The Poet (1995)

  Backus used the mobile phone to call the store and fill Thorson in on the near miss. I watched on the video as Thorson balled his hand into a fist and lightly bounced it once on the desk. I couldn't tell if it was a sign of disappointment that the arrest had not gone down or maybe a sign of thanks that he would now get the chance to come face to face with the Poet.

  Most of the next four hours was spent in the car with Backus and Carter. At least I had the backseat so I could stretch. The only break came when they sent me around the corner to a deli on Pico to pick up sandwiches and coffee. I went quickly and missed nothing.

  It was a long day, even with the hourly drive-bys Carter made of the store and the arrival of several customers at different times, which always proved to be tense moments until they were identified as real customers, not Gladden.

  By four, Backus was already talking over plans for the next day with Carter, not giving in to the thought that maybe Gladden wasn't coming, that maybe he knew something was amiss and had outsmarted the bureau. He told Carter that he had decided he wanted to open a two-way mike so that he didn't have to use one of the phone lines to communicate with Thorson in the store.

  "I want that fixed by tomorrow," he said.

  "You got it," Carter answered. "After we close this down, I'll go in with technical and get it all fixed up."

  The car dropped into silence again. I could tell Backus and Carter, the veterans of too many stakeouts to recall, were used to long stretches of silent company. To me, though, it made the time pass all the more slowly. Occasionally I attempted conversation but they never carried it further than a few words.

  Shortly after four a car pulled to the curb behind us. I turned around to look and saw it was Rachel. She got out and got into our car next to me.

  "Well, well," Backus said. "I had a feeling you wouldn't stay away for long, Rachel. Are you sure you covered everything you needed to cover in Florida?"

  He was being even but I sensed that he was annoyed that she had rushed back. I think he wanted her in Florida.

  "Everything's fine, Bob. Anything happening here?"

  "Nope, it's been slow."

  When Backus turned back around, she reached over and squeezed my hand on the seat and made a curious face at me. It took me a few moments to realize why.

  "Did you check the mail drop, Rachel?"

  She broke her look away from me and looked at the back of Backus's head. He had not turned around and she was sitting directly behind him.

  "Yes, Bob, I did," she said in a voice slightly tinged with exasperation. "It was a dead end. There was nothing in the box. The owner said that he believed a woman, an older woman, came in every month or so and cleaned it out. He said the only mail that ever came looked like bank statements. I think it was Gladden's mother. She's probably living somewhere around there but I couldn't find a listing and there was nothing from Florida DMV."

  "Maybe you should've stayed a little longer and looked a little harder."

  She was silent a moment. I knew she was still confused by the way Backus was now treating her.

  "Maybe," she said. "But I think that's something the agents in Florida can handle. I'm the lead agent on this case. Remember, Bob?"

  "Yes, I remember."

  The car was silent for a few minutes after that. I spent most of that time staring out my window. When I sensed the tension had dissipated a bit I looked over at Rachel and raised my eyebrows. She raised her hand to reach to my face but then thought better of it and put it down.

  "You shaved."

  "Yeah."

  Backus turned around and looked at me, then returned to his normal position.

  "I thought something was different," he said.

  "How come?" Rachel asked.

  I hiked my shoulders.

  "I don't know."

  A voice crackled over the radio.

  "Customer."

  Carter picked up the mike and said, "What've we got?"

  "White male, twenties, blond hair, carrying a box. No vehicle observed. He's either going in Data or next door for a haircut. He could use one."

  There was a hair salon directly west of Data Imaging Answers. On the east side was an out-of-business hardware store. The observation agents had been calling out the potential customers all day; most of them ended up going into the salon rather than DIA.

  "He's going in."

  I leaned over the seat to look at the monitor and saw the man enter the store with the box. The video frame was a black-and-white image that encompassed the whole showroom. The figure was too grainy and small to be identified as Gladden or not. I held my breath as I had each time a customer had entered. The man walked directly to the desk where Thorson sat. I saw Thorson move his right hand to his midsection, ready to go inside his coat for his weapon if needed.

  "Can I help you?" he asked.

  "Yes, I have these great monthly planners here." He started reaching into the box. Thorson started standing. "I'm selling them to a lot of your neighbors here."

  Thorson grabbed the man's arm to stop him from reaching, then tilted the box down so he could see inside it.

  "I'm not interested," he said after inspecting the contents.

  The salesman, slightly taken aback by Thorson grabbing him, recovered and completed the sales pitch.

  "Are you sure? Just ten bucks. Something like this'll run you thirty, thirty-five dollars in the office supply store. It's genuine Naugahyde and it's-"

  "Not interested. Thank you."

  The salesman turned to Coombs sitting behind the other desk.

  "How 'bout you, sir? Let me show you the deluxe mo-"

  "We're not interested," Thorson barked. "Now if you would please leave the store, we're busy here. There's no soliciting here."

  "Yeah, I can see. Well, have a nice day to you, too."

  The man left the store.

  "People," Thorson said.

  He shook his head as he sat down and didn't say anything more. Then he yawned. Watching it made me yawn, then Rachel caught it from me.

  "The excitement is getting to Gordo," Backus commented.

  Me, too. I needed a caffeine fix. If I had been in the newsroom, I would have had at least six cups by this time of day. But because of the stakeout, there had been only one run for food and coffee and that had been three hours earlier.

  I opened the door.

  "I'm going for coffee. You guys want any?"

  "You're gonna miss it, Jack," Backus kidded.

  "Yeah, right. Now I know why so many cops get hemorrhoids. Sitting and waiting for nothing."

  I got out, my knees cracking as I straightened my body. Carter and Backus said they'd pass on the coffee. Rachel said she would love some. I was hoping she wouldn't say she'd go with me and she didn't.

  "How do you like it?" I asked, though I knew the answer.

  "Black," she said, smiling at my act.

  "Okay. Be right back."

  42

  Carrying four containers of black coffee in a small cardboard box, I stepped through the door of the Data Imaging Answers store to see Thorson's shocked face. Before he could say anything the phone on his desk started ringing. He picked it up and said, "I know."

  He held the phone out for me.

  "For you, sport."

  It was Backus.

  "Jack, get the hell out of there right now!"

  "I will. I just wanted to drop off some coffee to these guys. You saw Gordo, he's falling asleep, it's so boring in here."

  "Very funny, Jack, but get out. Our agreement was that you would do things my way and I would protect the story. Now, please, do as-you've got a customer. Tell Thorson. It's a woman."

  I held the phone against my chest and looked at Thorson.

  "Customer on the way. But it's a woman."

  I held the receiver back up.

  "Okay, I'm out of here," I said to Backus.

  I hung the phone up and took one of the coffee containers out of the box and put it on Thorson's
desk. I heard the door open behind me, the sound of traffic going by on Pico getting momentarily louder and then buffered again by the closed glass. Without turning around to look at the customer I went over to the desk where Coombs was sitting.

  "Coffee?"

  "Thank you very much."

  I put another cup down and reached into the box for packets of sugar and powdered cream and a stirring straw. When I turned around I saw the woman standing in front of Thorson's desk, digging through a big black purse. She had fluffy blond hair in a Dolly Parton cascade. An obvious wig. She wore a white blouse over a short skirt and black stockings. She was tall, even without the high heels. I noticed that when she had opened the door to the shop a strong odor of perfume entered with her.

  "Ah," she said, finding what she was looking for. "I'm here to pick this up for my boss."

  She placed a folded yellow sheet on the desk in front of Thorson. He looked over at Coombs, an attempt to signal that Coombs should take over this transaction.

  "Take it easy, Gordo," I said.

  As I started for the door I looked over at Thorson, expecting him to reply to my repeated use of the nickname Backus had used for him. I saw Thorson looking at the now unfolded sheet she had given him and his eyes fixed on something. I saw his eyes glance at the west wall of the store. I knew he was looking at the camera. At Backus. He then looked up at the woman. I was behind her at this point and could only see Thorson's eyes just over her shoulder. He was rising and I saw his mouth coming open in a silent O. His right arm was coming up and he was reaching inside his jacket. Then I saw her right arm coming up from the bag. When it cleared her torso I saw the knife grasped in her hand.

  She brought the knife down well before Thorson had his arm out of his jacket. I heard his strangled cry as the knife plunged into his throat. He started falling back, a spray of arterial blood going up, hitting her in the shoulder as she leaned all the way over the desk reaching for something.

  She straightened up and spun around, Thorson's gun in hand.

  "Nobody fuckin' move!"

  The woman's voice was gone, replaced by the near hysterical and taut voice of the cornered male animal. He aimed the gun at Coombs and then swung it around at me.

  "Get away from that door. Get in here!"

  I dropped the box with the two coffee containers, raised my hands and moved away from the door, further into the showroom. The man in the dress then wheeled again on Coombs, who shrieked.

  "No! Please, they're watching, no!"

  "Who's watching? Who?"

  "They're watching on the camera!"

  "Who?"

  "The FBI, Gladden," I said in as calm a tone as I could muster, which probably wasn't too far removed from the same shriek that Coombs had emitted.

  "Can they hear?"

  "Yes, they can hear."

  "FBI!" Gladden yelled. "FBI, you got one dead already. You come in here and you'll get two more."

  He then turned to the display table and aimed Thorson's gun at the video camera with the red light on. He fired three times until he hit it and it flew backward off the table, breaking apart.

  "Get over here," he yelled at me. "Where are the keys?"

  "Keys to what?"

  "The goddamn store."

  "Take it easy. I don't work here."

  "Then who does?"

  He turned the gun on Coombs.

  "In my pocket. The keys are in my pocket."

  "Go lock that front door. You try to run through and I'll shoot you down like the camera."

  "Yes, sir."

  Coombs did as he was told and then Gladden ordered both of us to the back of the showroom and told us to sit on the floor against the door to the rear storage room, blocking anybody from charging through. He then turned over both desks so they would act as blinds and maybe even barriers against bullets from outside the front windows. He crouched down behind the desk where Thorson had been.

  I could see Thorson's body from my position. Most of his previously white shirt was soaked in blood. There was no movement and his eyes were half closed and fixed. The handle of a knife still protruded from his throat. I shuddered at the sight, realizing that a moment ago the man was alive and that whether I liked him or not, I knew him. Now he was dead.

  The thought occurred to me then that Backus must be panicked. With the video out, he might not know Thorson's status. If he believed Thorson was alive and there was a chance he could be saved, I could expect the critical response team to start coming through with stun grenades and everything else at any moment. If they believed Thorson to be dead, I might as well settle in for what could be a long night.

  "You don't work here," Gladden said to me. "Who are you? Do I know you?"

  I hesitated. Who was I? Did I tell this man the truth?

  "You're FBI."

  "No. I'm not FBI. I'm a reporter."

  "A reporter? You came for my story, is that it?"

  "If you want to give it. If you want to talk to the FBI, put that phone over there on the floor back on its hook. They'll call on that line."

  He looked over at the phone that had come apart on the floor when he had overturned the desk. Just then it began emitting the sharp tone signaling it was off the hook. He could reach the line without moving out of cover. He dragged the phone over and hung it up. He looked at me.

  "I recognize you," he said. "You-"

  The phone rang and he picked it up.

  "Talk," he commanded.

  There was a long silence until he finally responded to whatever had been said.

  "Well, well, Agent Backus, good to make your acquaintance again. I have learned a lot about you since we last met in Florida. And Dad, of course. Read his book, I always hoped we would talk again . . . You and I. . . . No, you see, that would be impossible because I have these two hostages here. You fuck with me, Bob, and I fuck with them in ways you won't believe when you come in here. You remember Attica? Think about that, Agent Backus. Think about how Dad would handle this. I gotta go."

  He hung up and looked at me. He pulled the wig off and threw it angrily across the showroom.

  "How the hell did you get in here, reporter? The FBI doesn't let-"

  "You killed my brother. That's what got me in."

  Gladden looked at me a long moment.

  "I didn't kill anyone."

  "They've got you cold. No matter what you do to us, they've got you, Gladden. And they're not going to let you out of here. They-"

  "All right, shut the fuck up! I don't have to listen to that."

  Gladden picked up the phone and dialed a number.

  "Let me talk to Krasner, it's an emergency . . . William Gladden . . . Yeah, that one."

  We looked at each other while he waited for the lawyer to pick up. I tried to show a calm exterior but inside my brain was racing. I didn't see any way out of this without somebody else dying. Gladden didn't seem like the type who could be talked into raising his hands and giving up so he could be strapped into the electric chair or the gas chamber in a few years, depending on which state got the first shot at him.

  Krasner apparently came on the line and for the next ten minutes Gladden heatedly reviewed the situation for him, getting angry at whatever course of action Krasner suggested he take. Finally, he slammed the phone down.

  "Fuck that."

  I kept quiet. I figured that every minute that went by was in my favor. The FBI had to be formulating something out there. The sharpshooters, the surgical entry team.

  The light was dimming outside. I looked through the front plate-glass window and to the plaza shopping center across the street. My eyes followed the roofline but I saw no figures, not even the telltale barrel of a sniper's rife. Not yet.

  I looked away and then quickly back. I realized there was no traffic going by on Pico. They had closed the road. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen soon. I looked over at Coombs, wondering if there was some way of letting him know to brace himself.

  Coombs had sw
eated through his shirt. The knot of his tie, the recipient of all the sweat sliding down his cheeks and neck, was soaked. He looked like someone who had just spent the better part of an hour throwing up. He was sick.

  "Gladden, show 'em something. Let Mr. Coombs go. He doesn't have anything to do with this."

  "No, I don't think so."