by Harry Bryant
More importantly, though, who had he been talking to? Who was this lady?
"So, the bikers are going to whack Boreal," I said, getting back to the problem at hand. "Why? Is he going to squeal?"
"He doesn't know enough to squeal to anyone, but they don't know that. They're paranoid, man. They want the weed. They want it all. And they know something isn't right."
"Boreal knows about you," I said.
He didn't say anything, which suggested that I had hit the mark on that one. But what Boreal knew, I didn't know. And then I made another intuitive jump. "You and the sister," I said. "Dorothea."
"Shit," he said softly.
And that's when I knew the reason he'd been sitting outside the restaurant yesterday, and why he had been looking at my car. He had been watching Dolly.
"How deep is she in this?" I asked.
"She's not," he said quickly. "She's really not."
"But her brother is." I took another guess. "And if her brother dies in County, she's going to blame you, isn't she? You said that you'd take care of him, didn't you?"
"We need to fix this," he said. The stress was creeping back into his voice.
"How are we going to fix this?" I asked. "You're the sheriff's deputy. I'm the deep cover guy. You think I'm going to go over to Santa Maria and flash some ID and tell them to let the kid go? And for what? You haven't given me anything yet. All I've got is a bunch of weed some fuck-up juvie graduate was trying to sell to stoners at what? Some state park or something?
"And you? You're trying to sell me on this idea that you're in some serious shit, but come on, what have you shown me so far? Oh sure, these CMFMC are badasses on bikes and they're into God knows what, but seriously? I can call any casting agency in Hollywood and get two dozen dudes to play those parts in an hour. If crazy mother-fucker is all you got, then what am I going to tell the AG? ‘Hey, here's a case. These guys are clearly up to no good. Let's arrest everyone.'"
He started to fidget. "Okay, okay," he said. "You need more. I get that. I can get you that."
"Let's get David out of jail first," I said. "How long after they arraign him until he goes to County?"
"Seventy-two hours," he said. "Give or take."
"And if he makes bail?"
"Bail? He's a punk who's been in and out of the system for his whole life—"
"I don't give a shit about his record. Can he make bail?"
He got it. "If he does, then he doesn't go to County."
"So let's start there. I can't help him if he's stuck in the system. You're the local with some pull. You need to make sure he gets out."
"How am I going to do that?"
"Well, the simplest way is fuck up the arrest report—"
"That's not going to fucking happen."
I raised my hands. "Okay, then you're going to have to find someone to post bail. His sister have any money?"
"No," he said. I could tell the idea was almost as distasteful as suggesting he falsify evidence. Good to know where he stood on currying favor with Dolly.
"How about bail bondsmen. You got any favors you can call in?"
He thought about that for a minute. "Yeah," he said. "I might."
"You do that. And then call Dol—Dorothea."
"Okay," he said. "And then what?"
And now he was asking me for advice. Those wheels in his head were grinding on a new problem now.
"Once the kid is out on his own recognizance, we need to convince the CMFMC there is nothing to worry about. Right?"
"Right."
"Is there anything to worry about?"
He hemmed and hawed for awhile.
"You and I are going to have to talk some more," I said. "But not now. You have things to do. And I . . ." I trailed off, not quite sure what I was going to do.
"What?" he asked.
I rattled the handcuff still attached to my wrist. "Can you take this off?"
"Oh, yeah, sorry." He came closer, and grabbed at my wrist. Up close, I could tell that his deodorant wasn't up for all this subterfuge.
"We, ah, we shouldn't be seen together," he said after he had taken off the handcuffs.
"That's fine with me," I said.
"You know how to get back to your car?" he asked.
I glanced around at the unlit warehouse and empty lot. "That way?" I pointed in a random direction.
He shook his head. "See that light over there?" he said, pointing in the other direction. "Turn left there. Go two blocks. Turn right. Three more blocks. Maybe four. And you'll come to the road that runs past Rye."
"You're going to leave me here?"
"We shouldn't be seen together," he repeated.
"How are you going to contact me?" I asked.
"I know where you're staying," he said.
So does everyone else in this town, I thought.
"I'll call you tomorrow," he said. "At the hotel."
He got into the SUV and turned on the engine. I stepped back from the car, and watched his taillights circle around, He stopped at the intersection he had pointed out, and as he was turning left, he finally turned on his headlights.
I looked up at the moon, which was hanging like a lopsided smile.
"Well," I said to no one in particular. "This got interesting."
CHAPTER 16
I was lost in a dream of fishing for marlin, and since I had never been on a boat nor done any fishing, the dream had been a cavalcade of physical comedy at my expense. I was saved further mental embarrassment by the ringing of a phone, which intruded in the seaspray-soaked dream like a celestial game show buzzer. God buzzing me out for being clueless about how to haul in a thrashing fish.
The sheets of the hotel room bed were twisted around me, standing in for both my inept handling of the fishing line and as the claustrophobic all-weather gear the fishing boat guide had insisted I wear. I shoved one of the overstuffed body pillows out of the way, and fumbled for the noisy phone on the nightstand.
"Hello?" I mumbled into the receiver as I dragged it close.
"Butchy Boy!" Mrs. Chow's voice sang in my ear. "You are doing well?"
"Mrs. Chow," I said, stifling a groan. "Why are you calling me?"
"You never returned my call."
I ran a hand over my face, wiping off a sheen of dream sweat. Salty, on the tongue. Like seawater. "When did you call me?" I asked. "Why—no, how did you find me?"
"I call the hotel. I ask for you. They connect me to your room. It's not complicated."
"Not when you put it like that," I said. I sat up, and looked around the hotel room. Remembering where I was and how I had gotten here. "What are you doing?"
"I'm calling you, Butchy Boy," she said. "What does it sound like I'm doing?"
"What time is it?"
"Nearly ten o'clock. Well past time for you to get out of bed."
"I'm not—" I started, and then gave up. I was still in bed, actually. I really wanted to hang up on her. She'd call back, assuredly, and maybe I'd actually be awake the next time.
"Are you in trouble?" she asked.
"No," I said. "Well . . ." I rephrased.
"I take Baby Baby down to the salon today to get his hair trimmed. Orchid. You know it, yes?"
"Yes, I know which salon that is." All of the salons were named after flowers. It made them more distinctive than Chow Salon No. 4, for example.
"Linn tells me she had a pedicure the other day. Tall, American woman. Business suit. Nice shoes. Had Compassionate Crimson Alacrity put on—"
"Mrs. Chow," I interrupted. "What does this have to do with why you're calling me?"
"Anyway, Linn tells me this woman, she makes a phone call during her pedicure. Talks to someone about someone else, like she had been digging up dirt on this person. No names, of course. But Linn, she hears t
his woman talk about naughty adult movies and prison terms. CCI, Butchy Boy. Tehachapi."
"Yeah, yeah. I know those names," I said.
"This woman gets all mysterious after that. Says things like ‘I can neither confirm nor deny that statement.' Like in the movies. By this time, Linn—she is a nice girl, that one; she would make you a good girlfriend, Butchy Boy."
"I don't need a girlfriend, Mrs. Chow," I said, trying to ward off the conversational digression that was threatening.
"You do, Butchy Boy. You certainly do. A grown man like you needs a woman to take care of him. Linn—she was one of my girls who did your toes that time. In the house. You remember?"
"I do," I said. "And I'm not sure I've forgiven you for that yet."
"Never you mind that," she continued. "Linn is a good listener, and she hears this woman talk about secrets. Says things like ‘too good to be true.' ‘I can neither confirm nor deny that statement.' And then, when Linn is done, the woman pays her in cash—big tip too!—and tells Linn, ‘I only lied a little, mostly about the beefcake. I hope he's having a good time, visiting old friends.' What does that mean, Butchy Boy? What is this beefcake?"
"It's a slang word," I said. "You know, cheap talk. It mean ‘stud.'"
"What is ‘stud'? Like a horse?"
"She was talking about me, Mrs. Chow."
"Aha! I knew she was. You are beefcake, then?"
I couldn't tell if she was serious or pulling my leg, and that was another digression that could wait. "Who was this woman?" I asked.
"Linn had never seen her before," Mrs. Chow admitted.
"So, let me see if I have this straight," I said, getting my brain to track all the pieces. "A woman neither you nor Linn recalls seeing before comes into the salon, gets her toes done, and while she's there, she calls someone and reports to that person salient data about an individual that sounds an awful lot like me. And then, before she leaves, she tells Linn what she's done, knowing full well that Linn is going tell you." I paused for a second. "How did you know where I was?"
"I didn't," she said. "I called many hotels."
"And before that? Who did you call?"
"I just called hotels," she protested. "Many, many hotels."
"Mrs. Chow, there are thousands of hotels in southern California. You didn't call all of them."
"I did. How else was I going to find you?"
"All because of a woman getting a pedicure."
"A professional woman," Mrs. Chow corrected me. "Employed by the federal government."
Pieces finally clicked into place. Hackman had mentioned a woman. Someone he had talked to about me.
"And that's all she said to Linn?" I asked, suddenly much more interested in why Mrs. Chow was calling.
She paused a second, and in the background, I heard Baby Baby barking. I prompted her again. "Mrs. Chow? Am I in danger?
"Are you?"
I rolled my eyes. "Mrs. Chow, you can't keep—" I caught sight of the time on the clock, hanging on the wall. "Shit," I said, changing mental course.
"What is it? Are you being held hostage? Can you tell me?"
"No, I'm not being held hostage," I said. "Look, Mrs. Chow, I have to go. Everything is fine. Thanks for checking in with me."
"But, but—" she started.
"Bye." I dropped the receiver on the phone base, missed the cradle, and the phone clattered off the base, bounced off the bedside table, and then hung down the front of the table. Mrs. Chow kept talking as I struggled to fully extricate myself from the bed.
Hack had been talking to the DEA about a deal. When I showed up, he had called in and asked about me. Someone had passed along the request—maybe it was some sort of inter-agency information sharing. Who knows. Regardless, the request had ended up with a woman who had gone out of her way to let Mrs. Chow know she had vetted the request, knowing that Mrs. Chow—like Linn—would reach out to me. While Mrs. Chow's tenacity was legendary, I didn't believe for a second she had called every hotel in southern California, which meant this woman had also hinted at where Mrs. Chow could find me.
Who was she? Did she work at the DA's office? FBI? DEA?
No, not DEA, I realized. She had put the idea of me being an undercover DEA agent in Hack's head with her ‘I can neither confirm nor deny that statement' bullshit. He had run with it, because he had been waiting to hear from one.
Dolly's bother was supposed to be arraigned this morning. If Hack had squeezed a bail bondsman into covering David's bail, there was a chance Dolly's brother was going to get out today. I had to be there. And right now, I didn't even know where the courthouse in Santa Maria was.
This puzzle about who was setting me up as an undercover DEA agent would have to wait. But, in the meantime, I could use it to get David Boreal out of danger.
Provided I got to the courthouse in time.
Signs on the freeway directed me to the downtown area of Santa Maria, and I eventually found the courthouse. I parked my car and hustled my way into the line for the courthouse. The building was arranged like every other city courthouse, and I made my way up to the floor where arraignments were being held.
Outside the courtrooms, Dolly was sitting on a bench near the windows. When she spotted me, her eyes widened. She looked left and right, thinking about fleeing, and I sat down next to her before she could decide what to do.
"Is everything okay?" I asked.
"How did you know I was going to be here?" she asked. She wore little makeup, and her face was pale. Her eyes were red, and she looked like she hadn't slept much last night.
"I, uh, you weren't at the front desk," I said, quickly trying to figure out an explanation for my presence that wouldn't blow my . . . cover. "They, um, said you were taking some personal time, and I . . . I sorta guessed, based on what I heard you talking about last night. You know, in the restaurant. When your brother called."
It was weak, but she nodded as I lamely talked my way through an explanation.
"He was picked up last night," she said. "There were . . . there were drugs in his van."
"Oh my god," I said. "Were they his?"
She gave me a look that said I had just asked the dumbest question in the world, but I didn't take it personally. The look meant that she had bought my story.
Whatever the hell that was. Just an ex-con posing as a DEA agent with a back story of drugs and pornography, who was trying to help a pretty woman out with her drug-dealing brother, who, in turn, was caught up with a corrupt law enforcement officer and a bunch of crazy motorcycle riders, who were running drugs up and down the 101.
This was the sort of thing that Mr. Chow had warned me about. Never do a selfless deed, he had told me once when we had been lifting weights in the yard. You expose your soft belly. You fall into that trap. But you're not a good person. You can't help anyone, and kindness will get you killed. He was supposed to be spotting me, but when I got the bar and weight off the stand, he came around and punched me in the gut. I almost dropped the weights, but didn't, because part of me knew he was going to do something like that.
Protect yourself, was one of his annoying maxims. Always.
I did one rep, even as my stomach muscles cramped, and then I dropped the weights onto the metal brace with a loud clatter. If you get on that bench, I will drop the bar on your neck, I said to him.
I know, he said. That's why I'm doing legs today.
And looking at Dolly now as she covered her face and shook her head, I knew why I was exposing my soft belly. I wasn't in prison anymore. You can't remain in solitary confinement when there are no bars separating you from other people.
For all his talk, Mr. Chow had shown me kindness. In his own way.
"What are the charges?" I asked gently.
She dropped her hands, and stared up at the ceiling. "Possession of an illegal substance. Intent to se
ll an illegal substance. Trafficking an . . ."
"An illegal substance," I finished for her. "How much?"
"The back of his van was full."
"So they're not just stacking up bullshit charges because he cruising around with his windows rolled down and a joint shoved between his lips," I said.
"He did that already," she said. "When he was fourteen. On a golf cart."
"Really?"
She looked at me. "You're not impressed with that, are you?"
"A little bit," I admitted.
"Men," she sighed.
"They're everywhere," I said.
A ghost of a smile flittered across her lips.
"Do you have someone looking into bail?" I asked. "Is his juvie record still sealed?"
"Yeah," she said tiredly. "There's a bondsman in there"—she waved a hand at the nearest courtroom—"along with a PD and Frank—Deputy Hackman."
"Who?" I asked, pretending to not notice her slip.
"I know one of the sheriff's deputies," she said. "We went to school together, a long time ago." A haunted expression ghosted across her face. "We went to prom together, Franklin and I. We talked about getting married a lot. He did, at least. And moving to San Francisco."
"But that didn't happen."
"Nope," she said, shaking her head slowly.
"Family stuff?"
"Mine or his?" she asked in return, looking at me.
"Whichever," I said.
"It was my family," she said. "David and Mom. I was the adult between the three of us. Mom was starting to show signs of early onset dementia when David was in high school, which probably contributed to his . . . delinquencies. I was in school, down at UC Santa Barbara, and when I graduated, I moved back in to take care of Mom. And David? Well, David was David. Still is."
She looked down the hall. She had shared her family secret with me, and now she couldn't look at me. I had to bring her back. I had to reciprocate in some way. Otherwise . . .
