Welcome to part two of The Masters Plan, an action noir novel exclusive to Steemit. If you missed part one, you can find it here. I plan to post a new section each Sunday until the story is complete.
Logline: A straight-laced cop must become a renegade when a friend-turned-criminal from his past offers proof that his father was framed and murdered. Will he be able to uncover the true killer before becoming a victim of the same corruption?
Previously: Red Jackson is an ex-cop on a mission. He knows the mayor and possible-governor is corrupt, and he'll stop at nothing to prove it. Ray Jackson is a Los Angeles patrolman who's just trying to enforce the law. The story continues...
When Ray walked into the station, he sensed a weird vibe in the air. Several brothers in blue broke eye contact a little too quickly, and he heard a few stifled chuckles. He walked over to the patrol sergeant’s desk and turned in his daily logs.
A couple plain-clothes detectives sidled up close to Ray, all smiles. “Check it out, Willie. It’s the Road Warrior.” Benson’s square face and flattop hair gave him a real Frankenstein’s monster kind of look. But his face was more red than green.
“You know, Jackson, I think the tires on our cruiser have lost some of their groove.” Willie Chang was Benson’s partner. He was thick like a body builder who’d skipped the gym a few years. “You wanna come check ‘em out? We hear you’ve got Firestone on the ropes as the city’s best tire expert.”
Ray just stuck up his middle finger and pushed past them, the two detectives laughing. He stopped at the desk outside the captain’s office. “Is he in?” Cindy looked up from her computer and over her librarian glasses, eyebrows raised. “Where else would he be?”
The receptionist pushed a button and announced his arrival. She was in her mid-fifties, but her body sure didn’t show it. Most days Ray would take a moment to ogle her cleavage to ascertain whether the equipment underneath was hers by nature or by science, but today he was too irritated to bother. “You can go in.”
Ray pushed through the Captain’s door and sighed. “I have to get out of patrol.”
Captain Ramirez leaned back in his chair and nodded. “You know I forwarded your letter of intent.” Also in his fifties, Ramirez had the fitness of a runner and a flinty pair of eyes sharpened by years of hard experience. He still wore the high and tight that reflected his past life in the Marine Corps.
“That was six months ago --“
Ramirez cut him off with a wave. “These things take time. You want to talk about today?”
Ray was about to argue, but then thought better of it. He sat in the offered chair and dialed his volume down to a professional level. “The guy was a prick, Captain.”
“The world is full of ‘em.” Ramirez smiled and leaned forward on the desk. “The last thing I need is the mayor’s office crawling up my ass over a speeding ticket.”
Ray’s blood started to boil again. “The law’s the law isn’t it?”
“Skip it. The law is the law.” Ramirez shook his head and pointed an accusing finger. “But you got personal out there because your feelings were hurt. Boo-fucking-hoo.”
Ray didn’t say anything. He knew it was true.
Ramirez sighed. “Why don’t you stay on tonight and help with the detectives’ calls? Miller’s out on medical, and the brass always looks kindly on the hard chargers willing to work for free.”
Ray’s teeth were a flash of white. This was the chance he’d been waiting for. But his excitement deflated as soon as he remembered. “Sorry, Captain, I can’t. I’ve got plans.”
Ramirez shrugged. “All right. But these things get noticed.”
Ray watched as his eight-year-old son took a practice swing over the plate. Unlike the other kids, he liked the feel of the wood better than aluminum. “All right, Andrew, wait for the right pitch! Let it come to you - don’t lose focus!” Andrew looked back at his dad and smiled.
Watching from the dugout, Ray’s civvies were just as pressed and cleaned as his police uniform. He waved one of the other kids off the bench. “Get ready, Timmy, you’re up next.”
The pitcher - one of the other parents - lobbed the ball over the plate. Andrew swung and connected, the ball sailing out toward centerfield. Andrew dropped the bat and dashed for first.
Source
Ray’s assistant coach leaned over as Ray cheered his son on toward second. “He’s got some swing.”
You couldn’t sandpaper the smile off of Ray’s face.
The game over, the young players mobbed off the field and connected with their parents. Andrew raced over and high-fived his father. “Hey, kiddo! Nice work out there.”
“You see me catch that line drive?”
“What am I blind? Of course I saw it. Corey Seager couldn’t have done it better.” They made it over to Ray’s car, and he threw the duffle bag of gear into the trunk. He knew he couldn’t put it off any longer.
“I’ve been thinking.” Ray tried to spin it in the best way he could, but hated to disappoint his son. “Everybody has magicians at their birthdays nowadays. What do you think about clowns?”
Andrew's face lit up like a candle on a cake. “Whoa, a clown? With balloons?” He pumped his fist in the air to signal the second victory of the day. “That’s wicked!”
“Good.” Ray closed the door behind Andrew as his son hopped into the backseat. “That’s what I thought too.”
Red watched the empty lot from a distant rooftop. It was raining and the wet was soaking past his collar and down his back. Lying prone on the roof the way he was, the rain was even soaking through his socks. He had been here since seven in order to stake out a good position. It was now after eight.
Source
The limousine had parked ten minutes ago. It was hard to see through the downpour, but any doubts he held about the phone call earlier that day had vanished. That was Damien down there. Red knew it in his soaked-through bones.
A black sedan pulled into the lot and parked near the limo. A man exited from the limo’s drivers door and opened an umbrella. Red looked through his camera to get a closer look. He had come prepared: the camera had a telephoto lens with a night vision adapter. He focused in on the man with the umbrella: John Callan. The mayor’s chief of security.
Fuck yeah. I’ve got you now.
Another man got out of the sedan and huddled with Callan. This second figure was wearing a fedora, and Red couldn’t get a clear shot of his face. Then a third exited from the back of the car, a broad-shouldered beefcake of a man who could be only one person. Red zoomed in on his face: Tony Costa. Second son to the head of the largest organized crime family in the city. Hell, probably in the state. Red snapped a picture.
Tony approached the limo and one of the tinted windows rolled down. After a brief exchange, Tony waved his hand over his shoulder and beckoned someone from the other car.
This time a woman paraded out of the sedan, all skin and tight leather. She sashayed toward the limo and leaned over with a smile, practically dumping her ample bosom through the open window. Callan held the umbrella in place, smiling at the hooker’s shapely ass. Red snapped another picture.
Red took as many pictures as he could, including a clear shot of the limo’s license plate. Come on, Damien. Show your face. That’s all I need.
Callan opened the door like the gentleman he was not, and Tony smacked the woman’s ass as she squeezed into the back of the limo.
Maybe I can get a shot through the door. Red shifted his position, trying to get a line on the person still in the limo. As he crab-crawled across the roof, his elbow slipped, and he dropped the camera. Shit! The camera skidded across the rooftop and landed in the gutter with a loud DING.
Callan looked back in the direction of the sound. Taking no chances, he shouted into a small radio and pointed in Red’s direction.
Red shook his head, angry with himself. “Goddamnit.”
Tony and the other man hopped into the sedan, and it peeled away seconds later. Red slid down the rooftop, reaching for the camera. He could hear Callan’s shout in the distance: “Grab that bastard!”
Red filched the camera out of the gutter and shoved it in his pocket. He scrambled off the back wall and ran like hell as three pairs of headlights flipped on and raced in his direction.
A shout from Red’s right, “Stop right there!”
Red didn’t.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Red kept running, his breathing hard and fast, a cramped pain burning through his gut. Luckily the pain was the result of age and hard living, and not a bullet hole.
He dove over a metal guardrail and tumbled down a wet, muddy hill. By the time he made it to his car, he had lost his pursuers.
Ray pulled a tray out of the fridge as the rain came down even harder outside.
“When can I start driving?” Andrew was seated at the dining room table doing homework. Or, rather, not doing it.
Ray set the cake tray on the counter, his crisp shirt shielded by a spotless apron. “Still a few years yet.” The windowpanes shook from a crash of thunder outside.
Andrew’s mom, Wendy, was also slogging though paperwork at the table. She looked up from her laptop and smiled at her husband as Andrew persisted: “Well, what happens when I’m eight?”
“Finish your homework, sweetie. Mommy has to concentrate too.”
Source
Ray shared a knowing look with his son. Andrew went back to writing, and his father went back to icing the cake.
Ray spelled out “Happy Birthday” in sugary pink with the tip of a pastry bag. Just as he got to the last “a”, a flash of lightning illuminated Red’s wet face as he peered in through the living room window. The older man banged on the glass.
“Let me in, boy!”
Ray’s face went gray. He was so startled by his father’s appearance that the a-y of “Birthday” was now just an ugly pink glob.
Red banged at the window again and pointed toward the front door.
“Oh, no.” Ray looked at his wife and shared her frown. He took off his apron, quickly folded it, and went to open the door.
“Don’t you return phone calls?” Red pushed past his son as he entered the house. Dirt and water dripped from his hair to his shoes.
Ray was still reeling from the man’s sudden appearance. “What happened to you?”
“I need a drink.”
The older man attempted to slosh his muddy boots across the thick white carpet, but Ray grabbed his arm with an iron grip. Red looked at his son and grunted. He kicked off his boots and stalked toward the kitchen.
Andrew raced into the room, excited to greet their visitor. “Grandpa!” He jumped into the older man’s arms and Red faked a pain in his back.
“What’re they feeding you, boy?”
“I’m growing up!”
“You sure are.” Red tussled the boy’s hair. He caught Wendy’s look as she watched from the hallway, arms crossed.
“Will you come to my party on Saturday?” Andrew couldn’t contain his excitement if he tried. “There’s a clown and everything!”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” He set his grandson down. “But right now I need to talk to your daddy.”
Wendy pulled her son gently away. “Andrew, go brush your teeth. It’s time for bed.” She gave Red a disapproving look before she exited down the hall with her son.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Ray shook his head. “Don’t make promises you won’t keep.”
Red stared at his son. There was a lifetime of pain between these two. “Just get me a damned bottle.”
Ray watched as Red rummaged through the cupboards. “I don’t have any scotch.”
“Then whiskey.”
“Dad, I don’t drink whiskey--“
Red turned in frustration. “Well, what the hell do you drink?”
Ray sighed in resignation and looked in one of the far cabinets. “I think there’s a bottle of merlot up here.”
Red snorted. “Christ, forget it.” Ray turned as his father put his hand on his shoulder. “I need your help, kiddo.”
Ray recoiled from the touch. “Yeah? What trouble are you in now?”
Red frowned. “I’m on a case.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “I’m close to nailing--“
Ray grabbed the butt out of his father’s hand just as he lit it. “A case?” He ran the cigarette under water to put it out. “Dad, you have to--“
Red spun his son around and got in his face. “Would you listen?! I think I was seen tonight.” His eyes were wide with fear and desperation. But Ray refused to see it.
“You want my help? Come on, I’ll drive you to the station, and you can fill out a report.”
Red grabbed his son by the shoulders. “Fuck your reports! It’s you and me, kiddo. There’s no one else.”
“Is this about Damien?”
The older man pushed away from his son. He realized it had been a mistake to come here. “You were always the quick one.”
Ray was starting to think his father was losing it. “Dad, you’re not a cop anymore.”
It was a kick to the gut. Red had heard the same thing for months - from his buddies and his bosses, from the cowards and the bureaucrats. But now his own son. Red made for the door.
Ray called after his father. “Whatever funny look the mayor gave you back when, you’ve gotta let it go.”
At the door, Red shoved his feet into his boots. “You don’t believe me. All right. None of you bastards believe me.”
Ray tried to block his father from leaving. “Why don’t you stay the night? I can see you’re not doing great. I’ll make up the couch.”
Red stared at his son like he was going to rip his face off. “Boy, get outta my way.”
Ray stepped aside, and Red stormed through the door. Ray watched as his father disappeared into the harsh wet night.
“Sleep it off, dad!”
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