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The Elephants Graveyard
By D.C. Murphy AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2014 D.C. Murphy
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4969-5395-7
CHAPTER 1
The Tenderloin
* * *
The San Francisco Bay fog had crept inland and swallowed the City. A light dampness hung in the night air, and every so often a foghorn droned—to perhaps lure a passing ship off course and into the spider's web that was the City's waterfront. The nightclubs on Broadway were jumping, and Carol Doda's tits were bursting in hues of red neon. The marquee over Bimbo's read "Totally Nude Sex Acts." Everything was as it had always been in the City by the Bay. Across the street, barkers shouted at drunken sailors, offering sex and seduction for a mere ten-dollar cover charge. From the waterfront to the Castro, the big-bay city was in full swing. Even the murky fog couldn't dampen the party atmosphere. But just a cable-car ride away was where the real action was gearing up, and the locals were lining up, for a night of badass country blues at the Red Rooster Lounge, smack dab in the middle of the Elephants Graveyard.
The Elephants Graveyard was the Tenderloin District of San Francisco, the venue of choice for junkies and winos, pimps and prostitutes. It was a sanctuary for some ready to give up the ghost. The down and out picked the place because they could die in secret, hidden in a jungle thicket of human debauchery—the way a dying elephant finds a private place where it can lie down and die ... a place where no one will ever find the bones.
Normally, the Tenderloin was off limits to tourists and those God-fearing folks that lived and worked in the great City of San Francisco. North Beach attracted the young partygoers and old Italians in search of the best damn spaghetti and meatballs this side of Italy. But there was really no attraction in the Elephants Graveyard—unless you were in search of a loaded heroin needle or crack cocaine. Not even the pussy, at ten bucks, was worth the trouble.
But the Red Rooster Lounge was worth the trouble. Situated in the heart of the Elephants Graveyard, the Red Rooster was a second home to the locals willing to take the chance and venture into the land where shadowy figures lurked in doorways and whores walked the urine-soaked sidewalks hoping to find a john in the next alleyway. That's just the way it was and the way it had been since the turn of the century.
There were only a few kinds of people who would even think about visiting the Red Rooster Lounge: good guys with guns, bad guys who knew better and left their guns at home, music lovers, and Sean Patrick Murphy—a honky-tonk hero better known as Rooster.
* * *
It was midnight in the Elephants Graveyard. The city seemed empty of people, unusually so. A thick fog pervaded the streets of the Tenderloin, making it feel like you were trapped in some underground cave in Colombia. Most of the wino bars lay hidden beneath the ever-present blanket. If you weren't a regular drunk, or stumbling bum, you wouldn't have known, or given a shit, that they were even there. But just down the street, the big neon sign in the window of the Red Rooster Lounge burnt through the fog in a reddish hue. The sultry voice of an angel could be heard coming from the old wooden structure, drifting through the walls and out onto the street, where it melted into the mist.
Robert "Bad Bob" Powlauski stood in the doorway of the Red Rooster. He was content, listening to the Patsy Cline tune "Crazy." It wasn't the first time he'd heard Peggy Sue Barnes sing that song. In fact, he'd heard it many times, but he never grew tired of her rendition. She seemed to just get better and better.
Powlauski leaned against the wall and looked up and down the street. Two winos huddled under a makeshift cardboard tent in the doorway of Liberal Loans, just two doors south of the Red Rooster. He nodded and waved at them. One of the men waved back; the other just took a long drink from a bottle of cheap red wine. Powlauski made his way to the men.
"No problem here, Bob," said Henry, a soft-spoken black guy in tattered blue jeans and a flannel shirt meant for someone twice his size. "Just settling in for some shut-eye, that's all." He looked across the street at the Red Rooster. "Peggy Sue's sounding pretty good tonight."
Powlauski nodded and turned to the other guy.
"That's Jake, Bob, a newbie to the Graveyard. He's some kind of Indian, but he don't say too much, anyway."
Powlauski sized up the Indian. Jake had an attitude; Powlauski saw it right away. But he'd seen it before. Newcomers to the Elephants Graveyard always brought attitude. But the environment quickly changed even the hardest of cases. It would be just a matter of time. Once you hit rock bottom, there was no other place to go; it was the beginning of the end, time to find a secrete place to lie down and call it quits—and with any luck at all, nobody would ever find your bones.
Powlauski reached into his shirt pocket and took out a money clip. He thumbed through the cash and pulled out two five-dollar bills. He handed one to Henry.
Henry smiled. "Thanks, Bob. I could use something to eat."
"My pleasure, Henry." Powlauski reached out with his right hand and offered Jake the other five-dollar bill.
Jake focused on Powlauski's left hand and the fat wad of twenties left in the money clip. The newcomer had a lot to learn about the Elephants Graveyard. "Maybe I just might want a little bit more ..."
"That's all up to you." Powlauski grinned. "How much more did ya have in mind?"
The Indian leapt to his feet. He busted the wine bottle against the building and pointed the jagged end at Powlauski. "All of it."
"Jake!" cried Henry. "No." Henry jumped up. "You stupid motherfucker!" The Indian took a swipe at him with the bottle. The glass shards tore the right sleeve of Henry's shirt.
"Fuck you, nigger." The Indian pushed Henry out of the way and made his move on Powlauski.
At 6'6" and 225 pounds, Robert Powlauski was nobody's robbery victim. In fact, he was the toughest piece of meat in the Tenderloin. Long before becoming the bouncer at the Red Rooster Lounge, he had proven himself a Tenderloin tough guy, one of the few white boys that could walk the streets of the Elephants Graveyard without being accosted. He was a decorated war hero and former Navy Seal. But his greatest claim to fame was the many years he spent undercover as an FBI Special Agent. Everybody in the Graveyard, except maybe for the Indian, knew all about the man. He protected the Red Rooster and its customers. His credo was simple: fuck with me and suffer the consequences.
The Indian taunted Powlauski. "C'mon, hand it over."
Powlauski handed over a lot more than the Indian wanted. The bouncer hit the newcomer hard and fast. Almost before the altercation had started, the Indian was out cold in his cardboard tent.
Henry looked down at his five-dollar bill then over at Powlauski. "Sorry, Bob."
"Wasn't your fault, Henry. Why don't you go grab a Whopper with cheese and forget about it."
"Yes, sir, Bob. Will do, sir." Henry collected his personal belongings from the doorway at Liberal Loans. It was time to move along. He looked down at Jake. "Fuck you, you stupid asshole!" He gave the Indian a quick kick in the ass then shuffled his way north on 6th to the Burger King on Market Street.
Powlauski made his way back to the Red Rooster. A passing SFPD car slowed and pulled up at the curb in front of the bar. The cop in the passenger seat called out to Powlauski. "Hey, Bob, you seen Rooster?"
"Couple hours ago maybe. What's up, Randy?"
"The nighttime supervising captain wants to see him at the Hall of Justice. Something's up, and Rooster has been under the radar all night. Dispatch can't raise him."
Everybody on the SFPD knew that any time a supervising captain wanted to see a working cop on the beat it could only be for one of two reasons: either the cop had done something real bad, or the cop had done something real good. And since Powlauski couldn't remember the last time Rooster had done anything, he was at a total loss for what it could be.
"I'll give him a heads up." Powlauski nodded. "Thanks for stopping by."
"Later, Bob."
The SFPD patrol car made a U-turn and motored south on 6th Street. Powlauski watched the headlights disappear into the fog.
* * *
Robert Powlauski and Randy sat at the bar drinking. Rooster was still not accounted for, and Randy was worried. He'd covered for his friend most of the night. But now it was 2 a.m., and the Red Rooster Lounge was closed for business—unless of course you carried a gun and the star of the SFPD. And if that was the case, it was pretty much carte blanche.
The band was packing up for the night, but Ruby Smith, the piano player, continued playing softly on the ivories, filling the barroom with the classical music that was her passion. Ruby was a glamorous woman, but not in a Hollywood way. She'd been born and raised in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and was more of a down-to-earth Cajun gal. And with her warm green eyes and jet-black hair, she contrasted sharply with Rooster's girlfriend, the sultry, singing, blue-eyed blonde sitting at the far end of the bar. Ruby was like an old aunt to Peggy Sue, and to Sean Patrick Murphy as well. It hadn't been that long ago—the Sweetwater and the Colombians. Rooster's problems were still way too vivid in her memory. And like all good Cajon women, she possessed just enough voodoo power to know that it wasn't over yet. As long as Rooster held the tusk of power, Lance Larkin and Javier Valencia would not rest. In Ruby's mind, that stupid tusk of power meant nothing but death to anybody possessing it. It was just a four-inch ivory tusk on an eighteen-karat gold necklace. But to the man wearing it, it was a symbol of power in the drug community. The initials "R.J." were engraved in the ivory—"R.J." for Rudy Johnson, a small-time marijuana dealer in southern Marin County. But Lance Larkin had shot him dead and ripped the tusk from his neck, proclaiming himself the cocaine king of the West Coast. It was the tusk that had convinced Javier Valencia to partner up with Larkin. Ruby Smith knew the day would come when Lance Larkin would return to reclaim the damn thing. And she worried about Sean Patrick Murphy. She had been the piano player at the Sweetwater and knew all about the skeletons in the basements of the characters involved—both good and bad.
Ruby played on. She noticed Peggy Sue watching and smiled at her. Powlauski and Randy sat quietly watching the Johnny Carson Show on the TV behind the bar. Time passed slowly. The clock on the wall read 4 a.m.
At 4:30 a.m., two uniformed police officers walked into the Red Rooster and huddled at the bar with Powlauski and Randy.
Evan Lammers, a tall Norwegian cop of twenty years, and a Chinese officer, Henry Yee, had some scuttlebutt.
"Something's in the works," said Lammers. "Rooster was in the captain's office at southern station around midnight. One of them closed-door deals. Captain O'Leary and a couple of inspectors from SID were there ..."
Peggy Sue joined the choir meeting. "Evan ... what happened?"
"Not too sure, Peggy Sue. But then a couple of FBI agents showed up and joined the closed-door."
Powlauski poured a round of cocktails. "Evan, are you sure they were FBI?"
Lammers nodded. "No question about it, Bob. It was just after the midnight-shift lineup."
Powlauski didn't want to say anything until he checked with Rooster. But the whole mystery could only be about one thing: Lance Larkin and the Colombians. Larkin and Javier were hiding out in Colombia. Everybody knew that. Warrants had been issued, and the US Attorney was awaiting Larkin's arrest. Javier was in custody and on trial in Colombia. Larkin was outstanding. And the US Federal Grand Jury had already indicted both of them. But something was up, and Powlauski was anxious to have a long talk with Rooster.
At 5 a.m., Murphy walked into the Red Rooster Lounge. Randy and the on-duty cops had gone. Peggy Sue was asleep on the bar, and Ruby Smith was still at the piano doing her thing. Powlauski could see from Murphy's penetrating stare that something was wrong. But other than that, Sean Patrick Murphy looked pretty much the same as always—long brown hair and mustache and same "cowboy" pistol: his Smith and Wesson .44 magnum with the ivory grips tucked away in the shoulder holster under his armpit. He still had the SFPD star hanging from a chain around his neck. And you couldn't miss the ivory tusk with the letters "R.J." hanging next to the police star. But it was what Murphy carried in his left hand that bothered Powlauski. He took a long hard look at the bowling-ball bag decorated with the colors of the Colombian National flag: yellow, blue, and red.
"Been bowlin' there, Rooster?"
Murphy didn't respond. He walked over to Peggy Sue. "She been here all night, Bob?"
"Yep. She was worried about you."
"And not without cause." Murphy nodded. "We got a problem, Bob." He walked over and set the bag down on the floor. On the front of the bag somebody had written in big black letters: "El Gallo." Murphy unzipped the bag. Inside was a decaying human head.
"Man, that motherfucker is ripe!" Powlauski leaned over and took a closer look. "Anybody we know, Rooster?"
"Supreme Court Justice Luis Castro of Bogotá, Colombia."
"Nice," said Powlauski. "Real nice, Rooster. Guess it's time we settled this thing, once and for all."
Murphy had learned a few things in his closed-door meeting with the captain and two FBI Agents. SFPD inspectors from SID had received intelligence from the CIA in Washington, DC. The Medellín cartel in Colombia was posturing—a show of worldwide power after rumors of a faltering cartel under the leadership of the once-feared commander Pablo Valencia. A brazen midday attack on the Palace of Justice in Bogotá, Colombia, had left several police officers dead and one Supreme Court justice beheaded. The decapitated torso of Justice Luis Castro was discovered nailed to his desk with railroad spikes driven through his hands. Pablo Valencia proclaimed it a "Supreme Crucifixion." But the Colombian government called it what it really was—cold-blooded murder. The whereabouts of Luis Castro's head remained a mystery.
Murphy clutched the ivory tusk.
"Where'd ya find the judge, Rooster?"
"In the back of my pickup, Bob, at the Hall of Justice. Just after the meeting."
"So, what's up? What did Captain O'Leary have to say?"
"Plenty. Pablo Valencia and the cartel are going ape shit. They stormed the Palace of Justice in Bogotá and killed a few cops, busted out Javier Valencia, and cut that Judge's head off." Murphy pointed to the bowling-ball bag. "And guess who the butcher was?"
"Javier?"
"Lance Larkin!"
"Wow!"
"That's right. Wow! O'Leary and two FBI agents confirmed it. The CIA has an undercover agent inside the Medellín cartel."
"Anything else, Rooster?"
"Yeah, they're coming to pay us a little visit." Murphy leaned over the bar and grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels and two shot glasses. "Apparently, Javier's daddy ain't too happy about how things turned out in Mill Valley. But we sure did bust their operation." He filled the shot glasses with the whiskey. "They're comin' all right, Bob, no question about that."
"Let 'em come, Rooster." Powlauski looked down at the bowling-ball bag. "And besides, it looks like they're already here."
Murphy agreed. There was no way that the Medellín cocaine cartel would sit by and let Pablo Valencia's son, Javier, get extradited to the US and stand trial. The bastards would stop at nothing to get what they wanted. And Pablo Valencia wanted everybody connected to the Mill Valley Federal RICO case dead. Powlauski knew it, and so did Murphy. Murphy clutched the tusk and looked into the eyes of Supreme Court Justice Luis Castro. He was scared but not for himself—for his family and for the few other people in his life that he really cared about, one of whom was sleeping like a baby on the bar.
CHAPTER 2
O'Malley and Mickey Quinn
* * *
Sean Patrick Murphy sat at the end of the bar listening to Peggy Sue and Ruby Smith practicing a song that Ruby had written about an ex-boyfriend. It was a girl thing, and they were having fun with it.
Ruby played the piano, and Peggy Sue sang the catchy little country song:
Maybe you got the wrong message
Infatuation can make you blind
Maybe you were lookin' for something,
With me, baby, you're not gonna find
Don't blame me for your broken heart
You know I warned you from the very start
My heart's not yours to play with
It wasn't yours to begin with ...
The melody caught Murphy's attention. He slid off the barstool and aimed for the stage, grabbing his guitar on the way. It didn't take long to fall into the rhythm of Ruby's song. It was a catchy little tune. Murphy hit a guitar solo. Peggy Sue sang the second verse:
What made you think I'd even consider
Someone like you, the cheatin' kind
Your confidence is quite unappealing
It just shows me what's on your mind
So crawl back under
The rock you came from
Don't even think that you are someone
I'd even fall for ...
Bad Bob Powlauski stepped out from behind the bar and onto the dance floor. The toughest piece of meat in the Tenderloin started jumping around on his tippy-toes like some Polk Street fruitcake. He was off the hook. Arms extended outward, he spun around in circles like a ballerina, snapping his fingers in time with Murphy's guitar tempo.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Elephants Graveyard by D.C. Murphy. Copyright © 2014 D.C. Murphy. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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