Someone cried out. I threw a look back. My pursuer had knocked over a little kid. Now I was pissed. I wheeled around and ran right at him, not what he expected. I grabbed his wrist and gave it a vicious twist. The knife clattered to the ground, and I pinned his arms to his side, hooking my own arms hand-to-wrist behind his back. He thrashed against my tight embrace. It took all my strength to keep him immobilized.
He had swapped his helmet for the bandana, which he’d tied across his forehead like a pirate. His neck was inked. He was young, maybe early 20s, with chestnut-colored skin, aquiline nose, and full lips: startlingly good-looking, if you like pretty boys. But his eyes? Gang eyes. Any veteran cop will tell you the same thing. Eyes that become flat from killing people or helping other people kill people.
“We don’t want a scene, do we?” I tightened the squeeze.
He struggled against my rigid hold.
“What do you want?” I said.
“You,” he said, and in one strong full-body twist, he wrested from my grasp and bent to the ground. I leapt back, as a blade flashed through the air, just missing my neck. I heard a woman scream. I had to get out of there, before someone innocent got hurt. To my right was a set of stairs leading to the lower decks and eventually to the field-level seats. Where were all the fucking cops? Where were the security guards, normally posted at every stairway to keep riffraff from going to the lower levels? I hit the stairs running, Pretty Boy right on my heels. I took the steps three at a time, down, down, until I burst through the field level entrance to what Bill called the high-baller sections. Which were empty, and blanketed with thick red and yellow nylon tarps.
I swan-dived onto a tarp and crabbed my way across, using the seat backs underneath for support. I was vaguely aware of the sound of souped-up engines revving and roaring somewhere in front of me. I reached the front row and took a flying leap, landing on all fours on a dirt surface covering the playing field. I scrambled to my feet, dodged between slanted runaway vehicle ramps, and pounded up a steep incline to a wide platform right in the middle of the track. An electronic board directly across from me blinked red, its digital clock counting down seconds. I was at the starting gate, and the next race was moments away.
“Get off of the course,” I heard over the P.A. “Get off of the course!” I had three seconds to take in the semicircle of monster trucks, suspended on humongous tires, pawing and snorting like angry bulls that couldn’t wait to gouge and toss me. Then I was tackled and cuffed by five cops, or maybe five random dudes in cop costumes. What did I care? I was safe at last.
Two hours later Security released me from the Dodger Stadium slammer, or “holding area,” as they prefer to call it, a bleak space between two upper decks, behind where home plate should have been. The two moonlighting detectives working the rally were from the Burglary division. They knew my name, and knew Bill’s even better. I got off easy for my stunt: they didn’t even slap me with a fine. As I left the concrete holding cell, two security guards muscled a soused and belligerent fan past me—my first and hopefully only experience seeing a bumblebee with an overhanging gut in handcuffs.
By the time I’d finished explaining myself, Pretty Boy and his chopper were nowhere to be found. Anyway, how would anyone know if he was a gang-banger, or just dressing like one?
It was past ten when I got home. I was exhausted and wired at the same time. I listened to a brief, sleepy message from Heather. She’d called my home phone at 9 P.M. to say she was turning in. Good. I wouldn’t have to make excuses about the retreat until tomorrow. I gave Tank a late-night snack, shoveled down a banana smeared with no salt Valencia chunky, and fell into bed.
Tired as I was, I lay awake, my blood buzzing from the chase. I traced tensed body parts with light attention, beginning with my toes, to unwind the knots. I had barely reached my kneecaps when my heart constricted like a fist. Someone’s outside. I slipped out of bed and was at my closet; in seconds, I had my Wilson in my hand.
There it was again—a bumping sound by the front of the house. It was pitch black inside, but I wasn’t about to turn on a light.
I slid along the bedroom wall to the door. Tank raised his head from my bed.
Stay here, Tank.
I dropped out of window-level sight and crouch-walked across the living room. I pressed my ear against the front door. I heard sibilant whispers. There were at least two of them. If they really wanted in, they could smash right through that hollow core door . . .
The knob turned, left, right, just a test. My adrenal gland dumped a metric pint of endocrine into my bloodstream. In about three seconds, my hands would start shaking: fight or flee, Ten?
I stood up, stepped back, planted my feet, and took careful aim at the closed door. I imagined my target on the other side, heart level. I released the safety, lightly hooking my index finger around the trigger. One . . . Two . . .
A pair of giggling voices called out “Trick or treat!”
Fear rippled through my body like iced water. I engaged the safety, laid my .38 on the floor, and stepped away, as if the gun was timed to explode.
I turned on the light and opened the door. A couple of teenagers, camouflaged as His and Her corpses, stood grinning at me, their painted features slightly askew. The yeasty scent of beer—too many beers by the looks of them—wafted from the swaying pair in a sour cloud.
“Get the hell out of here,” I said.
The young man glanced at my shaking hands. I stuffed them in my pockets. He looked past me into the house, where my gun lay in full view. He took a quick step back.
“Sorry,” he said. “Shit!”
He grabbed the girl’s arm, and they hustled down my driveway. She stumbled once, and he steadied her without breaking stride.
“I’m sorry, too,” I whispered, but I don’t think they heard me.
My heart was pumping so hard and high I couldn’t swallow. I backed inside, my step unsteady. What was I thinking? I wasn’t. I was assuming, running on leftover fear. I had broken my second rule once again and almost shot an innocent child because of it. I turned off the light and sat very still, breathing in the dark room until my hands stopped trembling. Then I went over to my computer, opened the on-line application form, and signed up for the retreat.
CHAPTER 15
I still felt shaken in the morning, even after a run, a weight-lifting session, and half an hour of yoga stretches. The terror at what might have been reignited whenever I stopped moving.
I called Bill. He would understand.
“Hey, Bill.”
“Ten.” His voice was tight. Angry-tight, not anxious-tight.
“What’s going on?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” he said.
I tried to laugh it off. “Ummm, I’m not sure what you mean. Did the Dodger-cops call you this morning?”
“No,” Bill said. His voice hardened. “Sully did. He told me you’re still sniffing around my case.”
“Bill . . . “
“I asked you nicely to back off, Ten. Now I’m telling you to back off. Is that clear? Stay the fuck away.” I had heard this level of anger in his voice once or twice over the years. But never aimed at me. “Jesus, I’m sorry I ever brought you into this!”
Heat boiled through my body.
“Yeah, well, thanks for nothing,” I snapped. “What gives you the right? You’re not my partner anymore, and you sure as hell aren’t my father!”
“Thank God, because I sure as hell wouldn’t want you for a kid!”
“Go to hell,” I said, and hung up on his answering, “Fuck you.”
I stood by the phone, eyes scalding with fury. I ran out to the deck. “Arrghhhh!” I yelled into the valley. I peppered the air with quick punches until sweat dripped. I leaned against the deck railing, breathing heavily. Now righteous indignation flooded my system. I let it.
I’ll show you. I’ll show all of you.
Tank meowed from the kitchen.
“Not yet!” I yelled.
/> I called Clancy and told him to meet me at Robinsgrove in half an hour. We’d get inside, somehow. Screw them. Inside, I dumped a full can of tuna into Tank’s bowl. It was ridiculous and a total waste of money, since he only liked the water.
I rode the Mustang hard. Every time I tried to breathe through the fist of feeling, I heard Bill’s I sure as hell wouldn’t want you for a kid, and my chest clenched tight. A tiny part of my brain waved an even tinier flag signaling that I was having a tantrum. That puffing myself up, vowing to show everyone how competent and superior I was, might be yet another reaction to a dearly held limiting idea. I brushed the warning aside. I needed to feel superiority to function right now.
I pulled in behind Clancy’s Impala, parked in its usual spot. I looked up the block to the Robinsgrove. We were in luck. A large moving van sat in front, hazard lights blinking. A cardboard mover’s box propped open the glass doors.
I grabbed the two pairs of disposable latex gloves and eight 35-gallon garbage bags I’d thrown into the back of my Mustang.
Clancy climbed out of his car, tossing a crumpled coffee cup onto the new mound of takeout containers on his front seat.
“You ready to do a trash cover?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Am I?’
“Absolutely,” I said. “You’ll feel right at home.”
We walked to the Robinsgrove entrance. Two clean cut, muscular young men, one fair, one dark, both with crew cuts, and both wearing Meathead Movers shirts, juggled a heavy bed frame into the back of their van.
“How much longer will you be here?” I made a move to help them with the frame, but they waved me off.
Blond Crew Cut answered. “We’ll be here maybe an hour more.”
An hour was good. First task? Locate the trash bins. We crossed the shabby-elegant lobby, a small sitting room on either side, and faced a maze of stairs, elevators, exits, and entrances. You could easily get lost in a building like this. I told Clancy to wait. I trotted up a short flight of stairs to the first floor and checked the hallway. Most older buildings like this had incinerator chutes, and this one was no exception. The chute was no longer functional, but told me what I needed to know. Buildings, like people, don’t like change. The bins were probably located directly below.
I rejoined Clancy and found the elevators, a pair of heavy wooden doors, painted white and stenciled with little star-shaped holes. I pushed the down button and stood waiting. And waiting. The blond mover called to me from the lobby.
“You have to look through the holes. “
“What?”
“The elevator doesn’t ping. You have to look through the holes to see if it’s there.”
I looked, and it was. I heaved open the righthand door, and we stepped inside. I pushed the B button. We creaked downward. The door pushed open to a dark basement corridor, running east to west. I could hear the swish and hum of washing machines to our right. I looked left, and spotted another very short flight of stairs, leading upward this time, to a metal door and an exit sign. I pulled it open. We were standing in the underground parking lot, home to a row of six black dumpsters and six blue recycling bins.
“I hope you’re not squeamish,” I said to Clancy, pulling on my gloves. I scanned the lot. Lots of cars. No people. One by one, I flung open the dumpsters and did a quick rummage. I ignored moving-type cast-offs like a broken umbrella and three torn sofa cushions. I grabbed assorted small garbage bags, moist, fetid, and loaded with potential clues, stuffing them into the extra-large ones I had brought for this purpose. Clancy stared with something approaching disgust. I handed him the second set of gloves and two more big bags.
“You do the recycling,” I said.
He hurried to the bright blue bins, and loaded his bags with comparatively clean paper and plastic.
We lugged eight bulging sacks back to the lobby. If anyone had stopped us, I would have just said “Moving sucks, eh?” and carried on. But no one did. We hauled our loot to my Mustang and piled the bags on the fiberglass shelf in the back, where a second seat should have been.
The entrance to the Robinsgrove was still propped open.
“Let’s take a quick look at the roof, okay?”
Clancy shook his head.
“You go,” he said. “I’m starting to feel pretty skeeved out about this. You sure it’s cool?”
I’d forgotten Clancy was intuitive. Well, I wasn’t about to tell him the truth, that my actions weren’t cool. That they were fueled by hurt feelings and bruised pride. I might lose impetus.
“Thanks for helping,” I said. I opened my wallet to pay him.
“No, man,” he said. “We’re good.”
“I owe you then, Clancy.”
He waggled his hand over his shoulder as he hurried away. I added the pang of remorse to a growing pile inside.
As I started back to the apartment building, my phone chimed. I didn’t recognize the number.
“Tenzing Norbu.”
“You’ve been nosing around some things that interest me.” The Latino edge was worn soft from years of speaking English.
“Who is this? Is this Raul Mendoza?”
“We need to meet.”
“I might want to hear what you have to say, but why in person?”
“I want to discuss something. Privately. Having to do with Marv Rudolph.”
I’ll show them. “Okay. Where?”
“Getty View Park, just off the four-oh-five. I’ll be there in one hour.”
I reached the entrance in half that time, but it was blocked off, the lot crawling with workers in hard hats undergoing yet another futile attempt to widen the freeway. I called Raul back and got his voicemail.
“The park’s closed. I’ll be waiting for you at the sculpture garden by the lower tram station at the Getty.”
I parked in the underground lot. I slipped my Halo Microtech in my pocket—I wasn’t making that mistake twice. I took the stairs to the tram station, where a large group of tourists stood in line, waiting to be transported to the sprawling collection of buildings. Like so much else about Los Angeles, the theme-park tram ride to the museum perfectly combined culture and kitsch. I stepped around a retaining wall to the Fran and Ray Stark sculpture garden, a small, private gem mixing natural and manmade works of art. I skirted thick rows of dark purple succulents, shooting lime green blooms, and passed a gigantic hanging bronze nightshirt, near a small bench at the far side of the garden. I sat facing a large marble sculpture, stone curves hinting at a reclining mother, baby in her arms.
I half closed my eyes. Other than the distant white-noise roar of the freeway, it was quiet. Birds twittered. A dog barked out a message and was answered by another’s woof.
The crunch of footsteps warned me of company. He was here. I slipped my hand in my pocket.
Raul was older than his website photograph. His muscles had softened into paunch. A graying braid trailed down his back. Black leather motorcycle jacket and black jeans tucked into black cowboy boots. Raul wheezed from the short hike, a smoker’s rasp. I sniffed the air. No nicotine reek. Maybe he’d quit.
My cell phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen. Bill. No way was I taking that call, especially considering my current activities.
Raul glanced at the dangling bronze nightshirt.
“What the fuck is that?”
“Art. I know. Probably cost more than a house,” I said. “Two houses. Yours and mine, both.” I was trying to put him at ease
“I’m a pacer,” Raul said. “You okay with walking?”
I stood up. “Fine with me.” A concrete pedestrian walkway led to the Getty, paralleling the tracks. As we started up on foot, a tram sped past. Faces pressed against the glass.
Raul shot me a sideways glance. “I’m going to stick my hand in my pants pocket and pull out a piece of paper. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I won’t, if you won’t,” I said. “You carrying?”
“No. You?”
“No. Except for the Wi
lson Combat Supergrade.”
He stiffened.
“Relax. It’s in my car. In the lot.”
“Mine’s in my S&S saddlebag. Forty-four Mag autoloader.” Just as I suspected, he couldn’t resist.
I thought about his gun. The .44 Magnum kicks like a horse but it can blow a through-and-through in one side of a car and out the other, like it was nothing. “So, you like to shoot elephants, do you?”
That got a smile. “You’re one to talk. Wilsons sight like a mother.”
I faced Raul. “Okay,” I said. “Enough male bonding. Why are we here?”
He glanced around, suddenly nervous—not that there was anywhere on this concrete walkway for a bad guy to hide.
“You know what? I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “Something doesn’t smell right.”
I smiled. “Is that Raul Mendoza the fake cop, or Charles Raul Montoya, the Low-riding Lawyer, talking?”
He looked startled.
“Relax,” I said again. “I’m not here to harm you. I think maybe we can help each other.”
“Charlie Montoya,” he said, shaking his head. “Yeah, that used to be me, but old Charlie’s gone. You’re looking at the new me.”
I doubted that, but I wasn’t going to push it.
He hesitated, clutching his piece of paper. He seemed to make a decision. “Listen. I know who Marv was poking,” he said, “besides his wife, I mean. I’ll give her up to you if you tell me why you’re so interested in a dead movie producer. Who hired you?”
I was faced with a small integrity dilemma. Such moments are inconvenient for a private investigator, but that’s how I was raised. Should I tell him I was pretty sure I already knew who Marv’s mistress was? Or should I play along, see if I could extract more information?
I thought about my fight with Bill, and the bags of garbage piled up in my back seat, like so many betrayals.
There’s no such thing as a small integrity dilemma, Ten. They’re all the same size.
“I already know Tovah’s name. And nobody’s hired me to look into Rudolph. Let’s just say I have personal reasons for doing so. As for why I’m interested, why are you?”
The Second Rule of Ten Page 16
