Book II Chapter 5

The next meeting of the planning committee was held three days later, at the warehouse apartment in San Francisco. Dieter and Holly arrived first, followed by Mike and Pablo who were both carrying equipment cases. The two men had car pooled in from Sacramento in Murray’s Cruiser and the thought of the both of them, stuck in the same car for almost two hours without benefit of a referee, had made Tom wince.

In the months since he had lived there, the loft had gone through a complete renovation. Tom had not only made good use of his new money to furnish the apartment, but had also taken advantage of the warehouse full of studio props below him to decorate the huge open spaces of the loft. A large screen plasma TV and entertainment center now graced the brick face of the northern wall, framed on either side by wall shelves holding CDs, DVDs, cassette tapes, and even a collection of old vinyl records. A top of the line sound system and speakers, and the newest game station rounded out the package. In the corner to the right stood a full suit of plate armor, its gauntleted hands crossed over the pommel of a double edged broadsword, an ancient counterpoint to the high tech gadgetry. The remaining three corners held two potted trees and a wooden cigar store Indian. The center of the room was dominated by a large sectional sofa, which along with two overstuffed lounge chairs bracketed an open area with two coffee tables.

To the west, the center of the wall that fronted the rest of the top warehouse floor was taken up by three large bookcases, their boards heavy with both hard and paperback volumes. The well creased spines gave mute testimony to the fact that these were more than just decoration but were well used, part of Tom’s own private collection. The middle bookcase was actually one of the warehouse props, a secret door that swung open silently when three particular books were tilted back, revealing the entrance into the workout area and communications center that took up the rest of the warehouse’s top floor. Mike and Pablo had helped Tom set it up the weekend before Benny came to visit. Although the extra security was probably not needed, nor would it escape a thorough and professional search, it would most likely fool any common burglar from the high-crime neighborhood. Besides which, they all thought a secret door was just cool as hell.

In an effort to relieve some of the tension and to reassure his friends about the future, Tom had laid in a large supply of beer and snack foods, and ordered Chinese takeout. The stereo was playing, something light and bluesy by Springsteen. He had hoped that they could have taken the time to eat and relax before they got down to business, but by the looks of the other members of the committee, that just wasn’t going to happen.

Tom sighed, looking around the gathered knot of people in his living room. Dieter and Holly sat together on the long leg of the couch, while Pablo Murray had staked out the shorter end, and Tom’s brother now occupied one of the comfortable lounge chairs. The expressions that looked back ran the gamut from anxious to his brother Mike’s sullen glower. It seemed that his latest attempt at leadership wasn’t going over too well. He made a decision and abandoned the whole idea immediately, switching off the stereo and stepping into the middle of the room, raising his voice and speaking briskly.

“Alright, it looks like no one wants to wait on the food, so I am officially calling this meeting of the planning committee to order. I’m going to waive the reading of the minutes, since we never have taken any anyway, and go right ahead and open the floor for discussion. Anybody have something they want to get off their chest?”

There was a small silence in the room, as everyone still sitting shifted uncomfortably in their seats, exchanging glances as they decided who would go first. Tom watched for his brother’s actions, having noticed the anger on Mike’s face, but for some reason the elder Blackwood was not jumping in as he normally would. Tom’s own expression remained a studied blank, but inside he tensed. It was obvious that Mike was royally pissed about something, and the fact that he was holding it in only meant it would be a lot worse when he finally let it out.

It was Holly who finally took the lead, and asked the important question that everyone wanted to know.

“Tom, this police Inspector investigating you…it’s not good, is it?”

From his seat in one of the easy chairs Mike barked a short laugh.

“Ha! Now that’s a hell of an understatement isn’t it? This cop is not only investigating us, but she’s also the only one who’s actually ever seen Tommy. She isn’t just looking into another wild-assed urban legend; she actually knows that Tom exists. She knows. We had thought the police might hear some rumors and someday start putting the pieces together, but not like this, not this soon.”

“Mike…”

“Dammit, that was our biggest advantage! That the police would have a hard time believing that there was some guy in a black suit running around playing vigilante. We didn’t anticipate them catching on so soon; we thought we’d have at least a year before they got serious about us. We’re not ready for this, man. We’re nowhere near ready.”

“Jee-zus, Rockstar, can you be anymore of a drama queen?” Pablo Murray put in, shaking his head in disgust. The small man had taken a quarter from his pocket, and was rolling the coin back and forth across the back of his knuckles. It was a habit that always fascinated Tom, seeing the stubby little fingers of his friend display such dexterity. “So what’s the big deal, we knew this was going to happen. We have a plan. What difference does it make if we implement it now, or four-five months from now?”

“The difference, you sawed-off little putz, is that we’re not prepared. We had planned to establish ourselves, build resources, and then gather information that the cops can’t get. Then we could’ve given that info to them. We could’ve kept up that half-assed fiction Tom gave Molly Wu about being a Federal agent, and as long as we could keep delivering we figured they wouldn’t look too closely at where it came from.

“But we haven’t done that yet, have we, people? We’ve busted some muggers and stopped a carjacking or two, maybe saved some citizens, and put a hurt on a lot of low-level street crime. But that’s a hell of a small bone to throw to the cops to get them to look the other way.”

Mike thrust out his jaw and glared around at the others, almost belligerently, defying any of them to disagree with his assessment. Tom was carefully keeping his silence, watching the others closely, trying to gauge the feelings in the room. After watching his brother vent his fears, he had decided to step back and let the others have the same opportunity. He watched now to see who else was ready to put words to their concerns. Surprisingly enough, it was the stoic voice of Holly’s father that first broke the silence.

“In principal, Mike, I must agree with you. We are not as prepared for this new development as I would have wanted to be. No, we do not have any hard information to trade to the police, but on the other hand it appears as if this investigation is only just starting. We have been careful, very careful, and have left almost no trail for them to follow. No one has seen your brother’s face, no picture has ever been taken of him, and the few witnesses to his actions are not inclined to talk about it. He has left no fingerprints, and we know that he hasn’t lost any of his equipment, except for the occasional flashbang grenade. And like all of Tom’s equipment those were made by Pablo, and have no serial numbers that can be traced, anyway.

“I am not trying to downplay this situation. The police in this city are very competent, and this Molly Wu seems to be particularly tenacious. This problem is serious, but I don’t believe that it is insurmountable.”

Tom nodded briefly at the older man, acknowledging his assessment, and then once more glanced around the room. Holly and Pablo both seemed to have relaxed more, and from the encouraging looks they gave him it seemed they were inclined to agree with Dieter’s words. Even Mike seemed a little less tense, although Tom was positive that his brother still had something eating at him.

“Alright, then, I take it that we’ve all agreed that this problem is not serious enough to justify changing our names and moving out of the country. So the mission still goes on. But we still have to decide just what it is we will do. To do that, I think we need to find out how far Molly Wu’s investigation has gone. Pablo, you were supposed to be checking her reports, so what did you find out?”

“The usual, good news and bad news. The bad news is this isn’t just her trying to satisfy her curiosity, this is a fully sanctioned investigation. Her boss, this guy Burke, has been getting copies of her reports daily. It looks like he’s keeping a close eye on this case. But the good news is the computer logs show that so far no one but him and Molly have ever accessed those reports, including her own partner. Not even the precinct Captain has looked at those files, so unless it’s being passed on verbally, only two people are even aware of what she’s found out about us.”

Tom nodded thoughtfully, before responding. “Alright, I guess that’s mostly good news, then. Holly, you’re our expert on the San Francisco PD. What’s the rank hierarchy like there?”

Holly paused, considering. After she and her father had found out Tom’s secret identity and had been formally asked to join the planning committee, she had thrown herself into her role with the same energy and focus as she had done with most things in her life. Not content with merely being Tom’s physical trainer, she had also taken steps to make herself of more value to the group, and to him. To that end she had enrolled in a local community college and started taking every police science class she could sign up for.

“Okay,” she began, clearing her throat and sitting straighter. “As everybody knows, San Francisco is divided up into ten districts, which together comprise two divisions, Metro and Golden Gate. Each district has its own precinct, or police station. The precincts are all pretty much self-contained that way. It kind of reminds me of Los Angeles, with all the little cities and townships, each with its own police force. Except in LA it’s all highly territorial, there’s a lot of rivalry among all the departments. Not that much co-operation, okay? Up here, you don’t see much of that.

“Anyway, SFPD is like any other paramilitary organization, there’s a pretty strict pecking order. On the bottom are the civilians, everybody who isn’t a law enforcement officer. Janitors, civilian aids, garage mechanics, that sort of thing. Next come the uniforms, the foot and patrol units, followed by the plainclothes Inspectors. Each of them is assigned to one of the departments, run by a Lieutenant. Robbery, homicide, burglary, gang unit, that sort of thing. And over them all is the top man, the Captain, one for every District.

“In their districts the Captains are like, well, I don’t want to says ‘God’, but it’s awfully close. He’s expected to know everything that goes on in his command, which makes me wonder about something. You said that this Lt. Burke was the only other person accessing Molly’s reports, right? So what about her Captain, how come his initials aren’t in the access log for Molly’s files? You’d expect he’d be all over something like this, wouldn’t you?”

Tom pulled up one of the stools from the bar, finally taking a seat. “Who knows? Try turning it around, maybe this is so important that he’s getting verbal updates straight from Molly or her Lieutenant. Maybe he has hard copies, a paper file.”

Holly considered it for a while, then shrugged. “That could be. Still, you would think he’d have accessed the computer files on this at least once in awhile, wouldn’t you?”

“Are you trying to say that Molly and this Lieutenant are keeping it from their boss? They’re like, what, running their own little investigation on the side?” Mike asked.

“No, I don’t… look, I don’t know, okay? Maybe their Captain does prefer all his reports on paper. But it just seems strange to me that with something as politically sensitive as this, that he wouldn’t try to look up the reports on his workstation, not even once.”

Tom considered this, looking around at the others, seeing doubt but also concern in their eyes. He came to a quick decision, deciding on a course of action. It was a skill that he was becoming increasingly good at.

“Alright, that’s definitely something to think about. Mike, get with Pablo and check those computer logs again, and take a look at how often this Captain accesses files from his terminal. If he’s just an old timer who doesn’t like computers, fine, that explains it. Nothing changes for us.”

“And if we find out he does frequently use his terminal on all other cases?” Dieter asked.

“Well, that’s more good news, bad news, isn’t it? It might mean that we’ve only got to worry about two cops knowing about us, instead of the entire SFPD.”

“Or it could mean they have some agenda of their own,” Dieter said. The silence that followed that statement stretched for several seconds, as all there considered the import of Dieter’s words. Tom finally broke it with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“That’s an interesting thought, team, but right now it’s only speculation. We need more information, and that’ll have to wait. In the mean time, as nothing else has changed I think we should keep going with the original plan. So what had we planned to do if the police started looking for us? Pablo?”

The little man grinned, his eyes shining. “We establish contact! And yeah, before you ask, I did bring it.” And with that the top special effects man in the world grabbed the metal equipment case he had brought and laid it on the coffee table in front of him. While he worked the combination on the case, Tom started filling the others in.

“Even before Benny got here, I was spending some private time with each of you guys, trying to anticipate future problems and brainstorm possible answers. One of the things Pablo and I talked about was the fact that sooner or later we would have to make some sort of contact with people without benefit of the suite and mask. Talking with the cops is just one of the things we might need a face to face meeting for. It didn’t make sense to expose any of you unnecessarily, so I asked Pablo to come up with some sort of easy on and off disguise that would fool a close up examination. After all the movies he’s worked in, I figured it’d be an easy job.”

“And naturally you were wrong, Flyboy. As I’m sure Dieter can tell you, Hollywood makeup isn’t near as slick as the camera makes it look.” From the now opened case, Pablo had taken a life size bust, a head and shoulders figurine of a man cast in bronze. With a grunt of effort at the excess weight, he set it upright on the coffee table and turned it to face the others and no one was particularly surprised to see it had Tom’s features.

Dieter leaned forward and peered at the metal figure. “I’ve seen you make countless plaster casts over the years, Pablo, to create your makeup appliances. But none of them were metal.”

“That’s because plaster wouldn’t take the abuse this new process requires. Look, a little background, okay? You can make a basic disguise with a wig, sunglasses, glue-on facial hair, stuff like that. It’ll be pretty realistic, if you do it right. But that doesn’t alter the basic features. Cops are trained observers; they know what to look for, the shape of the head, the cheekbones, the chin, things like that. And any competent police artist can draw a sketch from a description, and then just remove the hair and whatever. It may not be all that accurate, but then again it might be good enough. Too much risk for us.

“So that leaves a mask, something that completely alters the identifiable aspects of the face. I could take some latex to that bust and build up the cheekbones, alter the nose and the shape of the brow ridge, make his chin wider or narrower. Then I could peel the latex off and glue it on Tom’s face with spirit gum, and then cover the whole thing with makeup to blend in with his own skin. And nobody could possibly recognize him when he’s wearing that getup.

“But there are two problems with using this method. One is that it takes hours to put that kind of rig on, plus it’s fragile and requires constant care to keep it from falling apart. That’s one of the reasons they always have a makeup technician on set, to do maintenance on the rig between scenes. If an eye ridge falls off on set it’s no big deal, you repair it and then re-shoot the scene. But if that happens when Tom’s talking to a cop or an informant, he’s screwed.

“And the second problem is these kinds of masks just aren’t that good in real life. You can tell it’s a mask! You can see the edges of the appliances, where they’re covered with putty. It doesn’t move right, a real human face slides over the bones, it creases and wrinkles with each expression. The camera hides a lot of sins. We just can’t get that kind of realism with latex and silicone.”

Pablo paused, looking around at the rapt audience, soaking up the attention. Then with an impish flair he took something else from the equipment case and tossed it on the coffee table next to the bronze casting.

“Which is why I decided to go with leather,” he said grinning widely.

The object on the table was a mask, a full head covering including wig and facial hair. It was a man’s face, broad with high cheekbones and a square jaw, a prominent brow and a long knife blade of a nose. The detail was incredible, complete with blemishes and pores, and a tiny scar bisecting the left eyebrow. It lay on the table, eerie in its completeness, its limpness and the open holes where the eyes should be the only items to show that it wasn’t real.

Mike was the one actually closest to the mask on the table, and now he leaned forward and gingerly fingered it. He shuddered. “Man, it even feels real. You say this is made out of leather?”

“Yeah, calfskin, like the shammy cloth you use to polish your car,” Tom put in, speaking for the first time since Pablo had taken over the conversation. Besides the little man, he was the only one there who had already seen the mask and knew how it was made, but even he was still struck by the incredible realism it achieved. Pablo took out an eight by ten photo of the bust, only in the photo it was altered by the additional of silvery metal lumps that completely changed the features of Tom’s face.

“After I made the casting,” Pablo continued, “I used solder to make the changes to the face. This was pretty basic, just the eyes, the nose, the cheekbones and the jaw line. Then I took a calfskin that I had soaked overnight in a solution that made it softer and more ductile, and I fixed it over the face of the casting using spring clamps and tension cords. Every few hours I’d wet the skin down again and tighten the cords another notch, so that the leather was gradually stretched thinner and thinner.

“After the skin was stretched as far as it would go, I used a blunt tool and slowly rubbed the leather in all over the casting, so that it formed to every angle and curve. When it dried, I had a mask shaped exactly like the casting, I just had to trim the edges and sew on the wig and facial hair, then add some die here and there to give it color. C’mere, Flyboy, let’s put this rig on and show these guys how it works.”

A straight backed chair was quickly brought from the kitchen, and soon Tom had taken off his shirt and was sitting in it while Pablo Murray deftly glued a silicone appliance to his face. The appliance was a grayish color and looked like nothing so much as an ink blob Rorschach test made three dimensional, and when it was placed on Tom’s face it mimicked the changes made to the bronze casting shown in the photo. Pablo continued to explain while he worked.

“The mask is fastened in the back with elastic, underneath the wig. It mostly free-floats over Tom’s face, but it’s anchored with spirit gum at key points such as the throat, the bridge of the nose, and the upper forehead. The inside of the mask has been coated with another type of silicone rubber that allows it to flow over the appliance with little friction, just like the skin of the face moves across the bones of the skull. With help, it takes less than ten minutes to affix this mask, twenty or so if he does it by himself. Okay, Tom, put on your shirt and introduce the new you.”

Murray gave the mask a final touch, then stepped back as Tom stood up and donned his shirt, carefully keeping his back to the others. When he had finished buttoning it to the throat, he turned around and was greeted by a stunned silence.

“Well? What do you guys think?”

It was Mike who was the first one to find his voice. “Alright, who are you, and what have you done with my little brother?”

A laugh made its way around the room, and soon Mike, Holly and Dieter had risen to their feet and were crowding around Tom and his new face. They probed with soft fingers and made appreciative comments, with Pablo Murray beaming smugly to the side and answering questions. They had Tom talk, shout, and even sing while wearing the mask, and marveled at how realistic it appeared. Eventually they all returned to their seats, and the meeting continued, although this time with a much lighter, more optimistic mood.

“Wow, Uncle Pablo, I can’t get over it. That isn’t just a mask he’s wearing, it’s a whole new face, isn’t it?” Holly said, as she stared fascinated at Tom.

“I agree,” Dieter said, looking now with the eyes of a man who had spent half his life in the movie industry. “This is a whole new technology in our field; I’ve never seen you use anything like it before.”

“That’s because I just invented it. I was working on this process the day Mikey and Flyboy showed up at my shop, and put on their little demonstration. I haven’t shown this to anybody else yet, and I don’t intend to.”

“Hmmm. And this works as well with the sci-fi and fantasy masks? Werewolves, demons, space aliens?”

“Yeah, it should. I haven’t gone that route yet, but there’s no reason why it shouldn’t work with exotics. Why?”

“Because just changing Tom’s face as much as you did would have been a two or three hour session in the makeup chair, minimum. Realistic monster masks could go as long as six hours, and cost thousands of dollars, not to mention the cost in time. You could shave millions off the budget of most major films, and as the owner of such a process you would stand to make a fortune, at least if you are the one who patents it first. And yet here you are, choosing to sit on this discovery. I find that… curious, I suppose.”

“You know, that’s right!” Holly said, grinning. “Millions and millions. Uncle Pablo, you could probably get an Oscar for this, couldn’t you?”

Everyone was looking at Pablo Murray now, watching in amusement as the small man squirmed. “Hell, what do I need more money for? I’m already worth more than the lot of you Bozos put together. And I already have an Oscar, I use the damned thing to prop a door open in my workshop! But aren’t we getting off the subject here? I can make Tom all sorts of masks like this, so do you guys agree that it’ll do to protect his identity if he has a meeting with this cop?”

“I dunno,” Mike said, as he examined his brother’s new face carefully. “What about the edges, where the mask meets the skin. Aren’t they kind of visible?”

“Hardly. That’s why I gave him facial hair and sideburns, they’ll help to hide that, and what they don’t cover I can blend in with putty or even a little liquid latex if we have the time. But for casual conversation of at least five or ten feet apart, we should be okay. I say we can go ahead with the meeting. Anyone else?”

There were some murmured comments and shakes of the head, but it was soon agreed that Tom should have no trouble avoiding recognition if and when he met with Inspector Wu. After they had all taken their seats again Tom once again took charge of the meeting.

“Alright, so far so good. We’re all agreed that we need to have this meeting with Molly Wu, and begin our relationship with the police, just like we originally planned. We need to do this, people, if we ever want to move up our operations. Otherwise, all we’ll ever do is break up some minor street crime. We’ll never make a real difference in this town, at least not the kind that we want to.

“Now we still need something to bring to the table when we have this meeting, and I think I’ve found it. I’ve been checking out the SFPD computer files too, and there’s a link there that takes you to the notes they have for the shift briefings. For the last couple of weeks, Narcotics has been asking all patrols to be on the lookout for a new, major crack lab in the Golden Gate division. They believe it’s operated by an affiliated street gang, and that it services over a dozen houses. They’re pretty hot to get this place, and if we can find it for them I think it’ll go pretty far to proving our value. Questions and comments?”

“You mean over and above trying to find this place when the whole SFPD can’t?” Mike asked. “Yeah, what did you mean about this lab servicing a dozen houses? And what’s an ‘affiliated’ street gang? Is that like one of the Asian gangs, the Tongs?”

“I’ll take that one, Tom,” Holly said, shifting in her seat on the couch. From the purse on the couch next to her she took a memo pad, whose pages where covered in carefully written notes. She took a breath, gathering her thoughts before speaking.

*****

Okay, after Tommy talked to me about this I did a whole lot of research. Not just on the web or from my school books, I also talked with some of my Criminal Justice teachers at the college. I told them I was writing a paper on the structure of gangs in San Francisco, and they were pretty open about it. And some of the stuff they told me was scary.

Alright, first off you have to realize that street gangs are not the same as so-called organized crime. They’re thugs, with poor impulse control and absolutely no talent for thinking about their future. Either they think they’re immortal, or that they’re going to die young no matter what they do, so they might as well act like animals and to hell with the consequences. They’re not the Sopranos, they’re not the Corleones, and they’re definitely not the Tongs. Whatever you do, don’t look for anything more complicated than that.

Street gangs are usually divided along ethnological lines. Race, religion, country of origin, that sort of thing. Although lately there’s been a lot of what’s called ‘hybridization’. For instance, there are a couple of Crip gangs in L.A. made up entirely of Samoans, and in the Minneapolis-St. Paul area in Michigan there are almost a dozen of Crip and Blood gangs made up entirely of Hmong. Still, most gangs in California can be divided into one of three categories; black, Hispanic, and Asian.

Despite what most people think, most of the street gangs here in San Francisco aren’t Asian, in fact size wise they run a distant third. But they are the most secretive and organized, probably because of the examples set by the Tongs, which were originally just secret societies begun to protect the common people against the abuses by the Chinese government in the seventeenth century. That, plus the fact that most Asian peoples are very reluctant to trust the police for anything makes it easy for gangs to prey on them.

The top Asian gang here used to be the Wah Ching, which was started in the mid sixties. But about twenty years later one of the biggest gangs in Hong Kong, the Wo Hop Triad, set up shop in China Town and slowly forced them out. The Wah Ching is still around, but mostly in Los Angeles and the rest of southern California. Then about ten years ago the Tsan brothers, three guys who used to work for the Wah Ching before they defected and started working for the Wo Hop, split off from them and started their own gang, the Jackson Street Boys. They’re now the biggest, most powerful Asian gang in the whole Bay Area. And unlike most other Asian gangs that exist mostly from street crimes like extortion, drug dealing, robbery and car theft, the JSB has been branching out. Now they’re into more sophisticated crimes, like gambling, racketeering, and white collar stuff like credit card fraud. They’re also branching out; they’ve started setting up territories in Oakland, Seattle and Denver, cities with a high Asian population.

The Hispanic gangs are a lot more flamboyant than the Asians, they don’t want to be secretive, they want to be feared and respected. They wear clothing that amounts to uniforms, they sport gang tattoos and colors, and they make sure everyone knows who they are. Like the Crips and the Bloods, they’ve polarized into two major factions. The Nortenos or northerners, and the Surenos, southerners. Nortenos are mostly American born or highly Americanized, while the Surenos are all immigrants. They’re sort of offshoots and affiliates of two California prison gangs, the Nuestra Familiae and the Mexican Mafia.

Their main focus is territory; a neighborhood is either a North or a South, and its death to be caught on the wrong side of the line. These guys live to gain respect, and to dish out disrespect to their enemies. Joining a gang is considered a right of passage for most of them, a manhood thing, just part of growing up. They join in their mid-teens, and if they survive they usually drift out of the life sometime in their late twenties, although they often keep close ties with the gangs. These old timers are called ‘Veteranos’, and they’re highly respected in that community.

There hadn’t been very much gang activity in Los Angeles since the riots in sixty-six, but with the fall of the Black Panthers and other political groups, there were a lot of angry young men with nothing else to do with their time, so they began to drift back into the gang lifestyle. The biggest of the black African American gangs was started in 1969 in Compton by a fifteen year old kid named Raymond Washington, who went to Fremont High School. He had admired another gang when he was a kid called the Avenues, so he called his gang the Baby Avenues. But common street slang changed that to the Avenue Cribs, or just the Cribs, for short. They all wore leather jackets like the Panthers, and had gold earrings in their left ears. They also all carried canes, which they used as weapons, and some people started calling them a gang of cripples. Cripples, Cribs, ‘Crips’. Get it?

Anyway, in that sort of socio-political climate gangs started popping up like crazy and the Crips grew fast. By 1972 there were eight Crip gangs and another ten or so other new gangs in Los Angeles. By the early eighties, there were over a hundred and fifty black gangs in L.A. The Bloods started out as an alliance of gangs who joined together to defend themselves against the Crips and are now the second largest of the African American gangs in this country. The department of Justice estimates that there are over a hundred thousand African American gang bangers in California alone, most of them Bloods or Crips.

Look, to get what we’re looking for you have to understand the different ways these gangs work. The Asian gangs mostly prey on their own, violent crimes like robbery and home invasion, protection rackets and loan sharking. They also smuggle in illegals, most of whom end up working as prostitutes or as virtual slaves in sweatshops. They also are the biggest smugglers of heroin, which they distribute and sell to other gangs or criminal organizations all over the country. They do a little dealing, too, but it’s mostly to individuals in the community that they know, no drug houses or street corner stuff.

The Latinos also do a little street corner stuff, but mostly they’re importers, they have the connections in South America and smuggle in most of the cocaine in this part of the country. They don’t distribute it themselves; mostly they sell it to other gangs.

The black gangs are the most involved in the crack trade. They buy the coke from the Latino gangs, they sell it whole or they cook it into crack. They deal mostly out of private homes or apartments, crack houses, and they sell to anyone. In most of the poorer neighborhoods you can spot them easily enough, they’ll be run down houses with a bunch of gang members sitting around outside, drinking and bullshitting, not doing anything except hang around. If you watch for a few minutes you’ll see people come by, sometimes on foot but usually driving cars. They’ll stop, whichever one of the gang bangers is his usual connection will get up and walk oh so casually over to the window, and then the deal is made. The banger always carries his drug stash on him, and when his stash gets low he’ll go to the house and buy a refill, just like getting a cup of coffee.

And that’s how simple it is, really. You sit around all day drinking beer or wine, hanging with your friends, and by the time you go home you’ve got maybe ten, fifteen thousand dollars in your pocket. You never carry more than a small amount of drugs on you, most of what’s there is always inside the crack house, so if you do get busted it’s only for possession instead of dealing. I guess you can see how such a lifestyle can be irresistible to kids who grow up in that environment.

Anyway, the Bloods are the current top dogs amongst the African American gangs in San Francisco. The Crips are more numerous, but the Bloods have made a treaty with the Neustra Familiae, an alliance, which gives them a pretty good lock on most of the coke and crack trafficking. If we were looking for a crack house, that’s who I’d be checking.

But then, I don’t for a moment think that we are looking for a crack house.

*****

The four men in the loft apartment had been sitting quietly throughout Holly’s lecture, enwrapped by the ugly tale of urban crime and the descriptions of gang lifestyle. It had been a particularly surreal experience, coming as it did from the lips of such a beautiful young girl.

“You seemed to have done quite a bit of research on this subject for such a short time, daughter,” Dieter commented, watching as Holly took a long drink from her can of soda, wetting a throat gone dry. She nodded, but didn’t bother to answer. After all, her father hadn’t asked a question yet.

“Yeah, it was fascinating, alright,” Mike put in, shaking his head. “I guess I never realized just how big and complicated the gang problems are around here. I sure as hell am glad now that we live in Sac, I’d hate to have to raise my kids in this kind of environment.”

Holly shook her head. “Don’t go fooling yourself, Mike. The gang problem isn’t just in the major cities anymore, it’s growing everywhere. In Sacramento you already have the Oak Park Bloods and the 29th Street Crips. They sell their drugs from out of houses or from cars, and they’ve already started fighting over the drug trade. Watch your local paper when you get home, and when you drive around town look for gang graffiti. It’s there, Mike, it’s everywhere these days. And it sure as hell isn’t healthy to pretend it’s not.”

The husband and father-of-two shifted uncomfortably in his seat, looking away as his troubled thoughts turned inward. He wore the demeanor of a man who was looking closely at some unwelcome truths.

“Okay, this’s all been pretty sobering, but we’re getting off the track here,” Pablo said. “”You just said that we’re not looking for a crack house. So what are we supposed to be looking for?”

“Something a whole lot bigger. Look, I told you that crack houses are easy to spot, but they’re really hard to bust. The occupants are always forted up inside, with reinforced doors and windows. Often they board up the windows and install heavy metal fire doors. If the police show up, they have plenty of time to flush any drugs down the toilet or the sink. No drugs, no evidence, no arrests. A week later they’re back in business somewhere else.

“But a lab is another story, there’s way too much hard evidence to hide what that place is. The equipment used, and the residue from the cooking process that gets everywhere, that can’t be hidden if you get raided. So what the gangs who operate a lab do is they try very hard to keep it quiet. They usually rent a house in a quiet neighborhood, something with a garage so they can come and go without being seen. No loud music, no junkies coming at all hours of the night, no bangers hanging around outside. The crack or meth or whatever is cooked and packaged, and then distributed to sometimes a dozen or more drug houses.”

“Okay, so we’re looking for a lab?” Mike asked.

“Yes. But also more. Look, have you guys ever heard of a gang called the Project Trojans?” Mike and Pablo frowned, shaking there heads, but Dieter was nodding his.

“I believe so. Weren’t the San Francisco papers full of them last spring? Something about a police and federal joint operation, that ended up with massive arrests?”

“Very good, Poppa! About twenty-two arrests all totaled. The Trojans, the PJT as they call themselves, are known as the most violent street gang in Northern California. For decades they’ve ruled the entire north Richmond, and last year that single one square mile area had six times as many gang related homicides as the whole rest of Contra Costa County.

“Tommy and I went through the police files also, but we managed to find some for the gang unit. It seems that after all the arrests last March, the Trojans began to fragment. They were reeling, and they were also in a turf war with the Crescent Park Villains. They think some of the PJTs splintered off and came down here, and formed an alliance with one of the Norteno gangs. They’re afraid that the Nortenos are using this as an opportunity to get their foot into the distribution end of things.

“After their operation was busted, the PJTs needed somewhere to set up shop fast, they had to get back into business right away or else the Villains would snap up all their customers. The word is that the Nortenos are letting the PJTs use one of their stash houses to set up their lab, in exchange for an extremely large cut of the profits, of course. See, a stash house is where shipments of drugs or other illegal contraband are temporarily stored before being shipped out to other sites, most of them out of state. There’s probably a major stash of drugs, probably hundreds of kilos of cocaine, and who knows what else there. Taking it down could put a major crimp in the Nortenos’ pipeline, and probably also put an end to the alliance between them and the PJTs for good, which means an end to the Trojans. And that’s why the SFPD is trying so hard to find this place.”

“Thanks, Holly. I think that pretty well sums it up, we need something big to give to the cops to prove that we can help them, and this looks perfect. Everybody agree?” Tom looked around at the rest of the committee, who all wore thoughtful looks. It was a good sign that they were all considering this carefully; he never wanted his friends to get into the habit of rubber stamping a plan just because it was his, but in the end he knew they would all agree. The advantages of this course of action were all too apparent to disregard.

“Okay, Flyboy, I guess we’re all with you on this,” Pablo Murray said, as he looked around and got answering nods from the others. “So let’s do it. The only problem I see, though, is how. How are we supposed to find this drug lab-slash-stash house when the entire San Francisco Police Department can’t find it?”

Tom grinned, and with a wave of his hand like a magician demonstrating his next clever trick he gestured towards his brother. “I’m so glad you asked. Mike?”

Mike grunted, as he reached down and snagged the smaller equipment case he had brought, and set it on the coffee table next to Pablo’s bust of Tom. “So that’s why you wanted me to get this thing,” he muttered, as he opened the case and extracted its contents.

The object Mike pulled from the aluminum case was obviously some sort of hand-held metering device, rectangular in shape, about ten inches long and four wide, with buttons, a dial, and an LED readout on the top. On the front end at the left corner was a short, truncated funnel, and when Mike switched it on there was the faint sound of a tiny electric fan.

“This is a chemical sniffer, Tom had me contact an old friend of mine at Sandia National Labs and buy it under the table. They’re the guys that developed the MicroHound handheld detector that they’re now using to find drugs and explosives at airports. It sucks in a sample of air and uses an ion mobility spectrometer and a micro gas chromatograph to identify airborne chemical traces. This thing is almost as sensitive as a bloodhound’s nose, plus it can tell us exactly what it senses.

“This isn’t a MicroHound, of course. My buddy couldn’t get me one of those, and I didn’t even bother to ask. They’re still strictly controlled, not for civilian use, and besides those things cost about ten thousand bucks apiece. This is actually one of the pieces of test equipment they made up in the lab, it’s a lot smaller and can only be programmed to detect up to three different chemical scents at a time. But I guess that should be enough for our purposes, at least if you know just what you’re looking for.”

“And we do,” Tom said, nodding. “Do you guys know how they make crack cocaine? It’s a simple process, really. It was actually developed almost a hundred years ago. You take regular powdered cocaine and you put it in a pot of water. Add baking soda or ammonia and a cutting agent, like mannitol and other drugs like lidocaine, procaine, or benzocaine. And then you heat it until an oil begins to form on the surface. You scoop off the oil, and you pour it over ice, which causes it to crystallize. When you smoke it, it makes a cracking sound, which is how the stuff got its name.

“The whole process puts a lot of fumes into the air, stuff that you really don’t want to breathe in. That’s why they always make sure that wherever they cook crack is always well ventilated. So we program the sniffer for the stuff they use for cutting the coke, say lidocaine and procaine, and then I fly it on a low search pattern over the neighborhoods the cops think the lab might be in. With the cool air we’ve been having, those hot fumes will rise pretty quickly and be a lot slower to disperse. With a little luck I shouldn’t have to fly all that low to pick up a trace.”

“Wow, that’s incredible!” Holly said, taking the device from Mike and examining it. “So if this thing is so sensitive, why don’t the police cruise around with them all the time to locate crack and meth labs? I know you said that the regular units cost ten thousand dollars, but with two of them you could probably drive down every street in the city in less than a week.”

“Because these things aren’t that sensitive, that’s why,” Mike explained. “Hot vapors rise before they disperse, so at ground level you have to be pretty close to a house before you can detect them. You can’t detect them by just driving down a street. Which is were Tom here has an advantage, he can fly above the houses until he catches a chemical trail, and then follow it to its source.”

“Okay, so why don’t they use an air—oh, right. The prop wash.”

“You got it. The propellers of an airplane and the rotors of a helicopter would tear apart any vapor before it could come anywhere’s near the craft. All in all this is amazing technology, but Tom’s the only one who’s in any position to really use it like that.”

*****

Tom watched quietly as the mood shifted amongst the small gathering, hiding the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. The air of concern was now gone, replaced once again by the feeling of excitement and purpose that these meetings usually had. So maybe he was actually getting the hang of this whole leadership thing, after all.

Finally!

The takeout food arrived, and the mood changed again, becoming festive. There was more laughter and joking around, and the kind of incredibly stimulating conversation that only occurs when you gather a group full of extraordinary people together in one room.

After a couple of hours, though, Tom noticed it was getting late. He idly scratched at a patch of spirit gum on his cheek left over from the mask, as he looked around the loft at his guests. If he was going to grab a nap before starting his search that night, he would have to call it quits pretty soon. He caught Pablo’s eye, glanced at his watch and gave the other man a nod. Pablo nodded back, then rose to his feet and made a big show of stretching.

“C’mon, Rockstar, it’s getting late. I’ve got to get back to my shop, and you have to get back to the wife and kiddies. Let’s hit the road.”

Tom’s brother stretched in his chair, but otherwise made no move to rise. “What’s the hurry, shorty? It’s early yet, and besides I don’t get down to ‘Frisco too often. Why don’t we hang around here for awhile?”

“Because unlike you, I have a life. I’ve got a dinner date with a production assistant who’s got legs that are almost taller than me. And you make one more comment about my height, and you’re walking home. Got it?”

“Yeah, well your love life not included, I still say it’s early.”

“What’s wrong, Mike? Desiree and Tyler having a sleep over tonight? I know you hate those things.” Tom asked, grinning.

“So, being a Daddy isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Pablo snickered.

Mike, who seemed reluctant to leave his comfortable seat to begin the long drive home, asked querulously, “So what if I do? I got a couple of great kids; I just know when it’s best to leave them to their friends. And what would a sawed off, misogynistic little fart like him know about raising a family, anyway? He hates kids. If he ever had any offspring, they’d probably end up shoved in a burlap bag with a rock and dropped off the nearest bridge.”

“Yeah, well at least I wouldn’t given them names like ‘Desiree and Tyler’. Christ, when they grow up everyone’s gonna think they’re a couple of strippers. How could you stick your kids with names like those? What’s next, tassels and g-strings for their eighteenth birthday?”

The other man’s face reddened. Pablo had just crossed a line when he brought Mike’s children into this. “Hey, you runt, watch your mouth! You never, EVER trash talk my kids. There’s nothing wrong with my daughter’s names, where the hell do you get off saying something like that!”

Tom, looking puzzled, interrupted the argument. “Mike, chill, what are you getting so upset for? You and I both know where those names came from. You’ve got no right to come down on Pablo for speaking the truth; you did name them after a couple of strippers.”

Mike shot an angry, surprised glare at his brother, enraged at this betrayal. “I don’t believe you, Tommy. Those are my kids, and they’re you’re nieces! Dammit, freaking superhero or not, I swear if you don’t take that back I’m gonna kick your ass!”

“Oh, for..! Mike, I was there, at your bachelor party, remember? Those two dancers, Desiree and Tyler. I hired them, for Pete’s sake. I know we never talked about it after the girls were born, I thought it was kind of weird what you did, but…”

“Wait, what…what’re you saying?” Mike spluttered, suddenly unsure of himself. A stunned silence ensued. Across the room Pablo Murray burst into laughter, pointing at the hapless Blackwood.

“Haahww! Oh, Gawd, that is so rich! Don’t you guys get it? He named his kids after those two strippers from his bachelor party, and he didn’t even realize it! Haah!”

Mike’s face was turning scarlet with each passing second, but he seemed unable to speak. He glared furiously at the laughing Pablo, then switched to throwing murderous looks at his brother. Raising his eyes heavenward Tom shook his head, muttering “Wait here,” as he abruptly turned and headed towards the bedroom area of the apartment. The tableau in the living room hadn’t changed when he came back a minute later, holding an old shoebox tied with string.

Tom untied the cord as he set the box on the coffee table, and removed its lid. He rummaged around amongst its contents until he came out with a small bundle of business cards, wrapped in a fraying red rubber band. He removed the band and quickly shuffled through the cards, finally finding the one he was seeking. He paused to read it briefly, then tossed it on the coffee table for all to see.

Mike was staring at the card as if it was a snake. Holly picked it up and read it aloud, her eyes going wide as she did so.

“ ‘Peaches & Crème, Exotic Entertainment. Private dancing, two girl shows with Desiree and Tyler. Special rates for private shows. Call 916—’ oh, Mike,” Holly said. The sympathy in her voice was belied by how hard she was trying to hold back a smile. Mike took the card from her with trembling fingers, his jaw dropping and his face gone pale.

“I’m… I, I’m going to… aww, crap,” he said, totally speechless.

“Mike, look, I’m sorry,” Tom began, sounding contrite. “I mean, I always thought you knew. I figured you did it on purpose.”

“That’s, uhh, that’s okay, Tommy. Umm, I have to go now, okay? Murray?” he asked in a small voice, looking at the source of his ride.

“In a minute, Rockstar. I’ve got to gather this stuff up. Door’s unlocked; I’ll meet you down at the Cruiser.”

They watched Mike silently as he left the room. When the door closed behind him Dieter, who had been quiet throughout the whole exchange, reached out to the card on the coffee table and picked it up. He examined it closely before commenting to his old friend.

“This is a very good job. What did you use to age the paper?”

“A bit of tannic acid. I used diluted battery acid on the rubber band, but I think you’ve seen that trick.”

Holly was looking back and forth between the two men, her eyes going wide, and her hands briefly covered her mouth. Uncle Pablo was grinning smugly, ear to ear, and her father’s usual stoic expression was replaced with an amused twinkle. She looked up at Tom, and at first her boyfriend returned her gaze blandly. But then the corners of his mouth began to quirk upwards and confirmed everything.

“I don’t believe it! It was a setup? You three made the whole thing up?”

“Them, but not myself,” Dieter said. “I only recognized Pablo’s particular brand of humor.”

“Not this time, you paranoid old Kraut,” the other man denied. “This one was all Tom’s idea. I was just his willing lackey.”

Tom shrugged one shoulder. “Fish tacos, remember? I told you Mike was going to get his after that prank with the tacos.”

But Holly couldn’t answer. She was too busy rolling on the couch, holding her sides and laughing until tears came to her eyes.