HOUSE OF JAGUAR

by Mike Bond

  Dogs were baying down the hill behind him; he ran along the road past the white house, up the driveway to the orange pickup, its cab light flashing as he leaped inside. He shut the door, ducked under the steering wheel to cut the ignition wires. Two men were running up the road, a big dog bounding before them. He linked two wires but they were wrong so he tried the first and third, the dash indicators gleamed, he shifted into reverse, the dog crashed into the door as he rolled back popping the clutch, the dog snarling at the door handle, three men spanning the road. The engine backfired and died.

  The dog leaped onto the hood beating its teeth against the windshield, a Doberman, the three men running for the truck as he bent again under the dash, found the starter wire and touched it to the others; it caught; he raced the sputtering engine, shifted into first and drove at the men who dove for the shoulder, the dog squealing off the hood and whacking the pavement as Murphy took his cuffed hands from the wheel to shift into second. A spider web of cracks spread across the windshield; there was another tick and glass spattered from the rear window down his neck, another star in the windshield, and he spun the wheel weaving the truck. Tick: another then another hit the windshield and it collapsed into his face, cold air crashing in; another ping of metal, then only the truck’s uneven roar as he peered through the gaping windshield at the unlit road, flakes of glass like snow flicking past his cheeks.

  Safely around the first bend he took his hands from the wheel, holding it steady with his knees, and fumbled at the dash till he found the light switch. Valves chattering, transmission yowling, headlights jolting, the truck wound up to eighty-five but would go no faster; ahead was a straightaway suddenly familiar – Olema’s scruffy store and few houses. Headlights jumped into the mirror and he shut off the truck’s lights, stomped the emergency brake and skidded up an alley behind the store, jumped out and hurdled a fence into a eucalyptus grove as the Ford roared through the Stop southward on Highway One toward Bolinas.

  He ran to the truck and cut the taillight wires. The Ford came flying back through the Stop, going north toward Point Reyes. He started the truck and drove fast south, flicking on the lights after a mile. At the Bolinas turnoff he swung uphill on a narrow road into the Coast Range, no guardrail between the edge and the chasm on the right where redwood tops flitted past. Near the top the truck began to gasp then died. It would not start; the gas gauge showed empty. Below, three sets of headlights came fast down Highway One. At the turnoff they split, one continuing south, one swinging west toward Bolinas, the third coming up toward him.

  Everything took place very slowly but there was no time. He rolled the truck back, swerved it round till it was pointing downhill, pushed it forward. The car’s lights came darting uphill; the truck gained speed. He dived out the truck’s door as the car accelerated round the last curve; the pavement spun up and slapped him in the face as the car’s tires screeched and the truck slammed into it.

  He got to his feet. The awful howling inside his head was the car’s horn. He wiped his hands; they were stuck with gravel. He found the knife and ran uphill; from the wreck the Ford’s horn wailed like a primeval beast.

  He reached the crest. More headlights came up the road and halted behind the wreck. In the columns of light he could see men running uphill, the dark shadow of a dog bounding before them.

  Holding the knife carefully before him, he pushed from the road down the far side of the Coast Range, through prickly low firs, stumbling on roots and fallen branches, the needle-thick slope slippery, across a meadow where a deer snorted and bounded away, into a marsh, the dog’s bark nearing.

  He ran down a steep ledge, Mill Valley’s lights two thousand feet below. Now he could hear the dog’s fast patter through the brush. Snarling it slammed him down, a horrible Doberman crunching his arm, fighting for his neck. He drove the knife straight up under its collar and yanked; it cried, gurgled, teeth sunk in his wrist, dragging him; it fell dead. He unbuckled its collar and ran along the ledge and threw the collar over the cliff, heard it hit moments later. The brush crashed as the men neared; he ran up the slope above the cliff, dug a rock from the moss and hid gasping under a juniper.

  The first man came panting through the trees to the cliff. “Here!” he called. Two others scrambled through the scrub. There was the sound of static, a high, steady beep. “Dog’s down there,” the first said.

  “He ain’t moving?”

  “He’s got him down... Go uphill and around and down this cliff. I’ll take the down side, with the receiver. Charlie stay here, coordinate positions. Watch our lights and keep signaling.”

  The flashlights parted, one moving downhill along the cliff edge, one remaining, another climbing toward Murphy. The light passed, the man exuding smells of sweat and cigarettes.

  When the two had climbed down the sides of the cliff they signaled three flashlight blinks up to Charlie. One step at a time, Murphy edged along the cliff toward Charlie, who was scuffing out a place to sit. “Charlie!” one called from below. “Charlie!”

  “Yo!” Charlie called.

  “Dog lost his collar. It’s here, caught on a branch.”

  Charlie stood, flicked on his light. “I’m coming down.”

  “Go the uphill way. It’s easier.”

  Charlie came toward Murphy, switching his flashlight to his left hand, parting the bushes with his right.

  40

  HE HIT CHARLIE with the rock and Charlie fell in a clump, flashlight clattering; Charlie was twitching and moaning; in his pockets Murphy found a gun, a wallet, and a thin aerosol can that made him gasp for breath.

  Charlie whined, tried to sit. Holding the spray can in his left hand, Murphy shoved the knife against his throat. “Quick! Why you chasing me?”

  “My head...”

  Murphy shifted the spray can and squeezed a burst into Charlie’s face. Charlie choked, coughed, tried to pull back. “Tell me fast,” Murphy said, “or I’ll empty this whole can in your face. Then I’ll kill you.”

  “Syndic,” Charlie gagged. “Wants you.”

  “The dealers?”

  “No! The big guys. Please don’t −”

  “That place you took me, what was it?”

  “The ranch.”

  “What ranch?”

  “Congregation, I’ll tell you, just don’t −”

  “Charlie!” a voice called from below. “What’s keeping you?” Charlie lunged for the edge and Murphy sprayed the Mace full into his face, up his nose, Charlie writhing, choking, fighting him off. Holding his breath, Murphy hit him again with the rock, grabbed Charlie’s wallet and gun, ran away from the cliff, half blinded by the Mace, through the trees and along the meadow and down a great rubbled cirque.

  Beyond the awakening lights of Mill Valley, Highway 101 was swelling with early traffic. The Bay gleamed gunmetal under the waning stars, the East Bay hills powdered with lights, their crests stitched with redwood tops against the lavender, orange east.

  At a stream he washed blood and dirt from his face, and finger-combed his hair. Charlie’s gun was a lousy little Grendel .380, loud and nearly useless. He pocketed the knife and pulled his jacket up over his shoulders from behind and down over his arms to cover the cuffs and gun, holding the jacket against his front as if carrying extra clothing too warm to wear.

  In the first street of houses a dog came barking, making him jump, but it was only a Brittany spaniel on a chain. Next came a line of unfinished apartments, the lawns bulldozed and littered with scraps of redwood siding, a pile of uprooted apple trees along the curb. “Early Occupancy”, a sign said, “Apple Grove Condominiums”.

  Cars began to trickle down the streets onto the larger roads that poured into the river of 101 carrying them to San Francisco. An empty Chronicle truck idled smokily outside Johnny’s Stop’n Go; Murphy ducked under the canvas rear gate, clambered over bundles of fresh papers and hid under plastic and old newsprint near the cab.

  LYMAN DROVE FAST u
p the ridge road past the wreck of the truck and Ford to the top where two more Fords had pulled off the road. A NoCal man came out of one. “They want you on the horn, sir!”

  “Let the assholes wait!”

  “Whatever you say, Sir. But it’s HQ.”

  “I said let them wait,” he seethed into the man’s face, a kid, crewcut, anxious. “You guys can’t wipe your ass without getting it all over you, why should I talk to any of you!”

  “Regs require response to radio traffic when response is possible, Sir!”

  “You little jerk!” Lyman shoved him against the car. “Don’t you talk regulations! Just take me to where he got away.”

  The NoCal man pushed himself up from the side of the car where he had fallen, wiping his hands on his pants. “He beat up one of the Syndic guys. The guy’s still out there, and another one with him.” He nodded at the gun in Lyman’s hand. “So be careful with that rod.”

  The NoCal man opened the car door, spoke into the radio, shut and locked the door and led Lyman through the woods and across a meadow. They came to the top of a cliff where a man was sitting against a rock, his head bandaged, another man sitting beside him smoking. The cigarette drove Lyman wild. “Go back to the car and order up a medic,” he told them.

  “We did,” the NoCal man said.

  “Go get the medic, I said. I want to talk to this dude.” He took Charlie’s hand. “Howya doin’, big guy?”

  “OK. Except my fucking head.”

  “What’d he ask you?”

  “Ask me? Nothing. Nothing, boss.”

  “C’mon, don’t pull my string. I need to know where his head’s at.”

  “I didn’t say nothing.”

  “I know that. Just tell me what he said. C’mon, good buddy.”

  “Well, he wanted to know why we was chasin’ him.”

  “And?”

  “I didn’t say nothing, boss.”

  “What else?”

  “Wanted to know where it was we took him, that’s all.”

  “You told, didn’t you?”

  “No Sir, I didn’t say. I swear...” Charlie strained at Lyman’s arm. “That’s why he hit me.”

  “Relax, I’ll make it better.” Holding Charlie’s forehead steady with his left hand, he gripped Charlie’s neck in his right and jerked hard. He stood, inspected Mill Valley far below in the blue-golden dawn, and walked back to the cars. “Cancel the medic,” he told the NoCal man. “Your boy’s had a hemorrhage.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “It’s a homicide now. Give CHP and the Marin and Frisco cops Murphy’s full details. Remind them it’s C-6. That they are responsible for maximum silence. Say he’s armed and very dangerous, probably headed back to San Francisco.”

  THE CHRONICLE TRUCK’S door slammed and the truck lurched into gear, halted minutes later. The door banged, the canvas gate grated aside, a bundle of papers slapped down on the sidewalk; the door slammed again and the truck lurched into gear. After a dozen more stops the truck rattled on to Highway 101 toward San Francisco. It crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, wheezed to a stop for the toll gate, and took the Embarcadero toward downtown. When it stopped for the light at Columbus and Bay, Murphy hopped out and walked up Columbus toward Chinatown, ignoring the occasional passerby who turned to stare at his torn face, the strange way he carried his jacket inside out before him over his clasped hands.

  41

  CHINATOWN’S sidewalks bustled with housewives carrying straw baskets of fish, vegetables, and poultry on their elbows, with slipper-shuffling old men hugging Chinese newspapers under their arms, with chattering girls in red parochial skirts and solemn boys in blue cardigans hustling to the parochial school of Notre Dame de Victoire.

  Up a dead end off Mason was a motorcycle garage. A German Shepherd sitting in the open door wagged its tail as Murphy approached. Inside a man knelt over a disassembled Suzuki. He stood up slowly, put down his wrench. “Did you dump?”

  Murphy glanced round the shop. “Anybody else here?”

  “Not now. I better be getting you to a doctor.”

  “Close the door, Ray. You got some cable cutters?”

  Ray Lin whistled the German Shepherd inside and pulled down the door. Murphy sat on a car seat that served as a sofa, raised up his arms to let his coat slip back from the cuffs. “Jesus, Murph! Who put you in those? What are you doing with that dink little gun?”

  “I need you to get me out of them.”

  Ray bent over him, checked the bloody wound on his skull, the scratches on his face and hands. He went to the wall of tools and took down a large pair of cable cutters, made Murphy hold his hands on the concrete floor and broke through the hardened steel chain linking the two cuffs. Murphy raised up his hands with a dizzying sense of freedom. “Oh God what I’ve been through.”

  Ray sat back on his haunches. “You going to tell me about it?”

  “Let’s get these cuffs off first.”

  Murphy stood by a bench vise and Ray clamped the cuffs one at a time in the vise and cut them with an electric hacksaw. Murphy told him about the CHP car blocking the road, the black man with the Dodge, his breakout from the Dodge’s trunk, stealing the truck, the man named Charlie, the escape to Mill Valley.

  “I don’t see why they do all this just because you were speeding.”

  “Where’s Susan?” Murphy said.

  “At work.”

  “Can I go upstairs and take a shower, lie down? I’ve never felt so bad in all my life.”

  The phone rang; Ray answered it briefly, came back. “I’ll make you some coffee, something to eat while you take a shower, then you have a sleep. When you wake up we’ll sort this out.”

  “That’s the problem, Ray. There’s nothing to sort out.”

  WHEN HE WOKE rain was falling steadily against the window. The slightest move agonized his head; every muscle and bone hurt miserably. There was a little round carpet on the floor; if I can get my feet on that and stand, he told himself, I’ll have it licked.

  In the bathroom he took four Empirin with codeine and stood again under the shower, careful not to let it hit his head, till his muscles loosened and the pain became reasonable. Back in the bedroom he could not find his clothes, went downstairs. Over the thunder of Fleetwood Mac was the shriek of a grinder; he waited till it stopped. “Ray!”

  Ray came to the foot of the stairs, grinned up at him. “You’re one ugly specimen. What happened to your arm?”

  “Where’s my clothes?”

  “Just a minute.” Ray put down the grinder and came upstairs. “I washed them, put them in the dryer.”

  “Thanks. What time’s it?”

  “Two-thirty.”

  The clothes were still warm from the dryer. “Hungry?” Ray said.

  “I need a drink. Took some of your codeine.”

  Ray poured him coffee and brandy, went out and came back a few minutes later with three hamburgers and a six-pack of Coke. “Tell me about the Syndic,” Murphy said.

  “We don’t mix with them. They’re selling all the coke now, trying to take over the weed.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Mostly Cubans from Miami, and the guys that got thrown out of Nicaragua when those Sandinos got in.”

  “Sandinistas.”

  “A spic’s a spic.”

  “Ever hear of Carlos Bonaventura?”

  Ray shook his head.

  “Ever hear of some place in Marin, up by Olema, called the Congregation Ranch?”

  “Don’t ever go to Marin. No Chinese people up there.”

  Murphy found the wallet he’d taken from the man named Charlie. Inside was a driver’s license in the name of Hector Alvierez, 1449 Paloma Terrace, a scrawny face squinting at the camera. He handed it to Ray. “Ever see him?”

  Ray gave it back. “Never.” Also in the wallet were a Visa and Master Card from Southern California Federal Savings, a bowling league card, a mini-calen
dar from Southern California Federal, a Polaroid of a dark-haired, chubby woman and a teenage girl sitting on a floral couch, the camera flash reflecting in the Day-Glo painting above their heads. There was a business card with a federal seal, US Bureau of International Development, Hector Alvierez, Senior Program Evaluator, a condom, and three hundred-dollar bills and seven twenties.

  “I got those valves to finish grinding,” Ray said. “Susan’ll be home at six. We can go up to the Jade Palace.”

  Murphy stood carefully. “Got to make some calls.”

  Ray nodded at the living room. “Phone’s in there.”

  “Rather do it from a booth.”

  “Shoot yourself,” Ray said.

  THE RAIN had ceased. From a Powell Street booth he called Melissa Maslow. “I never expected to hear from you,” she said.

  “I need to ask you some questions.”

  “Questions? You out of your mind?”

  There was a drift to her voice that bothered him. “Where you calling from?” she said, offhand.

  “I got beat up by some cops last night and put in a trunk and taken to this place east of Olema called Congregation ranch. Ever heard of it?”

  “I used to think you were a nice guy. What the Hell’d you do that for?”

  “Do what?

  Her voice was on edge, distant. “Kill that guy.”

  A woman was walking past the phone booth, tugging her little boy by the hand. He was sucking a lollipop and staring at Murphy out of almond eyes. He was wearing shorts and had skinned one knee. Across the street a panel truck was trying to back into a space too small for it. When Melissa had finished he made her repeat it. “I didn’t hit him that hard,” he said.

  “He’s dead, Murph. And there’s an all-points out for you. You didn’t know that?”

  “Please listen to me.”

  “I don’t want to get involved, Murph.”

  “Please, listen to me?” He told her about Charlie, the Syndic. “Do me one favor? See if you can find out about the Congregation ranch, this US Bureau of International Development, find out who got to that guy Carlos Bonaventura in prison, made him say what he said about me.”