The Elephants Graveyard

By D. C. Murphy

The Elephants Graveyard is like an epitaph without a tombstone.Officer Kevin Martin, SFPD

The Elephants Graveyard is the citys skid rowthe Tenderloin District of San Francisco. Its a purgatory for the junkies and shadowy characters that frequent the dark alleys, bars, and fleabag hotels on the dark side of the city by the bay. But to some, its a sacred place to hide out, to fall off the face of Gods green earth, and never be found. And like the old African elephants who journeyed to a secret place to die, Rooster journeyed into the Tenderloin, and his bones will never be found.

Sean Patrick Murphy walked into the Mill Valley Police Department for the first time back in 1971. Things were different back then, and had he known what he knows now, he would have turned around and walked right back out the door.

Mill Valley was the best-kept secret in Marin County. White powder cocaine, marijuana, hot-tub orgies, and rock n roll were all part of the scene. It was all fun and games until the Colombians moved in and ruined everything. The Sweetwater Bar took over as the West Coast cocaine connection, and the Medelln cartel started murdering anyone who stood in their way, including police officers.

The twisting tale of corruption and greed took Murphy into the seedy underworld of a life he came to loathe. It was the drugs, extortion, philandering, and a ruined relationship that turned his life into a living hell. But somewhere along the way, Rooster snapped out of the slump he had fallen into. By the late seventies, the Colombians had been driven out of Mill Valley and into hiding. The Sweetwater Bar had been shut down, and top-ranking police officials had become the target of a federal RICO investigation. A special task force led by Officer Sean Murphy, dubbed Rooster by his peers, and the FBI went after the bad guys with a vengeance. And the dirty cops on the MVPD were on the top of list.

By 1980, the United States attorney had indicted all of the players in the RICO investigationColombians and cops. But the Colombians and the owner of the Sweetwater, Lance Larkin, had fled to Bogot and into the arms of the feared drug lord, Pablo Valencia.

Finally, in 1982, extradition warrants were issued, charging Javier Valencia (son of Pablo Valencia) and Lance Larkin with racketeering, drug dealing, and murder. But the Colombians reacted violently, beheading a Supreme Court justice and vowing to kill everyone connected to the investigation.

It was trouble all right. But when the Colombians crossed the line and kidnapped Roosters four-year-old daughter, everything changed. All bets were off. And it didnt take long for the Colombians to become the victims.

The Elephants Graveyard is the sequel to Rooster: A Badge, Gun, and Heartache.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496953940

D. C. Murphy

D. C. "Rooster" Murphy is a retired lawman. He spent forty years protecting and serving communities in the San Francisco Bay Area. Rooster has been shot at, cut with a knife, beat up, and spat upon more times than he would have liked. But that just gave him something to write about. Rooster writes novels, screenplays, and music. He acts, sings, and makes movies. He loves Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, and Merle Haggard. In his world, suits and ties are out and cowboy boots and blue jeans are in. Rooster lives in Petaluma, California, with his wife, Jennifer, a classical pianist.

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© 2014 D.C. MURPHY. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/19/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-5395-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-5396-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-5394-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014920882

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Disclaimer

Acknowledgements

Blurbs

Prologue: Bogotá, Colombia, 1980

Chapter One: The Tenderloin

Chapter Two: O’Malley and Mickey Quinn

Chapter Three: Mill Valley, California

Chapter Four: The Star Witness

Chapter Five: La Cantina Gallo Rojo

Chapter Six: The Colombian Way

Chapter Seven: Bravo Company

Chapter Eight: The Cowboy Pistol

Chapter Nine: She Makes this Barroom Worthwhile

Chapter Ten: Rockin’ at the Red Rooster

Chapter Eleven: The Plea Bargain

Chapter Twelve: Nobody Fucks with Pablo Valencia

Chapter Thirteen: The Old Mill Tavern

Chapter Fourteen: Larkin’s Plan

Chapter Fifteen: No Más Pirates in the Mission District

Chapter Sixteen: The Covert Operation

Chapter Seventeen: The Clock Is Ticking

Chapter Eighteen: The Green Light

Chapter Nineteen: Baby Blue

Epilogue

About the Author

DISCLAIMER

This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental. Persons, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination.

Johnny Cash as portrayed in the book is a fable creation. Certain public figures and rock stars have been referenced by their real names, in this fictional setting, in the real town of Mill Valley.

All music/lyrics are used by permission or written by D.C. Murphy and Dan Hayes, with the exception of two public domain songs: Just a Closer Walk with Thee and Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.

Don’t Blame Me: Written by Amy Hogan. Used by permission.

She Makes this Barroom Worthwhile: Written by Dan Hayes/Andy Luttinger. Used by permission.

When the going gets tough, the tough get going.

—A Proverb

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The Elephants Graveyard is the sequel to my best-selling first novel, Rooster: A Badge, Gun, and Heartache. The sequel stands on its own but begins where Rooster left off. Read it first, or go all the way back to the beginning. Either way, I think you’ll laugh, cry, or just get mad at what the drug dealers did to my town—Mill Valley, California, USA.

The Elephants Graveyard would not have been written without the influence of the late Sergeant Dante John Castellani, MVPD. He started the whole damn thing back in the sixties and seventies.

But with that said, the rest of the story is history. And without the characters, setting, and music that make the story come alive, it would be just another boring textbook read.

The following friends of mine need to be acknowledged. They have given me memories that will last a lifetime: Craig Chaquico, Sammy Hagar, Gregg Rolie, Jerry Garcia, and Huey Lewis.

And special thanks to Patrick Burke and Larry Cragg for the great times at the infamous Prune Music—home of the real Rock Stars.

And most sincerely, a huge heartfelt hug goes out to the one person who helped me the most—the best damn editor in the world—Mary Rudy. Without her, it just wouldn’t have worked.

BLURBS

Rooster was the coolest cop I ever met. I’ll never forget the day he knocked on my door when I lived in Mill Valley. I thought he was collecting for the policeman’s ball or something. But no way—the guy wanted some help with a song he was working on. No question about it, he truly was Mill Valley’s finest.

Gregg Rolie

Singer-Songwriter/Keyboardist

In San Francisco we were living the special life. And it was cops like Rooster that bridged the gap between them and us. One night Jerry Garcia was playing the Warfield, and it was almost time to start the first set. Two San Francisco cops walked in the stage door and everybody started swallowing blunts. Rooster walked over to Jerry’s guitar and picked it up, strapped it on, and asked if he could open the show with a Johnny Cash song. I mean the curtain was about ready to open and there he was in full uniform with Garcia’s guitar. It was crazy, man—but that was Rooster at his best. Jerry dared him to do it, but he just smiled and handed Garcia back the guitar.

Big Steve Parish

Grateful Dead Roadie

Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll were a lifestyle in Mill Valley back in the seventies, and Rooster, well—he just fit right in.

Craig Chaquico

Starship/Guitar Player

Mill Valley was the best-kept secret in Marin County for a long time. The town was unique, and so was Rooster. If he busted ya, then you must have really stepped on your own dick. The Rooster had a way of doing things that set him apart from all the other cops.

Mark Cushman

Old Mill Tavern/Owner

Rooster would come in and out of my store all the time—no big deal. Then one day a hippie walks in and he wants to trade three grams of hash for a set of Rotosound guitar strings. Problem was that Rooster was sitting behind the counter in regular-dude clothes, and the guy thought he worked in the store. Rooster pulled out his badge, and the hippie pulled out of the store, on the run, and we never saw him again. Mill Valley wouldn’t have been the same in the seventies without Rooster—period.

Patrick Buzz Burke

Prune Music/Partner

I wish more cops were like Rooster. I remember the old Mill Valley days … saw him at the 2 a.m. Club a lot. I think he was a Coors man! Keep up the good work, Rooster.

Huey Lewis/Singer-Songwriter

Officer Murphy, as he was known to some of us, was a motorcycle cop in Mill Valley. He was a good friend … and a good guy to know back then. I was the guitar repairman at Prune Music when I wasn’t on the road with Neil Young. One day Murphy walks in and aims for the infamous back room and recording studio. We didn’t see him walk in at first because the room was filled with smoke! One of the guys hollered Cop!—and Rooster did a 180 and disappeared, mumbling something like, I didn’t see anything!"

Larry Craig

Prune Music/Partner/ Neil Young’s Guitar Technician

PROLOGUE

Bogotá, Colombia, 1980

Thirty-five heavily armed members of the M-19 guerrilla group stormed the old Palace of Justice in Bogotá, Colombia. Their goal was simple: kill a Supreme Court justice, and cut his fucking head off. The motivation: The United States and Colombia had just signed a treaty allowing the extradition of any Colombian suspected of drug trafficking, and the Colombians wanted nothing to do with the US Federal Justice system—their crimes, for the most part, were capital in nature or carried lengthy prison sentences. This was, without question, the greatest threat posed to the Medellín cartel and other traffickers of white-powder cocaine—and they would respond accordingly. Pablo Valencia, a ruthless killer and leader of the Medellín cartel, made it clear that whoever stood against them would be killed—along with their families.

So began the bloodbath. Assassinations occurred throughout the country. Thousands of people were killed. But Valencia didn’t stop with just a few common folks. He wanted more. He wanted the blood of a Supreme Court justice. He wanted more than just blood. He wanted the judge’s head in a bag where it could be sent as a message: Nobody fucks with Pablo Valencia!

Pablo Valencia was the most-feared man in the seedy underworld of the drug cartel’s business interests. Nobody crossed him; nobody even thought about crossing him.

It was lunchtime at the courthouse. Justice Luis Castro, a respected judge known for his antidrug positions and hatred of Pablo Valencia and the Medellín cartel, sat in his chambers finishing his favorite seafood platter from a small cantina in the courthouse square. He was in the middle of a high-profile murder and extortion trial—of Pablo Valencia’s son, Javier Valencia, who was on trial in Colombia and awaiting extradition to the United States for drug smuggling, extortion … and murder. Javier had set up a West Coast white-powder cocaine operation in the California town of Mill Valley. The Medellín’s East Coast operations were already in place in Miami, Florida.

The infamous Sweetwater Bar, known for its high-profile rock star clientele had become the West Coast cocaine connection for the Medellín cartel. Rock stars from the Grateful Dead to Starship, Santana, Huey Lewis, Michael Bloomfield, and Journey, and rock producer Bill Graham all had become regulars. The list was almost endless. Even the Red Rocker himself, Sammy Hagar, frequented the Sweetwater—dubbed Rock Star Hell by some of the Mill Valley cops. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid had the Hole-in–the-Wall; the rock stars, potheads, and white-powder kings had the Sweetwater.

Cocaine trafficking had become blatant in Marin County in the seventies. Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll invaded the once-quiet City of Mill Valley, which had sat nestled in the shadow of the Sleeping Princess Mountain since the turn of the twentieth century. Once known for logging and milling the giant redwoods on Mount Tamalpais, Mill Valley had now become a sanctuary for hippies, musicians, and drug dealers. Lance Larkin—the devil himself and owner of the infamous Sweetwater—and Javier Valencia reigned over the drug world for five years until that world collapsed in the late 70s. Sergeant Sean Patrick Murphy of the SFPD and Special Agent Robert Powlauski of the FBI had spearheaded an undercover sting operation that led to the downfall of the Sweetwater and the once-powerful Medellín cartel in the United States. But it wasn’t without a price. Two police officers were dead, and high-ranking police officials had been found to be on the take. Not to mention a couple of Colombians were killed along with one or two local dope mules. The tranquil town of Mill Valley had fallen into the abyss—an underworld of drugs, booze, extortion, philandering, and ruined relationships that turned Sean Patrick Murphy’s life into a nightmare.

It had been almost three years since Murphy and Powlauski busted the Sweetwater Bar and the cartel, shutting down their operation. Arrest warrants had been issued for Javier and Larkin, but they had fled to Colombia, where Javier was on trial and awaiting extradition to the United States. Lance Larkin’s whereabouts were unknown, but authorities believed he too had found a safe haven in the drug-ridden country of Colombia.

Six military, all-terrain vehicles pulled up to the front of the courthouse steps. Armed guerrillas jumped out, and machine-gun fire erupted. Uniformed police officers were no match for the Medellín cartel. The guerrillas made their way up the steps and into the lobby of the courthouse. Two more police officers were riddled with bullets. The guerrillas split up. One team headed down a hallway to the judge’s chambers; the others made their way to the main courtroom where Javier was being held in a detention room, waiting for his trial to continue after the midday lunch break.

The leader of the courtroom team, a light-skinned Caucasian, called out Javier’s name. There was no response. The courtroom was empty—no people, no police … no nothing. It was as if they all had run for their lives when the shooting started. The Caucasian guerilla called out again, Javier!

From a small window in a door appeared the face of Javier Valencia. Sí, Lance, estoy aquí. Javier peered out of the window at Lance Larkin and smiled. Javier thought about the first time he met Lance Larkin. It was at Stinson Beach:

Robert Powlauski sat in the 1969 Pontiac Bonneville parked on a plateau just above the beach. Peggy Sue Barnes was next to him. Lance Larkin and another man were in the backseat. They were watching a group of people standing near a black limousine on the sand near the water’s edge. The fog was heavier here than it had been in Mill Valley, as if the Sleeping Princess were holding it back on her western slopes. It was late. There was a dim glow coming from the Sand Dollar restaurant but no cars parked on Highway 1. And except for the occasional drone of a foghorn, the night was silent.

Powlauski peered into the fog. There was a smoking tugboat about a hundred yards off shore, and two men in a small dinghy were throwing bloody chum into the water. All Powlauski could make out were their shadowy movements.

Peggy Sue turned to him. Bob, what in the hell are they doing?

Not too sure. But one thing’s for certain. They ain’t fishing.

Powlauski opened the door then nodded over his shoulder at the two in the backseat. He told Peggy Sue to stay put, and the three men got out of the car. They headed down a narrow trail to the beach. Powlauski glanced back at Peggy Sue, who was watching intently from the car.

When they reached the limousine, three Colombians confronted them. Javier was about thirty-five and well dressed. Juan was a few years younger, about the same age as the other Colombian, whose name Powlauski didn’t know or give a shit about.

Javier acknowledged Powlauski but turned immediately to Larkin. He looked him in the eye then glanced down at the elephant tusk Larkin wore around his neck.

So, we meet at last, Señor Larkin, said Javier. We have heard a lot about you.

Larkin nodded. A foghorn droned. Javier’s bodyguards kept an eye on Powlauski and the guy standing next to him—Willie Campbell, one of Larkin’s dope mules.

Welcome to my world, Javier, said Larkin. How are things on the East Coast?

The Colombian sneered. It’s not the East Coast I’m worried about. My people in Miami have everything under control.

No different here. I’m your West Coast connection. I can take care of business out here.

We only do business with people we can trust. It is the Colombian way. Javier looked at his bodyguards. Then back at Larkin. The cartel does not like problems. We are a professional organization. We must know that you can take care of business and that we can trust you.

Larkin reached for the tusk hanging from his neck. See this, Javier. It’s the tusk of power. And I earned it. It used to belong to Rudy Johnson, a wannabe dope dealer that couldn’t take care of business. So I killed the son of a bitch for it, and now I hold the power. He let go of the tusk and let his right hand drop to his side again. I hope you ain’t got a problem with that.

Javier smiled and turned to Juan. Juan, ven aquí, por favor. Show Señor Larkin what we do to people we don’t trust.

Juan took a step forward, pulled out a pistol, and shot the third Colombian in the head. Willie Campbell jumped. Blood spattered both him and Powlauski.

Powlauski looked over his shoulder and saw Peggy Sue duck down below the dashboard of the Bonneville.

The guys in the dinghy came ashore. They wrapped a cable around the dead guard’s ankles and signaled to the tugboat. The cable slowly dragged the body across the sand and into the surf. The water began to churn. Powlauski strained to see through the darkness. Where once the Colombian’s body had been was now a gathering of dorsal fins, circling like tiny sailboats.

Poor Pablo, said Javier. He could not be trusted. Then he turned to Larkin. Okay, Señor Larkin. You are my West Coast connection. Congratulations. We now have an understanding. But remember, your life depends on it.

Larkin nodded. I understand, Javier. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Lance Larkin, former cab driver turned bar owner from Mill Valley, California, in Marvelous Marin County, didn’t look much like a Colombian guerrilla. Peacock feathers and hot tubs had always been his style. But from the look on Javier’s face, Larkin was a welcome sight. Javier had been locked up under heavy guard and with a no visitor restriction in his file for many months. He was more than ready to go home and move on with the family business.

Pablo Valencia led his team down a row of closed and locked doors bearing the names of the Supreme Court justices who occupied them. The names were attached in brass letters. Valencia stopped at Luis Castro’s door. He reached out and turned the handle—it was locked. Valencia pounded on the door with a fist. ¡Abra la puerta! Valencia didn’t wait for an answer. He stepped back and riddled the solid oak door with enough bullets to splinter it into a pile of kindling on the terracotta floor of the judge’s chamber.

*   *   *

Justice Luis Castro sat in his high-backed leather chair facing Pablo and Javier Valencia. His face was drawn. His eyeballs were bulging. The judge’s head hung low, and drool dripped from his nostrils and mouth. His hands were bleeding profusely. They were palms down on his mahogany desk, but he could not raise them. He could not even feel them anymore. And it was no wonder. With the railroad spikes driven through them, it was hard to believe he was even conscious. But there was no doubt in Pablo Valencia’s mind that the judge wouldn’t be signing any extradition papers returning his son, Javier, to the United States any time soon.

¡Por fin, Juez Castro, nos encontramos por fin! Pablo reached down and grabbed the case file that lay on the desk. The docket was written in Spanish: Javier Valencia, file #75639278. Another file lay alongside that one: Javier Valencia—extradition, probable cause papers, file #75639279. Pablo grabbed the file and opened it. The letterhead caught his attention:

United States Department of Justice

United States Marshall’s Office

Having statutory responsibility for all international extraditions, the United States Marshall’s Office herby requests the extradition of Javier Valencia, a wanted fugitive in the United States of America. Javier Valencia has been indicted by a Federal Grand Jury and must stand trial for his crimes against the United States …

Pablo Valencia stopped reading the extradition request. He leaned over the judge’s desk and said in angry Spanish, You are nothing more than a pig. And now I hold you accountable for crimes against the people of Colombia and the Medellín cartel. Pablo took the case file and the extradition papers, tossed them into the trashcan by the desk, and lit them on fire. He stepped back and watched the column of black smoke rise.

Lance Larkin and the guerrillas waited in the hallway outside of Castro’s chambers. Pablo had unfinished business with Justice Luis Castro—serious business.

Javier called out to Larkin, ¡Lance, ven aquí!

Okay, Javier. Larkin stepped into the room.

Pablo Valencia said to one of the guerrillas, Carlos, traiga el bolso. Apresúrese.

Carlos entered the judge’s chambers carrying a bowling-ball bag. The bag displayed the colors of the Colombian flag: yellow, blue, and red. He set the bag on the floor next to Justice Castro. Castro slumped forward in his chair—he knew what was coming, and it made him sick to his stomach. He vomited on the desk. Pablo grabbed him by the back of his hair and jerked his head around.

¡El bolso! shouted Pablo. ¡Javier, consiga el bolso!

Javier grabbed the bag and unzipped it. He reached in and removed a knife—big and razor sharp. He moved to his father but stopped short of performing the task. He eyeballed Lance Larkin. It was time for the gringo to prove himself worthy of their trust.

Lance! shouted Javier.

Lance Larkin moved in. Qué pasa?

Pablo shook his head. Que chingados, Javier, ¿has perdido tu nervio?

Un minuto, Padre.

Javier turned to Larkin. You once told me that you could be trusted. And I told you your life depended on it. Remember? You told me that you wouldn’t have it any other way. Remember?

Sí, lo recuerdo.

Lance Larkin did not hesitate. He took the knife from Javier’s hand and cut Supreme Court Justice Luis Castro’s head clean off.

CHAPTER ONE

The Tenderloin

The San Francisco Bay fog had crept inland and swallowed the City. A light dampness hung in the night air, and every so often a foghorn droned—to perhaps lure a passing ship off course and into the spider’s web that was the City’s waterfront. The nightclubs on Broadway were jumping, and Carol Doda’s tits were bursting in hues of red neon. The marquee over Bimbo’s read Totally Nude Sex Acts. Everything was as it had always been in the City by the Bay. Across the street, barkers shouted at drunken sailors, offering sex and seduction for a mere ten-dollar cover charge. From the waterfront to the Castro, the big-bay city was in full swing. Even the murky fog couldn’t dampen the party atmosphere. But just a cable-car ride away was where the real action was gearing up, and the locals were lining up, for a night of badass country blues at the Red Rooster Lounge, smack dab in the middle of the Elephants Graveyard.

The Elephants Graveyard was the Tenderloin District of San Francisco, the venue of choice for junkies and winos, pimps and prostitutes. It was a sanctuary for some ready to give up the ghost. The down and out picked the place because they could die in secret, hidden in a jungle thicket of human debauchery—the way a dying elephant finds a private place where it can lie down and die … a place where no one will ever find the bones.

Normally, the Tenderloin was off limits to tourists and those God-fearing folks that lived and worked in the great City of San Francisco. North Beach attracted the young partygoers and old Italians in search of the best damn spaghetti and meatballs this side of Italy. But there was really no attraction in the Elephants Graveyard—unless you were in search of a loaded heroin needle or crack cocaine. Not even the pussy, at ten bucks, was worth the trouble.

But the Red Rooster Lounge was worth the trouble. Situated in the heart of the Elephants Graveyard, the Red Rooster was a second home to the locals willing to take the chance and venture into the land where shadowy figures lurked in doorways and whores walked the urine-soaked sidewalks hoping to find a john in the next alleyway. That’s just the way it was and the way it had been since the turn of the century.

There were only a few kinds of people who would even think about visiting the Red Rooster Lounge: good guys with guns, bad guys who knew better and left their guns at home, music lovers, and Sean Patrick Murphy—a honky-tonk hero better known as Rooster.

*   *   *

It was midnight in the Elephants Graveyard. The city seemed empty of people, unusually so. A thick fog pervaded the streets of the Tenderloin, making it feel like you were trapped in some underground cave in Colombia. Most of the wino bars lay hidden beneath the ever-present blanket. If you weren’t a regular drunk, or stumbling bum, you wouldn’t have known, or given a shit, that they were even there. But just down the street, the big neon sign in the window of the Red Rooster Lounge burnt through the fog in a reddish hue. The sultry voice of an angel could be heard coming from the old wooden structure, drifting through the walls and out onto the street, where it melted into the mist.

Robert Bad Bob Powlauski stood in the doorway of the Red Rooster. He was content, listening to the Patsy Cline tune Crazy. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard Peggy Sue Barnes sing that song. In fact, he’d heard it many times, but he never grew tired of her rendition. She seemed to just get better and better.

Powlauski leaned against the wall and looked up and down the street. Two winos huddled under a makeshift cardboard tent in the doorway of Liberal Loans, just two doors south of the Red Rooster. He nodded and waved at them. One of the men