Outline Chap. 19 – Where house, Warehouse

Before the bartender can blink, Marshal has him by the elbow and is 'escorting' him to the back office at the rear of the dimly lit bar. The guy is starts to yell, but something Marshal mutters into his ear gets him to shut up. Stan, and Mary follow with James between them. None of the customers seem interested.

The office is tiny. There is barely room for the five of them, a large desk, two chairs and a tall file cabinet. A small window looks out onto the parking lot. Not many cars today. Too early, too bright and cold for the drinking crowd.

Mary watches Stan check the hall, then ease the door closed. Marshall shoves the bartender into the chair behind the desk, towering over the bartender. Out of the corner of her eye Mary sees James lean toward the desk. She hooks her arm around his neck, pressing her forearm against his Adam's apple. "That wasn't very smart, DAD. Stand down or my boot heel and your foot will be occupying the same space. And I'm not going to carry you. You'll be limping into prison."

James gurgles, swallowing hard to escape the pressure. Finally he croaks, "OK. OK.," and leans away from the desk, and Jerry. Across the desk, Marshall catches her eye, his concern ballooning. Mary ignores him.

Mary is familiar with anger. It energizes her. This, her Dad in a choke hold is different. She doesn't burn with anger. She is cold. Colder than the Jersey winter. Her actions, her thinking, seem effortless. She's sliding on ice, heading to destination still unknown.

"So, you do know this guy." Mary loosens her hold on her father." Where did you two lovebirds meet?" The silence is deafening "Don't everyone answer at once."

The bartender looks at James, eyes narrow with hate. "Aw, did you two break up?" she asks her father. Clearly James is no friend.

"Marshall grabs the bartender by the ear, twisting it painfully. "We haven't been introduced, what's your name, your real name?" When the bartender continues his silent treatment, Marshall yanks him up. Once he's standing hands against the back wall, Marshall thrusts his hands into the man's' pockets. "Let's see what the evidence fairy brought us."

"Look, I'm just the bartender here. I try to keep my nose clean and do whatever the owner tells me," he pleads. It's chilly in the office, but beads of sweat form on his forehead. "The customers are going to be looking for me."

Marshall pulls keys, change and a wallet from the man's pockets. He dumps the contents onto the desk.
Opening the wallet, Marshall reads the name on the New Jersey driver's license. "Larry Kurtz. The picture doesn't do you justice." Marshall puts the drivers license on the desk so Stan and Mary can see it. It isn't their man. Shuffling through the cards in the wallet, Marshall comes up with two other licenses, one from New York and one from Illinois.

"Real name," Marshall's voice is low, the words escaping through clenched teeth.

James, restrained for now, supplies, "His name is Jerry Kozinski. Eddie Pfaff owns this dump. He's connected to the Sacra Corona branch of the mafia. I don't know who his boss is. I don't know why they want me."

"I do," Stan supplies. He looks from Jerry to James, calculating. "Wonder which one of these two humps the boss wants dead. Maybe he figured they would do one another. Save him the trouble. Since that didn't happen," Stan continues thoughtfully, "we can make it happen. We leak enough of the wrong info to the right people and *bang* the mob will take care of these humps for us." Stan takes a step toward Jerry, then turns and walks toward James, all the while nodding his head. "Uh huh," that's the way this will go."

Mary looks appraisingly at Stan. The quiet, mambo dancing Chief never raised his voice to her. Never threatened a witness. He was doing it now, and doing it better than Mary. Despite enjoying bad ass Stan, she holds up a hand, asking for time. "Did your boss order the hit on me?"

Marshall adds a wrist lock to his ear twist. "Answer her."

"No, I don't think so," he grunts, in pain. "He didn't order a hit."

"Explain," Mary demands.

"He said he didn't care one way or the other. It was a side job. A friend of his asked. He wanted the blonde marshal. Said she was worth a lot of money."

"And who is this 'friend,'" Marshall put more pressure on the bartender's wrist, making him wince and groan.

His "I don't know" is followed by a yelp of pain. "Some guy, a big guy, not tall, y'know but big. Early thirties, maybe. He wears expensive clothes. He usually wears a long black coat and white scarf. Comes here once in a while. I think," he pauses to gulp, realizing the serious consequences of telling the marshals anything. "I think he checks on the place for the boss."

Mary throws a worried look toward Stan. "We can't let him go. He can identify us."

"But he won't. Right Jerry boy?" Marshall says to the sweating bartender. "You'd be in more trouble for failing to lead them to us."

"I can keep a secret," Jerry replies.

"Really Jerry? Prove it." Marshall demands. Jerry's back arches as he tries to relieve the pain in his wrist. Marshall isn't sure where this is leading, but he wants the reason behind the attacks on Mary. He needs her to be safe.

"There's a loose floor board under the desk. The real books are kept there. Dates, amounts, and customers." Marshall looks to Stan to see if that's good enough. Stan nods, and Marshall releases Jerry. "Ow." Jerry rubs his ear, flattening it back against his head.

"Under the desk Jerry. Get the books," Stan ordered.

The large man barely fits under the desk. Marshall encourages him, pushing on his backside till he yelps. His head makes a loud thump as it hits the modesty panel. He curses. The next sound is the squeak of a floor board being coaxed up. Jerry hands the ledger to Marshall before getting out.

Stan picks up the slim gray book. "We'll get these back to you," Stan promises. "Unless word about our visit gets around."

Jerry starts to leave when Marshall points his Glock at the change. "Take it." Jerry scrapes the change into his hand and puts it back into his pants pocket. Sliding past Stan, he stays as far away from James as he can.

"Now what?" Mary asks. "Where does that get us?"

James tells her. "The Sacra Corona run the sex trade. What they lack in numbers they make up in brutality. Keeping women at the container port is just their style. Run the names, the connections are there."

"So, they're the ones trying to kill me?" Mary asks.

"No," James tells them. "They are the ones trying to kill me. I don't think they knew you existed till Ginger was taken. I don't think they were trying to kill you. If they had, you'd be dead. It's like the guy said, they wanted you, alive."

"They want me? Huh." Marshall's fear for Mary's safety makes him grab James elbow in a control hold. James grunts when he puts pressure on it. Mary's run in with Paddy O'Connor was no accident. He was waiting for her.

"You think Rosco is working with them?" Mary asks, unable to see how the pieces fit.

"No, no." James grunts at the pressure. "Rosco knows better. He told me he has contacts with the Sicilian mafia in Jersey. He went to them for front money. They always collect on a debt." James looks around nervously. "We need to get out of here."

"He's right. We're going now. Right Dad," she adds as she puts pressure on his wrist pushing him out the door and into the dim hallway.

Back in the office, Marshall checks the office. He'd love to take the place apart, but without a warrant, anything they found would be inadmissible. Stan hands Marshall the ledger. That could give them the connections, the answers they need. It fits easily into one of his inner pockets. He sees Stan eying the burner phone apprehensively.

"Here," Stan looks up, and slides the phone back into his pocket. Mary is already hustling James out the back door to the car. Marshall tosses Stan a phone. "New?" he asks. Marshall nods. "You bought extras," Stan's approves.

"Like Mary says, I'm the Boy Scout. Always prepared. Meet you at the car." He ducks out of the room, eager to catch up with Mary. He doesn't want to leave her alone with her father. The combination is too volatile. Being with him is winding Mary tighter and tighter. She's getting ready to pop, but it can't be now.

Alone in the small office, Stan calls Eleanor. Despite not recognizing the number, Eleanor picks up. He relays the information from James. She has back tracked her last safe house request. Stan is relieved to hear that all her contacts are secure. They talk for less than a minute.

Marshall shoves James into the back seat of the sedan. Mary is watching James in the rear view mirror. Seeing James shiver makes her think of winters in Jersey. Cold days in an apartment with no heat. Jinx warm with whiskey. All of them huddled under the blankets till it was time to go 'shopping.' All the shops were warm. She starts the car to get the heater going.

Waiting for Stan, Marshall and Mary watch for movement of any kind. They parked behind the bar, close to the rear door, and out of sight of anyone pulling into the parking lot. She eases the car to the corner of the building so they can watch the driveway. Mary is watching the back door of the bar when James points to the black SUV entering the parking lot out front. A fleshy young man in a black overcoat and white scarf get out of the car and enter the bar.

"That didn't take long," Mary's knee jitters against the keys in the ignition. "C'mon Stan."

"That's the guy I saw near my motel," James says. "That's the dumb shit that tried to run my Mary down."

Mary growls when James says 'my Mary.' She drives to the SUV. Marshall checks the fender. "There's a dent and scrape on the right front fender." Could be from you, Sunshine. Bet your badge made the scrape." To Mary his flat tone is revealing. He uses that tight voice when he's overcome with emotion. She's heard it when they make love. She prefers to hear it only then, not now, with her father in the car, and another takedown to come.

James reaches for the door handle but Marshall, next to him in the back seat, is quicker. "No you don't." No way he's letting the man who scarred Mary out of his sight.

"I got the plates," Mary assures him. "We wait for Stan." She knows Marshall is waiting for Stan. It's her father who needs to be told. Mary drives around the SUV then stops for the back of the bar just as Stan appears. She leans over, opening the passenger door and he slides in.

"Well?" The puzzle pieces are beginning to fall into place, but there are still blank spots. Maybe Stan has the rest of the pieces.

"It wasn't Eleanor. Her contacts check out clean."

"Which means it was the coin we found on James."

"Yes." Stan has seen the SUV. "What's going on."

"That's the car that hit me. The driver just went into the bar. He's the man my Dad saw at the bar the other night. He thinks the guy followed him."

"That him?" Stan gestures toward a guy in a long black coat getting into the black SUV. Stan and Marshall slide down. Marshall pushes James's head down and Mary curls over the steering wheel, watching through the steering wheel. The SUV's warm exhaust creates a cloud in the cold air as it screeches into gear and tears down the street.

"Son of a bitch." Mary hunches over the steering wheel, peering out the window. She peels out after him.

"Aren't you being a bit obvious, Mare?" Marshall hopes to slow her down, postpone the inevitable. He wants this guy as badly as Mary, as badly as Stan. The three of them are hobbled by James and have no plan, no back up.

"Shut up," she warns. "Let's see how you like being tailed, mother humper." She leans back, rotating her neck and shoulders, preparing for the chase. She is comfortable with her usual role, the hunter.

This is a dangerous game, one neither Marshal nor Stan want to play. James has leaned forward, peering out the windshield, as eager as his daughter.

They've left the main roads and are driving into an industrial area. Traffic is light. The ice on the road is gone. Mary speeds between the hulking buildings, down alleys, paralleling the road. The SUV driver knows is leading them through a maze of storage buildings. A few container trucks are parked along the road, but parking lots near the buildings are small, and for the most part, empty. "Dad, do you know who he is? Is he the one who loaned Rosco the money?"

Before James can answer, the SUV stops at the loading dock of another anonymous warehouse. "He's either got backup inside or is an overconfident douche bag," Marshall surmises. Mary's voting for douche. The SUV is alone in the parking lot. No roof of the building is coated with snow. No heat in that building. Cold storage indeed.

Marshall looks wistfully at the roofline. From up there he could see what's in store for them. Mary jerks the car into park, throws the door open and runs to the steps of the loading dock. As Mary gets close to the entrance, Stan drags James with him. Marshall catches up with her, and stands in front of her by the door. She scowls, but allows Marshall to go first. Their exhalations form gray clouds in the late afternoon air. They are clotted at the doorway, close. James is too close for Mary's comfort. He whispers into her ear,"Give me a gun, Sweetheart."

"No." She doesn't have time for this. "The DoJ doesn't allow guns for felons," Mary tells her father. Her attention is on the warehouse door, waiting for word, waiting for Marshall. Stan is surveilling the area, and the roof tops.

Mary's shoulders drop in relief when Marshall returns. "We're too exposed out here, but it's not much better inside. There are rows of wooden packing crates where anyone could hide. I don't like it."

"We don't have to like it." Mary growls and lunges through the doorway. Marshall gives Stan his 'what could I do' shrug. Stan, Marshall and James have no choice but to follow. Windows set near the roof allow the weak winter light into the dark dusty building. They spot Mary bent and crab walking skimming the crates near the wall. There are stairs leading to a catwalk ahead. Looking up, they can see a paneled wall and a closed door promises an office, records, evidence. Marshall is right behind her.

"Looks real cozy," Mary whispers hoarsely. "Nice place for a shootout." Knowing Marshall will cover her, and Stan has James, Mary quietly climbs the steps putting her weight only on the section closest to the wall, praying it won't squeak. Despite her precaution the structure groans. Already she can look over the crates. She looks up then at Marshall. He gives her the thumbs up and keeps going. Halfway up Mary looks down. She catches a gleam to his left. "Gun," she shouts. So much for the stealth approach.

From her perch on the stairs, Mary takes a moment to check out the rest of the warehouse. Going higher will expose her, but give her a better view. She goes up. Stan whispers to Marshall, "What the hell is she doing?"

"High ground, Stan." It's the obvious move. That's what has Marshall worried. It's too obvious. Mary is too exposed. When he looks back, Mary is on the catwalk, checking for the shooter. She startles when Marshall and Stan tumble some crates, sending rats squeaking and birds fluttering. They create an alcove of crates. Protection, but also a dead end.

"Marshall, right," she shouts, and then a shot rings out. Mary has spotted two thugs dressed in black closing on the men. She gets a clean shot at one guy. He is down, if not out. Marshall scales the cartons and takes aim at the man in the long black overcoat approaching from the opposite direction. Instead of shooting Marshall, he aims up, at Mary. Marshall glances to the catwalk but Mary isn't there. The door is ajar.

In the office Mary is opening drawers slamming them shut. In the center drawer she finds a single sheet of paper with the word 'exports' at the top. She lays it on the desk and takes a picture, then replaces it in the desk. Hearing noises downstairs, she leaves to check on her friends.

Marshall and Stan look up when they hear a deep rumbling sound. A desk chair is rolling across the steel grating of the catwalk. Mary is crouched behind the chair. She checks the warehouse floor. Mr. Black Topcoat is still moving, advancing on her friends, her Marshall. She squeezes off two shots, but neither connect with her nemesis. He keeps Marshall and Stan pinned down and arrives at the bottom of the stairs.

Mary pushes the heavy desk chair down the steps and follows it. It tumbles and the black overcoat tries to move aside. He's too late. The chair connects and knocks him down like a bowling pin.

Marshall and Stan provide covering fire as Mary squeezes under the hand rail and drops to the warehouse floor. Marshall calls out the location of one shooter when a third man appears. He's aiming at Marshall. Mary and Stan provide a barrage of bullets while Marshall vaults over a carton. He lands lightly on the floor, flexing his knees and ducking a bullet. Mary reloads and goes after the shooter with both guns, angry beyond words that someone would try to shoot Marshall. She gets that guy, but there is another one.

"Where did that mother humper come from?" Mary shouts. She dives toward Marshall. They form a firing square, guns facing out. Where did James get a gun? The foursome move together, a gun pointing in each direction, firing as they go. The square dissolves when they get to the door. There's no time to check outside before they tumble out onto the loading dock, and run for the car.

Once in the car, Mary barks. "Where's James?"

"Just go, we'll get him later," Marshall says. "Go," Stan confirms. Two more men are at the warehouse door, heading down the steps, guns drawn. "He's got an AK47. Go, go, go," Marshall pounds the seat back.

Outgunned, Mary peels out of the parking lot. This time she stays on what passes for a road. No alleys, just a straight paved street. All three marshals scan for any activity, and James. Mary drives a few blocks and parks behind another warehouse. She jerks the car to a stop, disgusted.

"Are you crazy?" It's not clear if she's talking to Marshall or Stan. "How could you let him get away? He's a fugitive. It's our job . . ." She notices that Marshall is unaffected by her outburst. Even Stan seems nonplused. Something is going on. They know something she doesn't. She glares at Stan, then focuses her fierceness on Marshall.

Marshall gives her his best crocodile smile. "I put a tracker on him. We can pick him later, after the cavalry arrives. This time we don't have to hijack someone else's trace."

"Oh." That does seem better than getting shot at by the thugs at the warehouse. She should have known Marshall had a plan for just this contingency. Mollified, she leans back and listens to Stan giving his badge number and reporting shots fired to the locals. Jersey marshals are his next call. Soon the street is swarming with black and whites. Stan handles the police, Marshall and Mary stand apart from the hubbub, keep watch and reloading their guns. Mary nudges Marshall in the ribs, getting his undivided attention.

"Where did James get a gun?" Mary asks.

"Must have picked up one from the guys we shot," Marshall surmises. "I didn't give him one."

The warehouse is searched, but even the guy Mary is certain she hit is gone. Only shell casings and bullet holes and blood remain. The local PD leave as darkness descends. The marshals return to the Jersey Annex.

Stan and Varney are talking in Varney's office. Marshall gets his laptop set up and runs his tracker program to find James. Being shot at makes Mary hungry. She raids the vending machines, and joins Marshall at the desk in front of Varney's office. Marshall glances toward her when a cup of coffee appears on the desk. It's joined by a day old Danish which looks delectable to Marshall.

Mary pulls up a chair and watches the screen. Stan joins them. "He's on the move." Marshall points to the moving dot. Stan and Mary focus on the screen.

"Damn, what is he doing going back there?" Stan is second guessing himself. "We should have stayed."

"Without the tracker we wouldn't know he was there, and we'd be sitting ducks for the rest of the thugs," Mary reminds him. She's zipping her jacket, already heading toward the elevator.

"Go with her Stan. Call me and keep the line open." Marshall hands Stan two earpieces already tuned to the frequency he will squawk. Marshall is torn. His place is with Mary. Chief Varney sees Mary leave. Marshall quickly fills him in. The Chief swears, grabs some equipment and runs after Stan and Mary. He asks one of the marshals in the bullpen to call the garage and have them hold Mary and Stan.

Marshall jerks when the walkie talkie on the desk next to him comes alive with static. It's Stan. Varney intercepted them and has gotten another marshal to come with them. This time they're in a shielded transport vehicle with vests. "We'll get him, Marshall. Mary will see to that," Stan assures him.

The ride back to the warehouse seems to take forever to Mary. She wants this over. She wants her Dad in jail. She wants, she wants. She and Stan are in the back seat. Stan thinks he hears a sob. That couldn't be Mary. He sees her hand, wiping her eyes. Stan tentatively pats her on the arm. "We'll get him, Mary. We'll get him."

Mary is appalled. This fugitive doesn't deserve her tears. But it's Daddy. Her seven year old voice reminds her. Snap out of it. Dammit Shannon, focus.

Their earpieces come to life. "He's stopped. He's inside the same building, about 10 yards from the door."

Stan, Mary and Varney run from the SUV to the warehouse. Mary is focused on the door. Stan and Varney and the other marshal scan the area. Mary yanks open the door only to be greeting by blackness. Varney, close behind her, gets out a flashlight and takes the lead. Ear pieces in place, Stan and Mary follow, crouching below the level of the crates, their guns in a two handed grip, pointing down.

They work their way between the aisle of crates. "You're there," Marshall's voice tells them. "You're right on top of him."

"It's not him, Marshall. It's the guy in the black topcoat." It's not James Shannon. The man in the black wool overcoat is lying on the warehouse floor. A pool of blood seeps from his head. The group pauses, listening for attackers. Only the sound of the building are heard. Varney and Stan focus their lights on the man. A profound "son of a bitch" echoes in their earpieces.

Mary approaches up to the body. She squats. The man's right hand is resting on his chest. His hand holds down a square of white paper. A metal button from a pair of jeans lies on top of the paper. Stan points to the button.

"We found your tracker Marshall." Mary shines her light on the paper careful not to touching it. The walkie talkie squawks. Marshall's voice is getting louder as he demands to know what is going on. Mary doesn't hear a thing. She's reading the latest letter from her father.

You're safe Sweetheart. Go live your life. Give me and Ginger lots of grandbabies. I wish you the sun, the moon. You have found your own star. Love, Daddy. There is a crude drawing of a US Marshal badge above the signature.