The Blacker Death: An Ebola Thriller

The Blacker Death

Larry Enright

The Blacker Death

© 2014 Larry Enright
 

All rights reserved. This material may not be reproduced, displayed, modified or distributed without the express prior written permission of the copyright holder. For permission, contact [email protected].

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by Lawrence P. Enright

Visit the author’s website:

http://www.larryenright.com

FIRST EDITION

Only three things in life are guaranteed: you’re born, you die, and somewhere in between, if you keep playing the odds, you’ll get lucky. What makes me such an expert? Nothing really. My name is Bam Matthews, I’m an FBI agent, and in forty-eight hours, give or take, I’ll either be damn lucky or stone-cold dead. Guaranteed.

It started a few weeks ago. I was working layup vehicle Bravo on the floating-box surveillance team following Gyro the Greek through the sewer they call North Philadelphia. No disrespect to North Philadelphia. The whole city’s a sewer as far as I’m concerned. That’s why I moved to Jersey. I’ve got my own private cesspool there.

Gyro was supposed to be meeting a Brooklyn mob lieutenant at the Hyatt down in Center City. That’s the place they used to call the Bellevue-Stratford before that outbreak of Legionnaires’ disease back in ’76 killed twenty-five old soldiers, guys who’d made it through a war, only to die from an enemy they couldn’t see.

Anthony Garotto was the guy who ran that Brooklyn mob. It was one of the richest and most violent gangs in New York. The question I had was why would he send one of his lieutenants all the way down to Philadelphia to connect with a loser like Gyro? Gyro owned a couple of sandwich shops and pizza joints in Northeast Philly that fronted for a two-bit drug operation, small potatoes for a New York mob. The intel we had was that they were looking to expand in baby steps beyond the five boroughs into the Philly market. I wasn’t buying it, but I had no better ideas, and I had my orders. So, there we were on a tip from one of our best informants, parked in my 1978 Gremlin at the corner of Germantown Avenue and a war zone waiting for the target to make the intersection. He was heading down to Center City the smart way, through the slums, where any self-respecting FBI agent tailing him would stick out like a sore thumb. Not too shabby for a guy who spiced his pizza with pepperoni and smack.

“This car is a piece of shit,” said my partner, Billy Driscoll.

Billy was a lot younger than me, but then most agents were. I should have retired years ago, but other than my job all I’ve got is a dog who can beat me at checkers, an old farmhouse in Jersey with a sixteen penny nail I drove into the kitchen wall to hang my piece at night, and this Gremlin that I’ve kept running for thirty-six years.

“It’s a ’78,” I said, blowing a smoke ring out the window. “That’s the last year they made them. That makes it a classic.”

“That makes it a piece of shit. And do you have to smoke?”

“Yeah, I do. It’s part of our cover.”

“And what’s with the Hawaiian shirt? We aren’t Five-0.”

“It’s my favorite shirt.”

I loved that shirt. It was my one-and-only drinking shirt. It was also the only shirt I owned loose enough to wear my vest underneath.

“Why don’t you just tape a COP sign to the door?” Billy said. “Two white guys sitting in a piece-of-shit car in a black neighborhood in the middle of the day? We stick out like a sore thumb. Look at that guy staring at us across the street. He fucking knows.”

“Nice mouth.”

I stuck my head out the window, whistled, and gave the guy the finger. He shook his head and walked away.

“What the hell, Brian? You’re going to blow the whole deal,” Billy said.

“Look, Junior. First off, how many times do I have to tell you? Don’t call me Brian. Nobody still alive calls me that. You can call me Detective Matthews, or just Matthews, or Bam. You can even call me Grandpa if you want, but if you call me that again, I’ll ram my fist down your throat and pull out your heart. You got that?”

“Yeah, sure,” Billy nodded.

You’ve got to put these kids in their place. They need to know their boundaries. At least that’s what my ex-wife always said. It didn’t work with our kids. I haven’t seen or heard from either of them in years.

“And second,” I said, “two white guys in a black neighborhood sitting in a car parked in front of a liquor store in broad daylight, looking like a couple of pimps short on cash. What’s that look like to you?”

“Holdup?”

“Bingo. We’re the white trash from two blocks over come to rob that old black dude there in his liquor store.”

“Pretty smart, I guess,” he admitted.

“You guessed right.”

The call came in on tac 3 as Gyro’s white Caddy ran the red light and disappeared down the side street.

Alpha’s got him. Move the box to station four
.

“Where’s four?” I said, pulling out into traffic and pissing off some inconsiderate driver who didn’t want to let me in. “The sheet’s in the glove compartment.”

Billy swiped his finger across his smart phone. “Sixth and Girard. Looks like we’ve got the east side on Girard.”

“You’ve got the grid in your phone?”

“I keyed it in at the briefing this morning.”

“Is that right?”

“It’s a surveillance app I wrote. I submitted it for approval a month ago. I could get a commendation or a grade increase out of it. I call it Grid-Lock. It works for both floating and stationary box setups. Cool, huh?”

I laid on the horn when the SUV in front of us slowed down for a yellow light.

“I can load it on your phone and show you how to use it later,” Billy said.

“The sheet’s in the glove compartment. Double-check it.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so, kid.”

Billy checked the sheet. “Sixth and Girard. We’re east side on Girard. Like I said, Grandpa.”

I jerked left around the SUV into oncoming traffic, forcing the lady coming right at us to hit the brakes. I swerved around her back into my own lane and gunned it, making the next light with the street to myself.

“Want me to drive?” Billy said.

“No, I don’t want you to drive.”

“You’re sure you’re okay? You’re not having a stroke or anything are you, old man?”

“Smart ass.”

I gave up on Germantown Avenue, cut across to sixth, and slowed down.

“What are you doing?” said Billy. “The mark’s coming down sixth.”

“I want a good look at him.”

“You’ll blow our cover. We’ll have to pull out of the box.” Billy reached for the mike.

I grabbed it out of his hand. “Don’t do that.”

The Caddy ran another light and caught up with us a block north of Girard with no way to get around. I slowed down and adjusted the rearview mirror, got a good look, then tilted it toward Billy.

“What do you see, Junior?”

“A scumbag who just made us.”

“Look at his eyes. Look at him rubbing his hand on his shirt.”

“He’s nervous. So what?”

“He’s not nervous. He’s afraid,” I said.

“I would be, too, if I was in his shoes.”

“That’s not the look of a guy on his way to make the biggest deal of his life.”

“Then, what are you saying it is?”

“I’m not saying it’s anything. I’m just telling you what it’s not.”

We made the light at Girard and turned left. Gyro the Greek went right.

The radio squawked.

Charlie’s got him. Move the box to station five.

I handed the mike to Billy. “He’s headed over to Broad. It’s a straight shot from there. They don’t need us anymore. Call it in. Tell them we think he might have made us. Let them know we’re heading for the Hyatt. We’ll take the lounge. It’s just off the lobby.”

Billy didn’t like it, but I didn’t care. I needed a drink.

We made good time and found seats at the bar in a little place called Flanagan’s tucked away in a corner of the lobby near the elevators. I was just downing the last of my scotch when Gyro appeared at the entrance and surveyed the room. I had already done that. His buddy from New York wasn’t there. He put down a boxy-looking case he was carrying, took the end seat, and ordered a double. His hand shook like a leaf as he slugged down his courage and walked out.

“What do you think is in the case?” Billy asked.

“I don’t know, maybe he brought a pizza.”

“Do we follow him?”

“We’ve got the bar, remember?”

“Where do you think it’s going down?”

“Not here. He just came in to steady his nerves, unless you think that little performance was a celebration of his big deal.”

“I’m going to take a look around the lobby,” Billy said, making a move to get up.

I clamped a hand over his arm. “Sit down, Junior.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“There’s nothing going on here.”

“This is our post.”

“It’s a fucking bar.”

“First off, it’s not a fucking bar. It’s one of the classiest dives in Philly. And second, let me ask you something. How many bad guys have you killed in the line of duty?”

“None.”

“How many firefights have you been in?”

“None. You know that.”

“Six months out of Quantico and you’re just itching to pull that trigger, aren’t you? You’re like Billy the Kid with a badge.”

“I just want to take a look.”

“I’m going to tell you a little story, Junior.”

Billy yanked his arm free and got up. “Tell it to the bartender, Grandpa, and have another drink while you’re at it. I’ll be right back.”

I let him go. I probably shouldn’t have, but I did. The kid had good instincts and a good heart, but that was about it. I ordered another scotch.

“You guys here on business?” the bartender asked.

“Isn’t everybody?”

“FBI, right?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Your vest is showing.” He pointed to my top button lying on the bar.

I picked it up and put it in my pocket. “I left my sewing kit at home. Got a safety pin?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” The bartender slid a coffee cup full of pins and sewing needles my way.

I picked out a good one and slid the cup back. “Thanks. You just earned your lifesaving badge, Boy Scout. Name’s Bam.”

“Rico,” he said, shaking my hand. “I used to be one of Philly’s finest. Retired now. You’d be surprised what people come in here asking for when the hotel’s convenience store is closed.”

“Shouldn’t you be sitting on a beach somewhere?”

“I like to drink, and I can’t afford it. So, I water down your booze and skim what I want off the top.”

I laughed. “You didn’t happen to notice anybody come in here earlier from out of town, did you?”

“Everybody that comes in here is from out of town.”

“I’m not talking about everybody. I’m talking about maybe three or four guys, probably in suits, white, clean cut, packing heat, and if you looked at them, you’d know right off the bat which one was the guy the others were protecting.”

“Yeah, they were in here about an hour ago. Four of them. The head guy had a drink and they left.”

“Are they staying at the hotel?”

“They didn’t say and I didn’t ask.”

“What
did
they say?”

“Their boss said he was hungry.”

I asked Rico to describe them to me and he did.

“Who monitors the security cameras?” I said, nodding toward the one mounted on the ceiling in the corner.

“Nobody, but they’re recording everything. All the common areas are covered. You want me to make the call?”

“Thanks.” I got up and left a twenty on the bar.

“The office is in the lobby behind the information desk,” he said. “I’ll let Cynthia know you’re on your way.”

I left the lounge and walked across the lobby toward the elevators. Nice place. I’d been there a long time ago, but I didn’t remember it looking that nice before. Somewhere along the line, they’d restored it and turned the first eleven floors into offices, leaving hotel rooms on floors twelve through eighteen. On the nineteenth floor there was a fancy restaurant and the main hotel check-in. I went over to the information desk and flashed my badge to the woman hanging up the phone.

“Hello, Cynthia. I’m the guy Rico just called you about,” I said.

She nodded. “Right this way.”

She led me into a back office where a bank of screens lined one of the walls above a desk, and motioned for me to sit at the computer.

“This is the main menu for all our cameras,” she said. “I’ve haven’t used it since they went over it in training. Do you want me to get the manager on duty? She knows more about it than I do.”

“No, I’m good. Does this thing have a printer?”

“Yes,” she said, and showed me where to click to freeze the frame and where to click to print. She told me she had to get back to the desk, so I let her go.

I clicked on the icon for the lounge. There were three cameras listed, so I picked the one hidden among the bottles behind the bar. The live feed came up on the screen in front of me. Rico was talking to a nice-looking lady in a red dress, a real businesswoman. I clicked on the clock next to the bar icon and set it back two hours. The screen changed. Rico was washing glasses. The place was empty. I fast-forwarded until the guys he’d described to me arrived. The head guy was a tree trunk, a walking jewelry store who wore a thick gold chain around his neck with a good luck cornetto dangling on his hairy chest. He ordered a glass of red wine, took one sip, and they left.