality had been poor, and she’d found herself dozing off here and there. At the most random times. Even at work.

  And the sleep paralysis had been getting more frequent.

  She stood up and reached into the pocket of her apron, took out a handful of ones and some change. She untied the apron and tossed it on the bed then knelt down and unlocked the small safe beneath her bed, put the money inside. She returned to her desk, dropping heavily into the chair. She’d only been home for a couple minutes before she evidently passed out. This was after she’d immediately sat at her desk and gotten right back to her investigation, trying to find her brother.

  She shook the sleep out of her face and returned to what she’d been looking at. That morning’s newspapers were spread out on the desk. Each of them had breaking reports of the early-morning attack her brother had committed at Side Pocket Pool Hall. All the articles focused on the fact that both places John had struck since his escape were reputed Alfonsi establishments: a bank the night before and a bar that morning. The top headline on the newspaper in the center of the desk read, Mob War Imminent?

  Each of the newspapers had different photos of the pool hall crime scene, pictures obviously taken from a cordoned-off front entrance. Naturally, the images were from different angles, and each one gave a slightly different glimpse into the scene.

  Jane noticed something in one of the photos. Writing. On the front of the bar. It was the same style of writing as the message that her brother had left at the bank he robbed eight months ago.

  Her heart raced with excitement at this smallest glimpse of her brother. But she couldn’t immediately tell what the message said. She leaned in close to the image.

  The photo showed only part of the message. Two lines, both cut off on the right. The top line said, NEXT, A STRIKE, and the bottom line read, ERASED FRO. Clearly that last word was from, cut off.

  This was all part of a longer message. She flipped through the other newspapers, trying to get a better angle. One of them showed only the word NEXT, another showed none of the message at all. The fourth paper was more revealing, giving her another two-line glimpse at the message: OR THOSE on the top and HISTORY on the bottom.

  She quickly shifted through the materials on her desk and found a notepad and a pencil. Her brother had left two lines of text, and his message now appeared as puzzle pieces in the various newspaper images.

  Jane just had to put the pieces back together.

  She scribbled down the two fragmented messages, side by side, and came up with:

  OR THOSE NEXT, A STRIKE

  HISTORY ERASED FROM

  Nonsensical.

  She reversed the order, wrote it down.

  NEXT, A STRIKE OR THOSE

/>   ERASED FROM HISTORY

  She thought this through. Next, a strike or those erased from history? It made a bit more sense than the first arrangement. Maybe her brother was saying that he was either going to strike again or ... or ... something about changing history?

  No. It made no sense. There must have been more to the message that wasn’t revealed in the snippets within the photographs.

  Damn!

  She rifled through the newspapers again. And she saw that the image with OR THOSE had been clipped close to the edge of that first word.

  It wasn’t OR. It was FOR.

  She added an F to her note.

  NEXT, A STRIKE FOR THOSE

  ERASED FROM HISTORY

  She said it out loud “Next a strike for those erased from history…”

  And then she remembered something John had shown her months earlier, back in Kansas.

  Jane stepped out of her car and took the small path to her house. The large trees that grew in her yard kept it shady and cool, and the house itself was a beautiful little thing—cottage-style with cute landscaping and stone siding. It looked like something out of a fairytale, something from Wizard of Oz. She loved it.

  She entered and found John sitting at the table. Historical documents were spread before him.

  She smiled.

  But then Rebecca started speaking.

  Whenever her brother became Rebecca, she always found it slightly unsettling. Rebecca was a 52-year-old black woman from Mississippi, a retired schoolteacher. It was John’s only alter who was non-white, the only one who was female, and the only one with an accent. It was a combination that somehow felt more foreign than his other alters, and hearing Rebecca’s voice brought Jane’s good mood down a tad.