Only the Strong Read online

  Closing his eyes and picturing his fist slamming into his brother’s face, Derrick laughed and shook his head. He wouldn’t let his brother stand in his way.

  One of Derrick’s many strengths was his ability to adapt and overcome any circumstance. After all, the ability to adapt to one’s environment was crucial to being selected by nature as the instrument of advancement for one’s species. And Derrick Gladstone intended to carve his name into the evolution of mankind.

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Seventeen

  Baxter Kincaid stepped from his front door onto Haight and Ashbury, the long stretch of concrete where Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin and other icons of the hippie movement had lived and spread their unique philosophy. Baxter didn’t consider himself to be a hippie and was a disciple of no man. Still, he respected the efforts of the hippie founding fathers and mothers. The messages of peace and love were ones that he strongly identified with, but he also realized that it was not Hendrix and Jerry Garcia who had originally spread such a message.

  The sun shined brightly, and the weather was beautiful. As he stepped out onto the sidewalk, having descended from an apartment where Hendrix himself had once resided, he spread his arms and thanked God for such a wonderful day.

  Then he stuck a joint in his mouth and flipped open his Zippo lighter. The ace of spades adorned its face over an inscription declaring the greatest commandment: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, your mind, and all your strength, and love others as yourself.”

  He inhaled deeply and took the sweet herb into his lungs. As he did so, he said a silent prayer, honoring the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit.

  Then Baxter headed down the street to Amoeba Music. He was in search of a Beck album on vinyl, but his ulterior motive was to spend a bit of time flirting with the goth chic whom he knew to be on duty that morning. Jenny Vasillo was the most attractive woman he had ever encountered. Perhaps not the most beautiful, but she possessed an inner strength which filled Baxter with a sense of excitement and warmth every time he entered her orbit.

  As he walked, he stuck a small Bluetooth headset into his ear and brought up a recording app on his phone. His neighbor Kevin, a young techie whom Baxter suspected to be a paranoid schizophrenic, had convinced him to start a website and blog for his private investigation agency. Baxter had considered the idea a waste of time. If he needed clients, the universe would provide them; he was not concerned about searching them out. But Kevin had been adamant and promised to handle everything for free, and so Baxter had let the kid have his fun. A few times a week, he would record something and send it on to Kevin to correct and post on the website. The blog had actually earned a bit of a following, although Baxter wasn’t sure why. He mostly just rambled about whatever popped into his head at the time.

  Starting the recording and thinking of a time in the not-so-distant past when people thought you were crazy when you walked down the street talking to yourself, he said in his slow, south Texas drawl, “Baxter’s Log, star date . . . whatever the hell date it is . . . There’s darkness in us all—I’ve seen that time and again—but I don’t believe in evil. Evil is an illusion. It doesn’t truly exist. That may seem like a strange thing to say, especially from someone like me who often pays the bills exploring the darker side of the human soul. You may ask: How can he say that evil doesn’t exist when we can see so much of it in the world? You don’t have to look very far or think very hard to conjure up some fine examples. I’ll give you an easy one. Adolf Hitler. The unspeakable acts of barbarism and cruelty committed by the leader of the Nazis and his regime are pretty universally considered evil. Pol Pot, Ted Bundy, Richard Nixon, the list goes on. So how can I possibly say that evil doesn’t exist?”

  Baxter paused to fist bump one of his neighbors who owned a vintage clothing store.

  He continued, “To answer that question—Is evil real or merely an illusion?—we must ask another. What is darkness? Can you touch darkness? Does it have shape and form and substance? No, darkness is merely the absence of light. So what is evil? Evil is merely the absence of good. And we as human beings cannot be one hundred percent good or one hundred percent evil. We all have the capacity for both. Most would agree that only a loving God or a hate-filled Satan would be able to achieve the pinnacle of that spectrum. I would argue, however, that even the Devil isn’t one hundred percent evil. After all, he started his career as an angel and was created by the same Universe that breathed life into every one of us. It’s just that old red is as far away from the ‘light’ as one can travel. I can almost guarantee you that Lucifer doesn’t see himself as the bad guy. I suspect he feels somehow justified in his torment of mankind and disobedience toward his creator. And the same can be said about our friend Adolph. He thought he was saving humanity from itself through racial and ethnic cleansing. Evil isn’t something we are; it’s something we do.”

  He paused to consider that, taking a long drag from the joint. “So how do we determine whether our actions are good or evil? I think it’s simple. Do your deeds sow the seeds of love and peace or hatred and discord? Unlike evil, hatred is very real. It’s not merely the absence of love. Hatred is the conscious decision to choose destruction over creation, despair over repair, judgment and condemnation over joy and harmony. So remember, brothers and sisters out there on this digital web of interconnected thoughts and information, step into the light and let your love shine bright.”

  He laughed as a car drove by right after he ended the recording blaring out a Beatles song, which proclaimed that love is all we need. It was as if the Universe was giving him a big thumbs up. He continued to chuckle as he puffed the last of his joint and stamped it out in a small, sand-filled ashtray and trashcan beside the entrance to Amoeba Music.

  As he stepped into the store, security checked his fanny pack, which contained an eighth of herb and a small metal pipe. The security guard knew him and had no problem with the weed, for which Baxter possessed a medical card allowing him to legally consume marijuana—which wouldn’t matter in a few months when California officially legalized recreational use. The guard was merely verifying that he held no weapons, which was something Baxter rejected on principle, but he allowed the big man to follow his routine. The kid didn’t know that Baxter had once been a homicide detective and, after leaving the SFPD, had vowed to never pick up a gun again.

  As he approached the counter, Jennifer Vasillo’s pale cheeks flushed with red. Her skin was the color of alabaster, and her hair was an artificial match for a raven’s feather. A round nose ring pierced her left nostril, and tattoos of unicorns and roses adorned her forearms.

  Baxter tilted his trilby hat and said, “I bid good morning to you, fair Jennifer.” He gave her his best smile, showing off the dimples in his cheeks. Chicks always dug his dimples.

  Jenny V rolled her eyes and said, “As always, Mr. Kincaid, you’re full of something that starts with an ‘S.’”

  “When are you going to let me take you out on the town?”

  “’Out on the town’? Seriously, who says that? How old are you? And I’ll think about allowing you to ‘date’ me when you get a real job.”

  “That’s harsh. I do pretty well as a private investigator. And I’m captain of my own ship. Master of my own destiny.”

  “I’m sure you’re great at being a ‘dick’ for sale. So great that Faraz, that greasy pimp, was in here looking for you this morning.”

  “What did he want? And why did he come here?”

  “Said he needed to hire you, and he didn’t have your number or address. I figured he would be your ideal client.”

  “I do most of my work for lawyers and the cops.”

  “Okay, then I guess the pimp is actually far more respectable than your typical clients.”

  “You cut me deep, fair Jennifer. Did he leave a message?”

  “Just to stop by his place.”

  Baxter Kin
caid unbuttoned his white Hawaiian shirt adorned with pale red flowers and struck a pose like an underwear model, showing off his muscled abdomen. He said, “Do you think maybe he was wanting to recruit me as a male prostitute?”

  “No shirt, no service.”

  Baxter buttoned up and said, “Has my vinyl arrived?”

  “Do I look like your secretary?”

  “Yes, you do actually. And I have a crush on my secretary.”

  She rolled her eyes and said, “That sounds creepy, not sexy. And if I’m your secretary, then it’s not flirting, it’s sexual harassment. Go check the rows, Romeo,” Jenny V said, returning to the magazine she had been reading.

  Baxter headed toward the aisles of records and vintage concert posters, noticing the sign over a hallway which read, “Medical Marijuana Screenings.” This was where he had received his own medical card. He smiled, thinking how lucky he was to live in the fabulous city of San Francisco. And not just because of the counterculture. Baxter had even loved The City during his days as a homeless kid on her streets.

  Working his way to the proper row, he found the vinyl album he had used as an excuse to come in, checked out, and headed over to the pimp’s house. Curiosity drove him more than anything else. Baxter had befriended most of the malcontents who resided on Haight and Ash and in the other sketchy neighborhoods of the city, like the Tenderloin district where he’d cut his own teeth.

  Baxter had been originally raised in San Antonio, Texas, but his family moved a month after his thirteenth birthday. He would never forget the days of soup kitchens and homeless shelters as a young teen. He knew these were his people, and the city would always be his home. It was the only place where people understood the pain of growing up hungry and destitute and why letting your freak flag fly was nothing to be ashamed of.

  The pimp’s apartment was a couple alleyways off Haight and Ash. Most of Faraz’s business was done in hotel rooms, but he maintained a small bordello within his apartment building, which doubled as a home for the girls who couldn’t afford a place of their own. Baxter had clandestinely removed most of the truly noxious influences in the neighborhood through his SFPD connections, and more radical means, but Faraz wasn’t all bad. He didn’t necessarily agree with the man’s profession, but at least Faraz respected his ladies and gave them opportunities to rise above working on their backs. Many of his girls had earned their GEDs and moved on to more respectable lines of work. Faraz had actually grown more successful because of the opportunities he afforded his girls.

  Baxter would not typically answer a summons from a man like Faraz. He paid the bills by working for high-priced lawyers and using his network of informants to help his old colleagues in the SFPD, but Faraz had earned his respect enough to warrant at least a consultation.

  The face of the apartment building was covered in flaking white paint, and the apartments had been built with bay windows and high ceilings. At one time, the building had probably been an expensive hive for the city’s elite hippies. Now, it was Faraz’s personal domain and a high-priced brothel catering to the many businessmen visiting the city in search of the free love found back in the 60s, and finding that this brand of loving was hardly free.

  The building smelled vaguely of urine, herb, and cigarettes, but so did most of the back alleys here. A brooding hulk of a man stood guard just inside the front entrance. As Baxter crossed the threshold, the hulk stepped in front of him and said, “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but Faraz left a message that he wanted to see me.”

  The big, bald-headed white guy wore gold aviator sunglasses, and the lower half of his face protruded out like the countenance of a chimpanzee or monkey. The Monkey Man said, “Mr. Faraz is busy and not receiving visitors.”

  Baxter raised an eyebrow. “Busy sampling his own wares?”

  Monkey Man didn’t understand. Instead, the guard said, “You need to leave. Come back later.”

  “I was summoned, big man. And I’m not a dog that merely comes when you call. If he doesn’t see me right now, then he can take his case to the National Society of Pimps and Assholes and see how that shakes out for him.”

  Monkey Man shoved Baxter away and said, “The boss is busy. Bounce.”

  “Are you positive you don’t want to at least ask him? Just in case his business with me is more important than getting his knob polished?”

  “I said get to stepping, prick!”

  Baxter pulled a cell phone from his pocket and held it up to take a picture. Clearly frustrated and wanting to get back to staring mindlessly at nothing, Monkey Man said, “What are you doing?”

  “I just wanted to get a picture of you. I’m going to send it to the Discovery Channel. They’ll pay big money for a shot of Bigfoot in his natural habitat.”

  The punch from Monkey Man was fast for a big man, but still much too slow for Baxter to allow it to connect.

  He deplored violence, but some people refused to listen without a slap to the face. He ducked beneath the big man’s right hook and punched him squarely in his nut sack. When the Neanderthal bent forward in pain, Baxter threw his elbow up into the man’s jaw, mostly using his legs to supply the force of the blow. The move connected with a crunch, aviator sunglasses flying from his elongated head as the big man fell back unconscious.

  A memory of his father swam to the surface of Baxter’s consciousness. “Don’t ever start the fight, Bax,” his father had said, “but make damn sure you finish it.”

  He snatched up the primate’s Aviators and slipped them over his ears. They were the version with brown-tinted lenses, just like Baxter preferred. His pair had been broken by a pissed-off lawyer almost a week prior. The brown lenses gave the world a warm, sepia-toned quality. It made him feel as if every moment was a fond memory captured by some department store photographer.

  Reaching into his fanny pack, he loaded a bowl as he ascended the stairs to Faraz’s “penthouse.” Striking his Zippo and lighting the herb, he reached the second floor. The walls were old plaster but had been re-painted recently. The place was clean and smelled of jasmine. The six small apartments on this floor belonged to Faraz’s girls. The third floor had once been the same conglomeration of tiny one-bedrooms, but the self-aggrandizing Faraz had knocked down all the walls and converted the third floor into his private domain and business office where he ruled over his harem like a medieval lord.

  Baxter supposed a lot of men would envy such power, but he knew it to be a hollow existence. Love could theoretically be cheap, but it was never free.

  By the time he reached the third floor, Baxter had started to sweat. Temperatures in the city were usually only in the high sixties and low seventies this time of year, but today was an anomaly with the heat index pushing eighty-five degrees. Like most buildings and homes in the Bay area, Faraz’s bordello wasn’t equipped with air-conditioning.

  Baxter removed his straw trilby—the kind worn on the beach, resembling the fedora of the old-time gangsters only smaller in diameter—and ran a hand through his damp mop of curly blonde hair. Despite his south Texas roots, he wasn’t accustomed to this kind of heat.

  He took a long puff of the sweet leaf as he reached the third floor and blew it out into the open space. He could still see where the walls of the apartments had once been, but Faraz’s home looked relatively clean and hospitable despite a mishmash of old plaster and new drywall. The whole floor was one big open space. The air here smelled like sweat and vanilla-scented incense.

  Faraz lay atop a bed in one corner of the penthouse, oblivious to Baxter’s approach. The detective had a strange talent for approaching people without making a sound, perhaps something inherited from distant Native American ancestors. The Iranian pimp’s buttocks were exposed and moving up and down as he pressed himself into a girl who, to Baxter’s eyes, looked to be about fourteen. He assumed she was probably older. Faraz was actually a pretty stand-up g
uy, as far as pimps were concerned, but Baxter would check her out to be sure. If she was underage, then he knew a few people who didn’t take kindly to pedophiles of any kind. With a phone call, Faraz would be dead or wishing he was.

  “Am I interrupting?” Baxter said.

  Faraz rolled off the girl in a tumbling mass of flailing limbs and snatched a 9mm Beretta pistol from the nightstand beside his bed. The Iranian huffed and puffed, his face red with exertion.

  Baxter didn’t even flinch. He said, “I heard you were looking for me.”

  The pimp muttered something in a language that was unintelligible to Kincaid as he laid the pistol back on the nightstand. In English, Faraz said, “How did you get up here?”

  “Your pet monkey was taking a nap. How old is that girl?”

  Faraz shook his head. “Don’t worry, Kincaid. She’s nineteen. I checked her ID. Even I have a code of conduct.”

  “I’ll be checking into that. So is this her interview for employment?”

  “I have to make sure all of the girls under my employ are top notch. You’re not a cop anymore, remember.”

  “I’m well aware. And I understand that brand management is important. As long as she knows what she’s getting into and makes a fair wage for her troubles, she can make her own choices. Now, why are you wanting to see me?”

  Around his naked waist, Faraz wrapped a robe which sported a three foot dragon beside Bruce Lee’s face and said, “One of my best girls, Sammy, she has a sister in college who’s gone missing.”

  “How long has the girl been unaccounted for?”

  “Nearly two weeks.”

  “That’s a mighty frigid trail, partner. What about the cops?”