by Mike Monson
“You better get back to your meeting,” she said.
“We’ll call you later Mom,” Miranda said. “Jeez, just chill for once.” She walked out the door.
“I need to go too, sweetheart,” Bethany said. “I’m going to call the bank. Maybe I can stall them another week or so.”
The two hugged, gently, then kissed, deeply. Bethany noticed his erection and smiled.
“Whatever is going on is all Miranda’s idea you know,” she said. “She’s the brains of that operation. And the boss. I wonder what she’s up to.”
“We can handle her,” he said. “We always have.”
“Be sure and get a hold of Rincon.”
“Don’t worry. Hey, your mother still hasn’t said anything?”
“Not a word. But then, we haven’t been talking much lately.”
“It’s hard to imagine her keeping something like that a secret. Hard to imagine her keeping anything a secret.”
“This is different though, I guess.”
Bethany kissed Pete on the lips and his forehead, ran her fingers through his hair, and walked out the door.
FIFTEEN
Outside, Miranda went back to the Hole in the Wall. Bethany walked to her black Mercedes. She saw the three men from the church coming from the back of Mr. Tokyo’s. They looked pumped. Two of them even high-fived each other.
She turned and looked up at the new sign.
“Fucking hypocrites.” Paul was limping up behind her. He clutched his stomach. His right eye was red and swollen and blood streamed from his mouth and his right ear. He gasped in pain as he walked. Went from car to car, reached out his hands to trunks, roofs, and hoods to steady himself as he walked.
Bethany studied at her brother. She smiled.
“What happened to you?” she said.
“I got gay bashed by some of the … Reverend’s idiot sycophants, which is strange since I’m not even gay.”
“But you stick up for fags,” Bethany said. “So you aren’t any different.”
“If you were any kind of Christian and any kind of sister,” Paul said, “you’d call me an ambulance and report those men to the police.”
“Sorry,” Bethany said. “I have something more important to do.”
She got into her car and drove away.
Paul stared after her before walking to his car, just as the meeting was ending and dozens of people streamed out to the parking lot to their motorcycles, cars, trucks, toward the liquor store and bar while furtively glancing back, or to gather in clumps to smoke and talk until the next meeting at six.
SIXTEEN
“Uncle Paul!”
Miranda ran out of the meeting with her card in her hand. Paul ignored her, kept going toward his car.
“Uncle Paul,” she said. “What’s wrong? What happened to you?”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” he said.
Miranda tried to reach out and use her arms to help him walk. “Why can’t you walk? Is it your back?”
Paul flailed his arms to keep her off.
“Leave me alone,” he said.
Miranda looked like she was about cry.
“Uncle Paul? What’s wrong?”
“Isn’t your grandmother here to pick you up?”
“She’s not here yet, but who cares? Did someone beat you up? You look horrible.”
“Did you kill Tina? Did Logan?”
“What? No way. As if.”
“You trying to put the blame on me? What the fuck?”
“Uncle Paul, I think you’ve been dexing a little too heavy.”
“Huh?”
“You think I don’t know about what you do late in the evening when you go into the bathroom with a bottle of Robitussin and lock yourself in your room all night?”
Paul avoided her eyes.
“You really need to stop that shit, it’ll fry your brain. I used to do it when I was in junior high school and I didn’t know what the fuck was going on for days afterwards.”
“I know what you said to Mavis, that you lied to her about seeing me buy a shotgun.”
Just then Mavis pulled up. When she saw Paul she parked the car and got out and ran up to her son and touched his now-blackening eye. Paul pulled back—she reeked of the White Hawk: vodka, cheap stale beer, cigarettes.
“What happened? I thought you were at home, resting. My god.”
“He won’t say who did it,” Miranda said. “And I think he’s been hallucinating from all that Robitussin he drinks.”
Mavis ignored the last part. She didn’t want to hear any of that.
“I know what you two talked about,” he said. “Jeez, I can play you the message.”
Paul took his phone out of his pocket.
“What are you talking about?” Mavis said.
“Oh Grandma,” Miranda said. “You must’ve called him by mistake, you know how you do that? He heard our conversation in the car on the way over.”
“I don’t get it, but Miranda’s trying to make it seem like I killed Tina and that asshole Pisko. Then I check under my bed and I find a goddamn sawed-off shotgun. Jesus. Just after you and Logan were there. What did you do?”
“Like I said,” Miranda said, “you are so fucked up, dude. And you still haven’t told us what happened.”
“Here, let me show you.”
In obvious pain, Paul walked over to his car. Miranda folded her arms across her chest and sighed. She leaned against Mavis’ car. Mavis followed Paul for a couple of steps, then looked back at Miranda.
“Whatever,” Miranda said.
“Mom,” Paul said, “Come on, you gotta see this.”
Mavis looked one more time at Miranda, then followed. Paul pushed the fob on his key ring and his trunk popped open.
“Look at this.”
Mavis stayed back a few steps.
“Jesus, Mom. Come here.”
Mavis walked over and he pointed to the bag he’d found under his bed. He pulled on the bag far enough so that Mavis could see the short, pistol-grip type handle.
“Oh, Paul,” Mavis said, “what did you do?”
“Nothing, Mom, I didn’t do anything, Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Now you watch your language with me.”
“Oh fuck that. Obviously Miranda and Logan planted this under my bed when they were over this morning. Remember they were there when we got back from the police station?”
Miranda walked over.
“Oh, that is ridiculous and you know it,” she said.
“Why else would she lie about me buying a gun?”
“Let me see it,” Miranda said.
“It’s right there,” Paul said, and pointed to the bag. “I’m sure you recognize it.”
Miranda reached down and pulled the bag off the gun.
“Jesus,” she said. “Grandma, what should we do? This is so fucked up, you know?”
Mavis and Miranda stared at the gun and at Paul.
“God, I need to sit down,” Paul said. He opened the back door of his Honda and sat in the back seat on the driver’s side, his feet planted on the parking lot ground. He put his elbows on his knees and rested his face on his hands. Mavis walked over and stood over him. She shook her right index finger in his face.
“How dare you try to put this off on Miranda,” Mavis said.
“Fuck you, Mom,” Paul said. “It’s time you learned the truth about your precious granddaughter.”
Mavis’ cell phone rang in her purse. She pulled it out and looked at the screen.
“Who is it, Grandma?” Miranda said.
“I don’t know,” Mavis said. “I don’t recognize the number.”
“Don’t answer it,” Paul said. “See if they leave a message.”
Mavis tapped “answer” on the screen with her thumb. “Hello?”
“Mother!” Paul said. “Come on.”
Miranda stepped close to Mavis and brought her ear close to the phone.
“Oh, hello, Detective Fagan,�
� Mavis said, in her sweetest, most seductive voice. “I didn’t expect to hear from you again so soon. Paul said that you’d … oh? You’re there right now? Well …”
Mavis muted her phone, and even though Fagan couldn’t hear her, she whispered to Miranda.
“He’s at the house, they need me to come home and open the door. They have a search warrant for my house, and Paul’s car. Shit!”
“Jesus!” Paul said, “Why are you telling her? She probably told him to go there and look for the gun. Fuck.”
“Oh, just stop that Paul. Mercy me.”
“What are you going to do Grandma?” Miranda said.
“I can’t have them in my house,” Mavis said.
“That’s right,” Paul said. “All your pot and paraphernalia and shit. Uh oh.”
Mavis looked at Miranda and Paul.
“You kids,” she said. “I should’ve moved away when Billy Joe died. I could be in a beach house on Maui now.”
Mavis’ phone started to ring again. She looked at the screen.
“Oh, must be him again … Hello? Yes, sorry, I don’t know what happened. Yes. Yes. Yes. I’ll be right there. No, I’m not sure where he is. His car’s not there? That’s strange, he was home when I left a couple hours ago. Sitting in the living room watching TV. Yes, I’ll tell him. Yes. Uh huh … see you there.”
Paul stood up. His back spasms had stopped. There was a little less pain.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Miranda said. “Maybe you better let me and Grandma go back and see what’s up. We can call you later.”
“That’s probably a good idea, Paul,” Mavis said.
“Why? I got nothing to hide, I didn’t do anything. Everybody keeps forgetting that. Besides, I have what he wants, right Miranda? Plus, I can make my complaint for the terrible assault and hate crime I just suffered.”
Paul opened the trunk again and pulled the shotgun out of the bag. He held it with both hands and stared at it for a moment. Then he put his right hand on the trigger and the grip and his left hand on the stock. He aimed the barrel at the church sign.
“Paul!” Mavis said.
“Jesus, Uncle Paul,” Miranda said, “Put that thing down.”
Paul smiled at Miranda. He held the weapon loosely in his right hand and shut the trunk. He closed the back door and opened the driver’s door.
“What are you two waiting for? Let’s go.”
Paul got into his car. Put the gun on the passenger seat. Started the engine.
“Paul!” Mavis said as Paul drove away.
“This isn’t good Grandma,” Miranda said. “He’s acting crazy.”
“What do you think he’s going to do?” Mavis said. “Do you think that gun was loaded?”
“I don’t know, but we gotta stop him. The police see him holding that thing they might kill him.”
“Dear God, he’s gone.”
“I’ll call Logan,” Miranda said. “Maybe he can stop Paul.”
SEVENTEEN
Rincon drove the streets of Modesto, searching for Paul. He had no idea how to find him, but he was making calls and looking everywhere. He’d been by the dude’s house and the piece of shit Honda Mark’d sold the dumbass a couple years back wasn’t there. But, he saw an unmarked MPD car and a patrol car out front. Fagan was out front along with a uniformed cop. He decided not to stop and chat.
Modesto was still kind of small—he’d find the piece of shit.
Rincon had really wanted to get into the heroin business. The idea of becoming the major heroin player in Modesto had great appeal. But now, with his partner dead and the fortune in shit that’d been fronted by the hard dudes from Bakersfield missing, he was really losing his enthusiasm for the endeavor.
Rincon did like selling cars. He’d dreamt of becoming a car salesman since he was ten years old. Had visions of his own lot out on wide bustling Crows Landing Road in the mostly Hispanic part of Modesto with its Taquerias and Supermercados, bars and dance clubs. He wanted the kind of lot he’d seen growing up, with the big signs about ‘no credit no problem’ or ‘your pay stub is you credit,’ the kind with the oil stains on the asphalt and the plastic banners flap, flap, flapping in the breeze. Jorge didn’t want to be some slick cat in a suit out on McHenry Road at the brand new Ford or Chevy or Honda dealer, he wanted to have a killer bandito moustache, khaki pants and a cabanero shirt, to sit out in the sun smoking a cigar in a lawn chair with Ranchero music blaring from loudspeakers, and sell cheap ass cars to suckers.
He’d achieved the goal too, early on, right after dropping out of college because a knee injury took away his football scholarship. He had some cash from selling weed he got by the pound from his Bakersfield cousins Arturo and Manual to his fellow students, and he had a nearly new BMW an alumni had bought him the previous summer. He put the Beemer out on the curb on Crows Landing, and put a sign on the windshield with his number and the price. He bought a used Nissan with his cash and put that out too. He sold those and bought some more and within a year he had a dozen wrecks and enough money to lease an empty lot. His old high school football buddy Mark Pisko happened to be looking for a business to invest in and he also loved the idea of a used car lot. They were in business.
But, he had a very bad temper. The kind that got people hurt, crippled, killed. For most of his life, he channeled that anger into football. But that outlet was gone, and his rage had a way of getting him into trouble. It wasn’t his fault people were such assholes. And that murder charge? Sure, he’d killed that bastard, but the dude’d reneged on a big loan and he had to make an example. Had no choice. Good thing he got the witnesses to change their minds. He’d killed other people, but that was the only time he’d been caught. So far. Now, he needed to kill somebody named Paul Dunn. As soon as possible. Also to set an example, and, hopefully, recover the dope the asshole had stolen after killing Pisko and his stupid bitch whore wife.
The heroin was all Mark’s idea. Apparently he’d been an addict for years and Jorge had never suspected. Claimed he picked it up after injuring his back in a motorcycle accident. He became addicted to the Vicodin the doctors handed him like candy. When he got out of rehab and the prescriptions dried up, he did his best to get more by finding doctors he could fool for a while, or he’d buy it on the street. Until one day when one of his suppliers convinced him that heroin was a much more efficient, fun, and cheap method to ingest opiates. Mark quickly went from snorting to shooting it into his muscles to full-on mainlining. Boom—dude was hooked and needed a constant supply to keep from getting sick. Weird thing was, as long as he had his shit to shoot, the guy was fine, acted normal as hell, and, like always, sold a lot of cars. When Pisko was high on heroin he was even better than before, and Jorge found him more pleasant to be around and a better partner.
A year earlier, when things were slow at the lot and when investments into Jorge’s loan sharking and black market gun-selling businesses were stretching things thin financially, Pisko suggested they move some shit, put the cash profit into the business. It was perfect—they’d make money, launder it, and Mark got all the shit he could handle. Pisko knew that Jorge had the connections through his cousins, and he reluctantly agreed to give the plan a shot. Since Pisko hooked up with Tina Dunn and got her off Vicodin and hooked into the shit as well, Pisko was getting especially ambitious.
Jorge liked the idea of making a lot of money, but he was nervous about their new business associates. Those guys had a lot of guns and a lot of soldiers and all Jorge had was Pisko. Plus, he didn’t like that the feds might be looking at them now, might find out about the guns and the heroin and that little bit of extortion here and there. Might get a RICO case thrown their way. Not good.
Still, Pisko convinced him (dude could convince anyone of anything, should see some of the prices he’d get suckers to pay for piece of shit vehicles) to give his new plan a try. A major escalation from the original plan. They got several pounds of the shit fr
om Jorge’s Bakersfield connections and were supposed to use it to help them take over the Modesto territory. None of it was paid for yet. When Jorge showed up at Pisko’s late the night before to help cut it, weigh it, and bag it, he found Mark and Tina’s bodies. And no heroin.
Really hard to believe Dunn had done the killings. But it was looking more and more like he did and had the audacity to steal all the shit. So, he not only had to off the guy, he had to get the heroin back as well, or he was dead too. Fuckin’ Pisko.
What he didn’t get was how Dunn just happened to be the brother-in-law of one of his customers—Reverend Fish. He’d lent Fish a lot of money once that he’d taken forever to pay back. In fact, he hadn’t paid back the principal until he started helping him with the gun sales—dude knew a lot of psycho rednecks who wanted assault rifles and powerful handguns and who were willing to pay top dollar.
Could just be a coincidence, but still, it seemed odd to Jorge that Fish was so anxious to help him figure out that it was Dunn that had done the murders and stolen from him.
Fish’d just called him to tell him the latest on Dunn. About how the police had so much slam dunk circumstantial evidence—the threats, the money he’d make from Tina’s insurance and pension, his lack of alibi, and now, apparently, that he had the murder weapon. Great, but that didn’t explain why Dunn would also steal a big bag of heroin while he was at it—that guy was not a player. Last thing Rincon heard the dude was a high school English teacher or some such shit. How would he even know what the stuff was?
Fuck it, he’d kill the guy, get his drugs back, and worry about the details later.
EIGHTEEN
Detective Fagan and Patrolman Plant waited in front of Mavis Love’s house.
After getting the anonymous tip about the murder weapon, Fagan obtained a warrant at record speed. The case was hot. The District Attorney wanted a quick resolution, and he delivered an airtight document to a judge within an hour.
“I really think Dunn isn’t our guy,” Fagan told James Adams, the Assistant DA assigned to the case, after getting the message. “Dumbass citizen like that could never be clever enough to keep quiet and stick to his story the way he did.”
