The Doc Justice Files - Three Card Monty part 3
by Direwolf

Chapter 3- Ambushed!

Justin leaned back in the leather-covered seat of the big Ford sedan and took a small notebook and pen from his coat pocket. He always traveled with something to write on. He uncapped the fountain pen and began writing down notes on the idea of a self-correcting compass. He understood the problem: a magnetic compass read magnetic north rather then true north, the difference between the two being called declination. And the degree of declination depended on your longitude. Planes traveled fast enough that on long flights the declination changed enough to affect navigational accuracy. So how to account for something like that? On a ship, you shot the stars to confirm your latitude and then adjusted your compass to account for declination. Might something like that work on a plane? And if so, how to make it self-correcting?

Oblivious to everything else, Justin jotted notes and ideas in a wild flurry of creative genius.

From the front seat, Lucas watched his employer and friend in the throws of his muse. He'd seen this before too many times to count. It was as if a conduit suddenly switched on inside the young man, giving him access to Aristotle's realm of pure forms. Lucas shook his head and focused on driving. He slowed down and tried to avoid as many bumps as he could. All those blots would be murder on Justin's notes.

"Just you keep working, I'll keep you safe."

Lucas knew just how much he owed Justin Collins. An out of work bargeman in New Orleans in 1926, Lucas met Justin on the job. Lucas had managed to get work carrying supplies for a new construction project at the New Orleans harbor. After work, he and some of the other laborers had been jawing about things before heading home when an unfamiliar man had stopped, politely introduced himself as Justin Collins, and asked them what dialect they were using. Rather surprised that a white man would, one be interested in Creole, and two be polite about it, Lucas took the time to explain something of the language and the origins. The young man, Justin Collins from California, listened, asked intelligent questions and picked up the phrases they taught him with remarkable skill. One thing lead to another and someone invited the young man along for dinner.

Lucas would never forget that night. He had told Justin the best way to learn Creole was to live it. So along with four of his fellow porters, he took Justin off to the French Quarter for a crash course. They ate barbecued shrimp and drank caffe a latte, stood on a cobblestone sidewalk and listed to man blow saxophone. They walked under spreading magnolia trees and greeted other night travelers, and sipped beer in a tiny tavern that had no name and was known only to river men.

As dawn came up, Lucas found himself sitting on a jetty over the Mississippi talking to this man he had just met as if he were an old family friend, telling him of his life and dreams. Only later would he realize that Justin had never acted condescendingly or thrown money around like a rake slumming. He was truly interested in the river men and their lives.

"Look," Justin had said as they walked towards a café for breakfast, "I've got a contract for wiring electrical lights in the harbor, why not come work for me? Not as a laborer, but as a foreman."

"But, suh. I don't know how to be a foreman!"

"None of this ‘sir'. The name is Justin. Or, if you insist, Doctor or Doc. You can do this. I have faith in you, Lucas, believe in yourself. And wait until you meet my surveyor. You think I talk funny, wait until you meet Go-on!"

Faced with such enthusiasm, Lucas agreed. The trouble came later. The folks that ran the construction business in the Big Easy didn't like some trumped up River-boy suddenly giving orders, even if he had the backing of the California wiz-kid, Justin Collins, PhD. There were labor troubles, but rather then back down, the easy thing to do, Justin stood by Lucas and threatened to pull out of the project unless the trouble stopped. The uneasy truce lasted two months. On the way back from lunch at a little catfish house Lucas knew, six hired toughs attacked Justin, Lord Gawaine and Lucas. That was when Lucas learned that Doc Justin was more then just a thinker. He could fight. And Go-on was no slouch in a dust up as well.

The hired toughs were turned over to the police and convinced to talk, fingering their boss. No one was surprised that it turned out to be Stephan Pratos, one of the construction elite, behind the attack. Mr. Collins and the police chief paid a call on Mr. Pratos and last Lucas knew, Pratos was doing time in prison. When the job was finished, Lucas gladly took Justin up on his request to come back to San Francisco though he insisted the job of driver was all he wanted. And the truth was, Lucas enjoyed having access to Doc's cars to tinker with the engines and found that chauffeur's uniform made him effectively invisible to a lot of eyes. It gave him even more chances to watch Justin's back.

Lucas swerved gently to avoid a pothole. The rout from the theater to Number One Post Street would take them across much of the city. Rather then deal with whatever traffic there was on a foggy Friday night Lucas decided to swing wide and go through the Marina district. He dropped his speed a little more. The fog was very thick.

The roadster hung back far enough that only the red glow of the big Ford's taillights could be seen. Warwick carefully watched the passing scenery, trusting the driver to keep track of their quarry. The Lieutenant wasn't familiar with San Francisco but he could tell they had headed northeast and now were swinging east around the edge of the bay. The houses gave way to piers. The area was deserted.

"Now!" Warwick snapped.

The roadster surged forward.

Gawaine was concerned. He managed to maintain a steady chatter about the play, the weather, and the dreadful idea of this Prohibition nonsense with his sister from the front seat of the cab, but he felt a growing unease. There was no sign of the low-slung roadster that seemed to have been following Justin's sedan. Gawaine suspected that either he'd been too slow getting the cab moving, or the two cars had turned off onto a side street. Of the two, the latter was the more probable and the more dangerous.

"Assuming I'm even right," he thought, "it could have been no more then a coincidence. But if Lucas didn't take the direct route back to Post Street, which way would he go?"

Gawaine's mind, honed on mathematics, was far sharper then most believed. He liked it that way. Now, he drew an imaginary map of the city, plotted the location of the theater and Doc Justin's destination and figured possible routes, all while agreeing with his sister that the fog was nearly as thick as what rolled off the Thames in mid January, but smelled better.

"Right-o! I say driver," he said suddenly, "be a good fellow and turn north on Van Ness, would you? I fancy a bit of a drive along the waterfront. Let's give him so time so we can catch Justin in his lab when we get there!"

"Buddy, it's your nickel," the cabby responded. The cab swung north on Van Ness.

Lucas glanced in the review mirror. A set of headlights was coming up from behind through the fog, the light growing brighter each moment.

"Fool wants to pass in this weather?" he muttered, edging the big car over to the right to make way.

"What did you say?" Justin asked, looking up from a circuit design he'd been doodling out.

Lucas saw what was happening a moment too late to react.

The driver of the roadster knew his job. The big Ford was much more massive then the smaller car, so he couldn't just run it off the road. And any sort of direct collision would wreck the smaller car and do much less damage to the sedan. So the roadster became a weapon. The driver punched the gas and swerved just right, clipping the big Ford's left rear fender. The Roadster spun itself, but the driver was ready for it. With the help of the hand brake, he pulled of a perfect boot-legger reverse, ending up a half block down and facing back the way they had come. Lucas wasn't so lucky.

With a crunch of metal, the Ford lurched from the impact. The pen flew from Justin's hand, scattering drops of ink. The tires spun on the fog-slicked pavement as the big car fishtailed. It seemed as if Lucas would recover, but he grazed a telephone pole. That was all it took. The car hooked right and smashed into the front of a small office building, crumpling in. Glass shattered out like a fistful of thrown diamonds while the smell of spilled gasoline fouled the air.

The headlights of the stopped roadster illuminated the wreck. All four of the men had known what was going to happen and had braced them selves. None of them were injured at all.

"Standard approach. No witnesses. Move!" Warwick barked. He pulled a long weapon from the seat well and got out as the two passengers exited as well. Each of them drew an automatic from a coat pocket. Warwick jacked the slide of the Tommy gun. They spread into a line and started forward.

Justin tasted blood. His vision swam as he tried to order his thoughts. The crash had thrown him forward into the back of the seat and he seemed to have bumped his head on the roof. But a few bruises and a cut lip were the extent of the personal damage. The car was in far worse shape. Spiderweb cracks filled the windshield. Steam rose from the sprung open hood and the horn was making a wheezing attempt to sound. Justin shook his head.

"Lucas, are you all right?"

"Think so. Damned leg's caught under the wheel. We was hit from behind!"

Justin looked over the seat. Lucas was wedged into the dash by the compression of the car. He seemed uninjured, just trapped. "Hang on, I'll climb out and pull you free."

The door was jammed. Justin lay down drew a centering breath like Fu Lee taught him and lashed out with his feet. The door popped open with a scream of tortured metal. Justin clambered from the car. For a moment, he swayed on his feet and wondered if he'd hit his head a bit harder then he first thought. But the world stabilized. He grabbed hold of the driver's door. It was stuck.

"Hey," he shouted, noticing the three figures coming through the fog, "give me a hand here."

Then he realized the one in the middle had a Tommy gun. Justin threw himself into a rolling dive. Safety lay towards the office building, but going that way meant keeping Lucas in the line of fire where the trapped man wouldn't stand a chance. The only hope Lucas had was for Justin to draw their fire away. He hurled himself into the street. Warwick opened fire.

The submachine gun roared and bucked as it spit a stream of slugs at the moving man. Justin heard the thump of bullets plowing into the wrecked car then the sharp crack as the .45 caliber slugs glanced off the pavement. His plan was working, they were shooting at him. Now he only had to survive his own cleverness.

Justin kept rolling. The other two men had opened fire with handguns, their isolated shots nearly lost in the staccato bursts from the Tommy gun. Justin rolled behind a mailbox and paused to catch his breath.

Warwick snapped in a fresh drum. "Roberts, get the box. Elliot, flank left!"

"Great!" Justin snarled, knowing his refuge wouldn't last long. He dragged the pistol from his coat pocket and sighted under the mailbox. The dark shapes of his attackers, back lit by the roadsters headlights, were nearly lost. Justin fired twice.

Shouts of alarm answered him, but he suspected the shots missed. No matter, the three men sought cover, then a hammer of bullets chewed into the mailbox. Justin snapped off another shot and dove for the slender protection of a phone pole, firing again on the move. From behind the pole, he risked a glance. All three of the men were heading his way in low combat crouches like experienced soldiers. Justin fired at the nearest, who dropped to his belly and fired. The return shot knocked splinters from the pole.

‘Nice shooting," Justin thought as he snapped off another shot. The Tommy gun answered, chewing into the pole and glancing off the sidewalk. Justin felt the sting of chips on his face and he tried making as small a target as possible. Just then, another car swung into view. Unfortunately, it was a city cab, not a police car.

"Sweet Mary, Joseph and Jesus," the cab driver shouted. Under Gawaine's directions, they had turned off on Van Ness and were driving alongside the bay. Suddenly, they were in a war zone.

"I say!" Gawaine gasped. Alex swore in Russian. Britt screamed. The cab driver tried to make a U-turn, anything had to be better then this. Gawaine reached over and grabbed the wheel, then stamped on the accelerator, pinning the man's foot under his.

"You're nuts!" The cabby bawled.

"Your not the first to say that, my good man!" Gawaine countered.

The cab hurtled forward, tires squealing. Two of the gunmen saw them coming and dove out of the way. The third wasn't quite so fast and was knocked sprawling by the runaway taxi.

"Right-o, a fine spot of driving!" Gawaine crowed. Then he spotted the parked roadster. The driver had seen them coming. The heavy automatic in his hand thundered. The cab's windshield shattered.

With a scream of panic, the cabby snatched back the wheel. The cab swerved, rocked, nearly went on its side, and then bounced over the curb past the roadster. A chain link fence loomed out of the darkness and they crashed though and into a heap of wooden crates. Slats and bits of broken crockery exploded up as the cab finally stopped.

Alex was the first out. She made it to the street and turned back.

"Go-on!" she shouted imperiously.

Gawaine, trying to free his door of the rubble of boxes, understood instantly. He drew his revolver and tossed it underhand. Alex caught the flying gun, spun and dropped to her knee, the gun firm in both hands. She sighted and fired in a heartbeat.

Warwick suddenly found himself in crossfire. One man was down, clipped by the cab and now winged by the new shooter. And he heard sirens in the distance. The police were on the way. There was nothing else to do now but retreat.

"Elliot, help Roberts! We're pulling out, now!"

He fired off a burst at the woman and forced her back into cover. Another stream of bullets kept Justin's head down. Alex fired again, drawing another round of shots at her, and then the men were piling into the roadster. The car screamed away. Alex shouted a curse in Russian and fired again. One of the taillights shattered. Then it was gone. Justin stood up from the ground, the automatic smoking in his hand. The two wrecked cars and scattered brass casings proved it wasn't all some horrible dream.

"Lucas, you Ok?" Justin shouted as he raced towards Alex.

"I'm fine, boss, just my pride's wounded, that's all."

Alex was storming back to the wrecked cab. Britt had calmed down and Gawaine had managed to wedge his door open enough to get out. The cab driver stared blank faced at the broken crates covering the bullet-holed windshield.

"If you would just carry a decent gun with something akin to accuracy, I could have done some good with it!" Alex snapped, thrusting the snub nosed .38 into Gawaine's hand. "This thing isn't fit to kill snails! Oh, hello Justin, I hope you are uninjured."

"A little scraped. I've had worse." Justin looked in the window and saw everyone appeared to be all right. He replaced the clip in his pistol and slipped the automatic back into his coat pocket. It seemed the assailants weren't coming back for now. Maybe they knew better then to face Alex's temper. "Gawaine, can you give me a hand? Lucas is stuck."

"Right-o! Never turn down a chance to do a good deed I always say, in particular if I can hold it over that man-mountain. Good thing we were following you. I wanted to see if we could talk you into making an evening of it rather then hiding in your lab. My sister doesn't bite, you know. Well, not very often."

"I'll keep that in mind." Back at the car, he broke out the glass on the driver's side window. He and Gawaine wrapped their coats around their hands and pulled on the warped door. Lucas pushed with his shoulder. Between the three of them, the bent door gave way. Lucas wriggled out.

"So, what was that all about?" Alex asked. "Not another kidnapping attempt."

"No," Justin replied, "they were after Go-on's box."

"What? That doesn't make any sense unless Spiffy sent me something he shouldn't have."

"Let's find out." Justin opened the truck. Though a bit tumbled, making Go-on lament the fate of good liquor, the box was intact. He pulled it out of the car and set it down. Then, using a tire iron for a crowbar he levered up the lid. The interior was dark so Justin took a small flashlight form his pocket and switched it on. The bright light stabbed through the fog, reveling a row of reddish brown rectangles stacked in the box.

"Bricks?" Lady Britomart asked, "Why on earth would cousin Spiffy send you a box of bricks?"

To be continued...