by G. M. Ford
As also might have been expected, every Hispanic rights organization within a hundred miles—people already pissed off by the “zero tolerance” border policy—these folks were marching, rallying, and blocking freeways nearly every day somewhere in San Diego County. Any pretense of international civility was out the window at this point.
As for the unfortunate Mrs. Haller, around whom this whole maelstrom swirled, forensics said the old lady’d been dead and frozen solid for at least fourteen months or so, thus making it impossible to determine a precise cause of death. It came out a few days later that all of the suspects who were either found dead at the scene or rounded up from the surrounding hills later in the day had served hard time somewhere and had been granted a second chance by Mrs. Haller’s philanthropic largesse. I figured that, you know, in some ways maybe it was better the old girl wasn’t around to find out that no good deed ever goes unpunished. We got enough cynics already.
If there was any good news at all, it came in the form of another message from Eagen. The burner phone I’d left on the kitchen counter was blinking like a pinball machine. I picked it up and pushed the button. Eagen on my voicemail. He was amused. I could tell right away.
“Listen, man, I got no idea at all what any of this has to do with what you two got going on, but . . . first off, and you probably know this already, those two idiots they sent down to Mexico looking for you got their buttons pushed right there in hippie-dippy Ocean Beach. What you probably don’t know is that guy John Henry Marshall—the little runt we been looking for—the one who did all the talking for those Aryan assholes . . .” I thought I heard Eagen swallow a chuckle. “Well, the Oregon State Police found him in the woods south of Portland—shot to death. They also picked up four more of those white-power types. Found ’em searching an old abandoned storefront that Marshall’d been using for a base of operations. Buncha white-power rectums from Fresno. Claim they don’t know nothing about what happened to Marshall. OSP’s got ’em under lock and key down in Salem and plans on keepin’ ’em for the foreseeable future. I asked a bunch of questions, but OSP really don’t know what in hell’s going on neither. I find out anything else, I’ll drop a dime on you.”
I was about to hang up when his voice crackled over the line. “And by the way, man. The surveillance task force is picking up a lot of chatter to the effect that the white-boy membership figures Marshall got what he deserved for what happened up in Conway. Sounds like you and Gabe are pretty much off the hook. Nobody’s looking for you guys anymore. So I’m guessing you can, if you feel like it, go back to being Leo instead of Leon. Okay . . . that’s it. Later.”
And so, it was two o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon. The only good thing I could say about the ceremony was that cops, unlike politicians, tended to be short-winded. Carolyn was getting the SDPD Medal of Valor, a raise in pay grade, another week off to recover from her injuries, and her name added to the list for the lieutenant’s exam in February. That and the fact that she looked real good in her full dress uniform.
Gabe and I took in the proceedings while leaning against the rear wall of the downtown conference room. Four local TV stations were recording the gala.
We stayed put while Carolyn was congratulated by most every public figure in San Diego County, each of whom wanted a picture with their hero du jour. Office wall material, I figured.
When the mayor’s press secretary finally left, only the three of us were in the room. Carolyn walked to the back to where we were standing.
The bump on her forehead was shrinking, and she’d painted a lot of foundation makeup over her blackened eyes. She didn’t look nearly as much like a raccoon as she had a few days back. Her nose, however, was a mite more crooked than it used to be.
“You have your car keys?” she asked me.
I fished around in my pants pocket and came up with them. She took them from my hand and tossed them at Gabe, who snatched them from the air like a fly.
“I’ll bring him home when I’m done with him,” she told Gabe.
She grabbed me by the elbow and began pulling me toward the door. As we stepped through the doorway, she turned and said to Gabe, “If he’s any good, I may keep him for a few days.”
Gabe grinned and pocketed the keys.
“See ya later tonight,” Gabe deadpanned at me.
A few days turned out to be Sunday morning. Early. The onshore flow was thick as chowder when Carolyn let me out on Del Monte. I walked around to the driver’s side. She rolled down the window. This was the awkward point where people usually said things in the short run that they didn’t mean for the long term. We’d both been to enough rodeos not to make that mistake.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Thank you,” was her amused reply.
“We’ll have to do this again sometime,” I ventured with a smile. Mr. Tentative.
“You have my number.”
I managed to swallow the overwhelming urge to profess undying love.
“Later,” was all I said instead.
She rolled up the window and eased out into the street.
I watched her taillights turn left on Sunset Cliffs Boulevard and fade into the mist. I was lost in remembered lust when an unexpected voice pulled me from my bliss.
“Hey, Leo,” it said. I turned toward the street.
Brandon stepped out from behind a parked car and started my way. From the look of the trash scattered on the grassy divider, he’d been there all night.
“What’s up?” I asked as he crossed to my side.
He fidgeted, ran a hand over his face, then spit it out.
“You know . . . I was thinkin’ . . . you know, about what you said about having this thing maybe taken off my head.”
He was wearing his camo outfit with the hat pulled down over his bar code.
“The offer still stands,” I said. “From what I understand, they can laser that thing off like it never was there.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m thinkin’ maybe I’d like to give it a try.”
I threw an arm around his shoulders. “What say we hoof it over to Jake and Eggs and have breakfast. After that maybe we can make some calls.”
“Yeah. That sounds good.”
As we strolled along Del Monte Avenue, he said, “I’m kinda scared—you know what I mean? That tat’s kind of been my brand for a long time.”
“That’s the fun part,” I said.
“What?”
“Reinventing yourself. I’m thinkin’ I’ve done it four or five times in my life. I always go into it assuming I’ve got a pretty good idea of who I’m going to be afterward . . .” I laughed out loud as we turned the corner. “And then I turn out to be somebody else entirely. Always freaks me out.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
G.M. Ford is the author of eleven other novels in the Leo Waterman series: Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca?, Cast in Stone, The Bum’s Rush, Slow Burn, Last Ditch, The Deader the Better, Thicker Than Water, Chump Change, Salvation Lake, Family Values, and Soul Survivor. He has also penned the Frank Corso mystery series and the stand-alone thrillers Threshold, The Nature of the Beast, and Nameless Night. He has been nominated for the Shamus, Anthony, and Lefty Awards, among others. He lives and writes in Ocean Beach, California.
