Dangerous Times

DANGEROUS
TIMES
A crime thriller

by
Phillip Frey

Published on Smashwords by:
Phillip Frey

Dangerous Times
Copyright 2014 by Phillip Frey

All rights reserved. Without limiting the
rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the
prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above
publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author
acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various
products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used
without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not
authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark
owners.

Smashwords Edition License
Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may
not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to
share this book with another person, please purchase an additional
copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this
book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use
only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank
you for respecting the author’s work.

Dedicated with special thanks to Brian Paul
Kennedy of Franklin, Massachusetts. And in fond memory of Sherman
Willis Darby, King of the Road.

1
•
2
•
3
•
4
•
5
•
6
•
7
•
8
•
9
•
10
•
11
•
12
•
13
•
14
•
15
•
16
•
17
•
18
•
19
•
20
•
21
•
22
•
23
•
24
•
25
•
26
•
27
•
28
•
29
•
30
•
31
•
32
•
33
•
34
•
35
•
36
•
37
•
38
•
39
•
40
•
41
•
42
•
43
•
44
•
45
•
46
•
47
•
48
•
49
•
50
•
51
•
52
•
53
•
54
•
55
•
56
•
57
•
58
•
59
•
60
•
61
•
62
•
63
•
64
•
65
•
66
•
67
•
68
•
69
•
70
•
71
•
72
•
73
•
74
•
75
•
76
•
77
•
78
•
79
•
80
•
81
•
82
•
83
•
84
•
85
•
86
•
87
•
88
•
89
•
90
•
91
•
92
•
93
•
94
•
95
•
96
•
97
•
98
•
99
•
100
•
101
•
102
•
103
•
104
•
105
•
106

Chapter
1

Frank and Ty lived in West Los Angeles, in a
nice little house on a nice little street shaded with jacaranda
trees.

On Thursday morning over breakfast Frank
told Ty he would be gone all day. There was some business he had to
attend to in Santa Barbara, then added it might last into the night
and she shouldn’t wait up for him.

An hour later Frank drove to the Pacific
Coast Highway and began his trip to Oakland—not to Santa Barbara,
as he had told her. Lucky man, he thought, to have such a trusting
wife.

Driving along the coast Frank eyed the ocean
that raged under the January sky. He saw the whitecaps as an
invading army on the attack against the land and all that occupied
it.

Frank wished victory for the ocean, then
asked himself why he would think such a thing. Because Mother Earth
needs to wash off the blood of human slaughter, he smiled
playfully.

Comfortable behind the wheel Frank knew he
had made the right decision. If he had flown to Oakland, there
would be a record of it—might have even bumped into someone he
knew. And because of airport security his Russian pistol wouldn’t
be where it belonged, holstered under his suit jacket.

The day faded into twilight as Frank took
the Bay Bridge into Oakland. While on the Nimitz Freeway he used
the GPS to find a coffee shop; grab himself a quick meal, Charlie
not expecting him until 7. Following directions he took the next
exit.

Frank turned into the coffee shop’s lot and
parked. He stayed behind the wheel and sat concerned about his
plan. The key to its success was needed by Friday. Tomorrow, for
Christ sake. And the odds of Charlie coming up with it were damn
near—that’s all right, Frank thought. Nothing ventured, nothing
gained.

He slid out of the car and commended himself
on his attitude. Problems rarely got the better of him. A change of
perspective was all he needed.

Frank stood at his car and gave it the
once-over. Brand new Lincoln sedan, a little dirty from the trip
but still handsome in the shade of nightfall. He gazed up at the
sky, the rise of the full moon a welcome. Los Angeles had been
cloudy for days…feeling the Oakland wind now; the temperature
dropping.

Frank brushed back his blond hair and walked
to the newspaper rack. It put him in a good mood, buying the
Oakland Tribune. First time up here, he had never seen it before.
He liked newspapers, especially if they were reporting something
about a captured felon.

Frank had always been good at learning from
the mistakes of others.

Chapter
2

An hour later he was back on the Nimitz
Freeway. Passing six exits, the GPS finally spoke. Frank nosed his
way over, took the next exit and drove onto 29th. When he got to
Embarcadero he turned left, where the moonlight created a ghostly
vision of the old warehouses, an occasional single-story stuck
between them.

Charlie’s place was a single-story, a long
scummy rectangle about 15-feet high. It appeared abandoned, yet
well-secured with bars over the shuttered windows.

Frank parked curbside in front of the
entrance alcove, the door sheltered a few feet behind a steel gate.
He stayed at the wheel, folded the Oakland Tribune and put it into
his leather satchel. He took his phone from under his camelhair
coat and deleted all the phone numbers, except for his landline at
home.

Frank shut the phone off and dropped it into
his satchel. From now on he would use the one registered to Tom
Pincus; first used in L.A. when he had called Charlie to set up
tonight’s meeting. Frank was paying Tom Pincus more than enough for
the use of the phone.

Tom Pincus, Frank thought, two-bit horse
player. Someone Frank’s employer couldn’t possibly know about.
There was no doubt Eddie Jones tracked his employees’ calls by
satellite.

Frank slung the satchel over his shoulder.
He got out of the car and stepped to the gated alcove. He pulled a
paper from the pocket of his coat and read the code he had to
punch.

“Christ sake,” he mumbled, “instead of a
doorbell.”

Frank peered through the steel gate. A metal
box of numbered buttons protruded from the doorpost. He reached
through the gate and pressed the code.

The alcove light snapped on. A moment later
came the sound of locks tumbling. The reinforced door opened and
there was Charlie behind the gate.

“Hey, Frankie, long time no see,” Charlie
said through his tight-lipped smile. Holding a ring of keys he
unlocked the gate and folded it aside. “Jeez man, you look
terrific!” he gushed. “Didn’t know any better, I’d think you were a
movie star.”

Frank put a hand out and clasped Charlie’s
sweaty palm. “Nice of you to say so,” he said in a friendly way.
“Good to see you again.”

No it wasn’t, Frank told himself, stepping
by him, then waiting while he locked the gate. Charlie was a
nervous wreck, a real hyper son of a bitch. Thin and pale, maybe
wearing the same old tan slacks he had worn a year ago when they
had met in Los Angeles. Maybe even the same sweat-stained white
shirt.

Definitely the same body odor.

The interior of the place reminded Frank of
an artist’s loft, the large space partitioned with stands of
stretched canvas, framed in wood on solid bases. They were high and
wide; stopping just below the fluorescent lights, a few burned out,
some flickering.