Chapter 1

Tijuana, Mexico

May, 1971 – More than two years earlier

Sixty year old Clark Smith was running a numbers game south of the border just to make ends meet. He would find American tourists visiting popular spots in Tijuana and offer them a shell game with good odds. He would routinely take a loss early on only to come back and skillfully turn the tables back in his favor. Smith's pleasant demeanor coupled with a contagious energy could catch a tourist off guard. Before they realized it, they had not only given their winnings back, but by the end of the transaction, usually had a substantially less spending money in their pocket.

Late of Las Vegas, Smith fled to Mexico after he welched on a tab from one of the lesser known private casinos, Little Monaco. The older man was now underground in a foreign country, but knew he had to remain that way until the pressure from the casino bosses died down. While he had a good run in Vegas, he left with a five figure loss that was compounding interest on a daily basis.

Las Vegas, Nevada

When the debt was nearing $50,000, the casino boss, Mr. Bennett, called in one of his hired 'researchers' whose business it was to find out all he could about the casino's frequent gamblers. The 300 pound, six foot five inch researcher, named Petit Jones, came back with a thick file.

"Clark Smith, aka Clarence Stratton, aka Charlie Stakowski, has been around," Jones said as he reviewed the file. "He's a widower who's been drifting for years after his wife and daughter died in a car accident more than twenty years ago. He's originally from central California. He worked in a couple of law firms as a tax accountant. One was in Modesto; the other was in Sacramento. Go figure."

Mr. Bennett wanted to know more. "He was a solid customer over the past few months, but then it seemed like he hit the skids and became reckless. On top of that, he wrangled a deeply overinflated credit line. We can't have that. How can we get to him?"

"He's been seen in Tijuana recently, boss. We can go down and beat the money out of him," Jones cracked his knuckles as he made the suggestion.

"Mr. Smith is the kind of man who doesn't care about his own wellbeing. I've watched him in action. Does he have anyone else that we can lean on?"

"He's got a son in San Francisco. They haven't spoken in years. The kid doesn't even go by his dad's last name; he uses his mother's. Nevertheless, Smith has been known to brag about him. The dealers had supplied me with his name and we found his address."

"Good. Do you think you might be able to get to the son? Then we'll deliver a message to Mr. Smith that unless he pays off his debt, he can bid his boy good-bye."

"Got it, boss. I'll take a couple of boys up to Frisco while Ralphie makes a run for the border to have a discussion with Mr. Smith."

"Sounds like a plan. I'll bet if he puts his mind to it, he'll figure out how to get my fifty grand back".

Tijuana, Mexico

Wednesday, 2am

Clark Smith awoke to the sound of creaky footsteps near the door of his hotel room. The hotel itself was seedy and decrepit. In the two weeks he'd stayed there, he became used all sorts of strange noises throughout the night. But this time it appeared that someone was lingering outside his door. Peering over to the clock on the nightstand, he saw that it was just after two in the morning.

What the hell? he grumbled to himself. He tried to rollover and get more sleep, but became unnerved and restless.

A minute later, he heard a knock. He hoped the rapping was on someone else's door and decided to lay still. With the second knock, he knew that this was no accident or mistake. The men from Little Monaco had found him.

Grabbing his shoes, he ran to the window hoping to find a way to vacate the room. The problem was there was no fire escape and his was three floors up. Scrambling, he checked to see if there as a connecting room somewhere.

It was then that Ralphie, a big bruiser of a henchman from Little Monaco, kicked the door in. Clark attempted to run out the door past his guests, but one of Ralphie's men grabbed him and quickly threw him on the bed. The other assistant to Ralphie quietly shut the door.

"Hey fellows, there's been some kind of mistake," Smith began as he sat up.

"The mistake is yours, Smith. You owe the casino fifty grand. If you can produce that money right now, we'll take it and you won't see us again. Other than that, we're here to lean on you."

"I don't have that kind of cash, but I promise I'll get it. I'm working on getting a gig down here and I'll pay you back, I swear," Smith pleaded; his voice filled with desperation.

"Oh, I see. What kind of gig?" Ralphie decided to play along.

"I got a good place for three card monte. I've been pulling in some dough there. I'm also making some other connections and trying to get into some poker games."

"Interesting. Poker: that's what did you in back in Vegas. A little hair of the dog then. Well, I hope you are able to get that cash in three days, because if not, someone close to you is going to die."

"What? Who do you mean? I don't have any family."

"We know you do. We know you have a son in San Francisco. Got his name and address."

Clark shook his head and tried, but failed, to hide his fear. "No, I don't know nobody up there."

"You're lying. You're lying about getting the money and you're lying about your son. We know where he is. I've got three guys staked outside his apartment now," Ralphie said with a smile.

Clark Smith sat on the edge of his bed and knew he was trapped. Ralphie continued. "Tell you what the boys in Frisco are going to do. In about five minutes, they are going to bust in and grab your kid. They'll take him someplace and wait for our instructions. You have all day Wednesday and all day Thursday. If the fifty grand is not delivered to where we say by Friday noon, they've been ordered to kill your boy. Pure and simple. And to give the fellows something to do, we'll have them break one of your son's bones a day. That way, you'll know your boy is in pain the entire time."

"Please, isn't there something we can work out? I'll go back with you to Vegas. I'll do anything you need at the casino," Smith pleaded.

Ralphie walked over and picked Smith up by the collar. "We don't work that way. If we did, we'd have a casino filled with unskilled welchers like yourself. Nope, we're leaving now, but we'll be watching you and be in touch with our demands."

Ralphie let go of Smith's shirt as the older man fell to the ground. The men departed, leaving Smith in stunned silence. He quickly realized that he needed to contact his son. They had not spoken in years, but the older man had kept his son's phone number after he obtained it through a mutual relative. His intention was always to have a role in his son's life, but he never could quite make the call. Until now.

Clark dialed the numbers as quickly as he could. He was impatient as the line rang. "C'mon, Steve. Answer the phone."

San Francisco

2:05 am

Steve Keller, the twenty six year old Assistant Inspector in the Bureau of Inspectors division of the San Francisco Police Department, was sound asleep in his bed. His day had been a long one, and the young man was in a deep slumber after getting to bed only two hours earlier.

Thinking it was part of a dream, Steve did not react to the phone ringing. Slowly, however, he realized that real life beckoned. He groaned as he thought of who'd be calling at that hour.

"Mike, don't you ever sleep?" he asked in a groggy voice.

"Son, it's me." Smith responded.

"Huh? Who is this?" Steve said as he stifled a yawn.

"It's your dad. Steve, wake up. Listen to me. You are in deep trouble, kiddo. There are some men who are going to try to hold you for ransom while I raise funds to cover a debt I have."

"Dad? What?" Steve shrieked. "I haven't talked to you in five years and this is the first thing you say to me?"

"Steve, listen to me. Leave your apartment. Go out the back if you can. Anything, just get away from there."

Steve couldn't believe his ears, but his father's words began to sink in. Just as he was about to respond, the bedroom door burst open.

"Steve, they are going to…" Smith shouted through the phone.

"They're here," Steve yelled. He rolled over to his night stand to retrieve his gun, but was quickly overpowered by the three men. "Call my work!" he yelled, hoping his father would hear.

Clark winced as he heard the struggle of his son who was some five hundred miles away.

Petit Jones opened the drawer that Steve failed to reach. "You carry a piece, huh? Well, not tonight," The goon rammed his fist into Steve's face. Steve was shocked and felt blood trickling through his nose. Jones quickly had Steve pinned to the bed.

"Get the rag," Petit ordered. Pete Marfisi had a rag in one hand and a can of chloroform in the other. He quickly saturated the rag and smothered Steve's face with the material. With a bleeding nose, Steve struggled to breathe. As the rag fell over his face, he had no choice but to gulp the air through his mouth. He fought back momentarily, but then lost consciousness in seconds.

"Hand me the syringe," Petit ordered. He jabbed the needle in Steve's motionless arm and began to draw blood. After dumping the contents of a nearby ashtray filled with sunflower shells onto the floor, Petit transferred the blood from the syringe into the container. Marfisi watched as the receptacle was half filled and then took a cloth, dampened the corner with Steve's blood and painted the words on the wall: Pay up or he dies!

Continuing to work with the syringe, Marfisi and Petit drew and extruded more blood onto Steve's sheets, which gave the image of splattering. They also poured the remaining contents of the bowl onto the bed, leaving behind a bloody mess. A little bit of blood certainly went a long way.

As they grabbed Steve, bleeding from the nose and arm and clad only in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, they threw a blue blanket over the young man.

Petit Jones picked up the handset which was still active and said, "We're watching you, Smith. We'll be in contact." He slammed the phone down on a bewildered and frightened Smith.

Phase one of Mr. Bennett's plan to retrieve his funds was in place.