“None of your business.” He breathed heavily into the phone. “Not that it matters. I’m fucked from here to Sunday, either way.” He faded into silence.
Yeshe believes four simple words, when asked sincerely, are the fastest path to right action in certain situations, especially tricky ones.
It was worth a try.
“How can I help?”
“How can you help?” His laugh was bitter. “You want to help me.”
“You called me. Why?”
He said nothing.
I waited.
He sighed. “I want to get out.”
The moment had an electric quality. My skin tingled. A threshold had been crossed. I looked across the highway to the slow-rolling waves—the same waves Raul was watching. A flock of pelicans swooped and spun over the water.
“I’m looking out at the ocean,” I said. “I wonder where those waves started out.”
“Somewhere north. Alaska, maybe.” There was a long pause. “I hear it’s pretty there.”
“So, you want out,” I said.
“Yeah, but with this hijo de puta, you don’t just turn in a letter of resignation, tell him you’re moving on.”
“Right,” I said. “It’s complicated.”
He made a little half laugh. “Complicated. No shit.” I heard him take a swig of something.
“How about if I come to you?” I asked. “I can be there in fifteen minutes. We’ll talk this through.”
“Don’t bother,” he said. “They’ll never let me out. Not how it works, you know? I got nobody to blame but me—I dealt my own goddamned hand. This is it.”
This is it. I put things together: the call, the drinking, the cliff. He was about to play the last card over which he had any control, the suicide card. I jumped in the car and peeled onto the coast highway. I plugged in my Bluetooth earpiece so I wouldn’t lose him. I figured I was about fifteen miles from Point Dume.
“Talk to me,” I said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Tenshin. What kind of name is that?” he asked.
“Tibetan.” I pronounced it for him. “Now you try.” But his tongue was two swigs past the point of navigation.
“Just call me Ten,” I said.
“Might as well call me Charlie, then. My mother gave me that name.”
“You’re going back to your roots?”
“I guess you have to someday, don’t you?”
I said nothing.
“You and me, we’re not so different,” he added.
That was news to me, but I was too busy steering through Malibu at a high speed to disagree.
“The way I see it, we’re both refugees. Both trying to get to someplace, and away from someplace else at the same time. I saw that in you, up there at the Getty.”
I never turn down an insight, no matter what the source. It did feel odd, though, to be seen so clearly by a drunk thug preparing to jump off a cliff.
“I know what I’m running from,” he said, “but what’s a guy like you running from?”
A guy like me?
“What kind of a guy is that?” I asked.
His words drifted over the phone. “You know—a guy trying to do the right thing. A good guy. I never could figure out how that game worked. How did I get here?”
“Same way we get anywhere. You can figure it out now, Charlie. You got where you are one small, bad choice at a time. You can make a different choice, right here. Right now.”
His breath wheezed into my ear.
“Charlie?” The quick double-beep signaled a lost connection. I urged my car forward. Come on! Come on! The coastal road left the ocean and curved inland. I hooked the Shelby up Westward Beach Road and wound around to the public parking lot. Above me, high-end homes with beach views sprinkled the hillside. Below lay the curved sandy bay known as Smuggler’s Cove. Set between the two, the scrubby cliffs and jutting headland of Point Dume State Preserve. I jumped out of my car and ran to the end of the lot, where the trail began. The sun was lower in the sky, and the empty asphalt was streaked with light and shadow. I was relieved to see a custom Harley, with its S&S twin-cylinder engine, parked at the base of the trail, across from a dumpster. The rest of the lot was empty—it was November and close to closing time.
I jogged along a sandy footpath, past scrubby chaparral and succulent ground cover, and darted up the trail as it narrowed and grew steeper alongside the rock-faced point. Soon the sharp incline was bracketed by thick wire handholds, and stapled with railway ties. I slipped and skidded and cursed my leather-soled shoes. Close to the tip of the point, a lone figure took shape. Charles Raul Montoya, Esq. was perched on the edge of the promontory. He had climbed past the lookout deck with its cozy bench and safety railing. He was clutching a bottle of tequila, staring out to sea.
I stepped onto the deck, catching my breath. I didn’t want to startle him, so I called out softly.
“Charlie?”
He swung his head around. He nodded once, swiped the mouth of the bottle with his sleeve, and held it out to me.
I shook my head. “No thanks.”
He looked confused. “You won’t drink with me?” He sounded more hurt than angry.
“Sorry. I’ve never tried hard liquor,” I said, “and now’s not the time to start.” He shrugged and took another pull. I sat down on the wooden bench, next to a pair of binoculars—Barska Gladiator zooms. Someone—Charlie—had abandoned them there.
“Join me?”
After a moment, he stepped away from the rocky lip of cliff, and made his stumbling way back onto the wooden lookout deck. He sat next to me. A sea bird screeched overhead, and we followed its flight, low over the water. Just two guys watching a gull on an early November afternoon.
“We got ourselves into some deep shit here, hombre,” Charlie said. “But maybe there’s still time for you to climb out.”
“Tell me what’s going on,” I said, “and I’ll decide if I want to.”
He shook his head slowly. “You act like you have a choice. It’s too big.”
“Too big for what?”
“Too big for anybody who isn’t a billionaire or a stone-cold killer.”
I chose my words carefully. “I think you’re telling me Chaco Morales has got a deal underway that teams up big money and murder. Is that what you’re saying?”
He nodded. “That table in the kitchen at La Cantinela? Every one of those guys has innocent blood on his hands. Men, women, children, you name it. Chaco, his brother, Pepé, and their boys took down a whole village in the Sierra Madre, back when he was building his business. Shot them and loaded the bodies up, well, just the heads, actually, and delivered them to the biggest town in the region. Seventy heads, stuck on pikes. Think he had any trouble getting the area organized after that?”
“How did you know I was at La Cantinela?” I asked. “How did you know I saw that table?”
“Chaco’s nephew Daniel called. ‘I just met a guy,’ he said, and described you to a T. ‘That the guy we’ve been hearing about?’ he asks me.”
“What did you say?”
“After I got through crapping my pants I said, ‘Yeah, that’s him.’ And Daniel says ‘Chaco told you to scare him off, but he don’t look too scared to me.’”
“Then what did you do?”
“I bought myself two pints of tequila and came here to pay my respects. This is sacred land, you know. Chumash tribe. My great-grandmother was part Chumash. I can think of worse places to die.”
“Me, too,” I said. “But maybe not today, okay? How about I give you a lift to a motel? You can take a hot shower. Call your daughters. Get some rest. You can come back for the chopper later.”
He studied the horizon. “Yeah,” he said, “maybe.” I followed his gaze, and located a tiny flat smudge—like a distant hyphen on the water. Charlie started to reach for the binoculars. Then he changed his mind. He met my eyes, his hollow. “I got something for you. A present.”
“What kind of present?” The wa
y he said it made me nervous. I was glad for the gun, snug under my arm.
“Information. Something that’s going to piss you off—a con they’re all running on you.”
“Who’s ‘they’? Chaco? Marv?”
“You’re the fancy detective,” he said. “You figure it out.” He fished around in his jeans pocket and came out with a small key. He handed it to me.
“Lockbox on my bike. Get what’s in there for me? I think I’m too drunk to make the hike just yet.”
“Sure.”
I skidded downhill to Charlie’s chopper. The sun was slanting sharply now. I located the lockbox, bolted onto the back of the frame. A small fragment of my brain registered that one of the Harley’s fiberglass saddlebags was hanging open. Empty . . .
Crack! The sharp report of a .44 Mag split the dusk in two. My ears rattled like tin as I heard Charlie shouting. A second blast rang out as I dove and rolled. A huge puff of sand kicked up to my left, and I tasted grit. Someone out there was big game hunting, and I was the rogue elephant.
I grabbed for my .38 as I swept my eyes over the hillside. Where are you? I heard Charlie cry out and another crack! I scrabbled onto all fours. Whang! A bullet tore through the metal skin of the Harley’s fuel tank, maybe two feet from my head. I swung my Wilson upward, about to take a shot. No. Don’t. People live up there. I did a tuck and roll over the bike, onto the sandy asphalt behind it. Take cover! My eyes whipped across the lot. There is no cover. A steady stream of gasoline spilled out of the tank and onto the metal motor casing. I focused on the dumpster, about ten yards away. I pushed into a crouch and did a quick zig and zag across the open space. Crack! The next bullet must have grazed the fuel tank. The bike exploded into flames. A blast of heat bit the back of my neck as I wrenched open the lid and dove inside the dumpster. I thought about how 44 mag bullets could pass through metal like a knife through warm butter. I burrowed deeper.
Dead silence, except for the hard pant of my breath. My nose registered the stench of rotting fruit, stale beer, plus some other things I didn’t want to identify. I stifled a gag, as my trip-hammer heartbeat finally began to slow. I dialed 911, and then Bill.
“Stay put,” Bill said.
Right.
After a few minutes, I had to look. I pushed up the lid of the dumpster, only an inch or two. No movement that I could see. I gulped the sea air, as my eyes found the Harley. The flame had died off. The burnt carcass of the chopper looked like an incinerated scorpion. But somehow, the lockbox still seemed intact, and the key was still in my pocket. I lifted the lid higher. I sighted my gun and swept it across the lot, and up into the hills. Nothing. The shooter, too, had gone underground.
Shouts broke out. Happy man-shouts. Welcome shouts, under the circumstances. A swarm of bicyclists, all wearing helmets and dressed in colorful Lycra tights, sped along the hillside road above me, spread out like colorful prayer flags. They paused to take in the view, and then pedaled away. Maybe they’d scared my hunter off.
I stayed where I was, as silence settled in their wake. I counted ten long breaths, then ten more. A faint siren wailed in the distance. I listened. Yes. Getting closer.
Okay. Enough.
I clambered out of my smelly safehold. I ran to the lockbox, worked the key into the lock, and turned. It released, and I forced the slightly jammed lid open. I pulled out a quart-sized Ziploc bag as a fire engine, followed by two L.A. county sheriff’s patrol cars, tore into the parking lot. I shoved the bag in my pocket. It was Charlie’s present to me, and I’d earned it. Then I ran back up to the deck, before the sheriffs spotted me. “Charlie? Charlie!”
Nothing.
My eyes fell on the binoculars. I used them to scan the area. My heart caught at a figure holding his arms up, but it was a cactus.
“Charlie Montoya!”
The quiet was ominous. I lowered the binoculars, and looked out at the ocean. My eyes narrowed. The dark smudge seemed a little larger. I raised the binoculars and focused. A long narrow fishing boat filled my vision—maybe thirty feet long. No cabin that I could see, only two little outboard motors, side by side.
My phone buzzed.
“Hey, Bill.”
“I’m here. Where the hell are you? I thought I told you to stay put.”
“In a dumpster? No thanks. Take the footpath up.” In a few minutes Bill was by my side, huffing from the climb. We went looking for Charlie, as I did my best to explain the sequence of events. Bill grunted a few times, but mostly just listened. We picked our way across the scrubby ground and inched to the lip of the promontory. We looked down.
Charlie lay in a still, spread-eagled heap, far below. A gory carnation bloomed in the middle of his back. The force of the bullet must have blown him over the edge as he was trying to run away. Or maybe he decided to jump after all, and the shooter just gave him an extra push. I would never know. The sand around Charlie was soaked dark. His legs and neck were bent at odd angles—the sight of his broken bones bothered me more than the blood.
Bill got on his phone. I gazed at the sprawl of body, motionless on the beach.
How can I help?
You can’t.
I thought about Charlie giving me the key to his lockbox. One small, good choice, before he died. Maybe I had helped after all. I closed my eyes and offered this: Through the merit you have accumulated, however small, may all your hopes be fulfilled in an instant. Om mani padme hum.
“Okay,” Bill said. “I called off the ambulance. He clearly doesn’t need one.” Bill scratched at his head. “This crime scene is going to be a mother. Get ready for a couple of hours of explaining, Ten. No way to avoid it.”
“I know,” I said.
Bill’s mouth twitched.
“Just so you know, the county coroner’s on his way. With Heather. You might want to think about rinsing off. You smell like a sewer.”
The next couple hours crawled by at a miserable pace, as I told my story over and over to the Malibu/Lost Hills Sheriff’s Department. Deputies sifted through chaparral, looking for footprints and bullet casings. Others combed the cordoned-off, lush gardens and side-yards of Cliffside Drive, as worried residents peered from behind their curtains. The gated community was home to Hollywood royalty, secreted in some of the priciest real estate in Malibu, so the powers that be weren’t taking any chances. Nobody looked in my pockets. And nobody found my shooter, either. Chaco’s guys had a disconcerting way of melting into thin air.
Heather arrived just as I was leaving. She moved as if to give me a hug.
I held her off with one arm.
“Sorry,” I said. “But after half an hour in a dumpster, I not only feel like crap, I smell like it. Better stand downwind.”
She nodded. “Thanks for the warning. You okay?”
“I’m okay. Just beat.”
“Will I see you tomorrow?”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Bill caught the end of our exchange.
“Hot date?” he asked, as he walked me to my car.
I thought about what lay ahead. Eight hours of enforced sitting and noble silence.
“Something like that.”
Charlie’s “present” was calling to me from my pocket. A few miles past Point Dume, I pulled into a deserted parking lot. I opened the baggie and scanned the contents as well as I could—the Shelby’s dome light is pretty dim. What I was hoping for was a neon sign’s worth of unmistakable answers to all my questions. What I got was a smudged, hand-scrawled list, at first glance in some sort of Spanish code, and what appeared to be a scrap of material wrapped in plastic. Both required a lot more light and a far fresher brain to decipher further. I tucked the baggie back in my pocket and pulled onto Pacific Coast Highway, no wiser.
CHAPTER 19
Tank was not happy. His personal butler was not only late, he smelled like a toxic waste dump. If a cat’s nose can be said to wrinkle, Tank’s did. But what he didn’t know was that I was packing liver.
On the way ho
me I’d stopped off at Harpo’s Oven for a pizza to go—this one all for me. All I’d had to do was walk in and Harpo knew to shout “Double mushroom, pesto sauce, pan-style, large” to the kid in the back. Then I’d nipped next door to the butcher shop. After such a long, unexplained absence, it was going to take more than love to repair my relationship with my feline friend. The butcher and I have an understanding. He had reached into the cold case and brought out a little half pint of calves liver trimmings to go. He’d refused to charge me, as usual, and as usual I’d assured him that the merit of his action promised wealth beyond measure. I’d picked up my pizza and headed home.
Now I revealed the glistening treasure to Tank. His eyes glazed over, and he rolled onto his back. A four-legged salute was more than I could have hoped for. I dished out the liver trimmings. Tank fell upon them like a savage, and I did the same with my pizza, washing it down with a Sam Adams, straight out of the bottle.
It was late, and I craved a hot shower more than samadhi. But the Marv trail was getting colder by the minute, and I’d already done some time today in trash. It only made sense to finish my sentence before getting clean.
I had parked in the driveway, leaving the carport empty—you need a well-ventilated space for this job. Now I spread out a tarp, and clamped two spotlights overhead, positioning them for maximum visibility. I dragged the black bags to the middle of the tarp, pulled on a painter’s mask and thin blue latex gloves, and started scavenging.
I soon knew a lot of useless information about the upstanding residents of Robinsgrove: there were snorers (nose strips), mothers (diapers), diabetics (syringes), and debtors (late-payment notices); gossipers (In Touch subscriptions), dieters (Getslim meal containers), drinkers (tallboys), and dog-owners (don’t ask). Lots of flossers of teeth and grinders of coffee beans. A few smart souls knew enough to shred their paperwork, but most disposed of everything casually, exposing their innermost identities to scrutiny without a second thought. I sifted and separated the soggy waste, an archeologist on a dig from hell, but turned up no clues as to Tovah’s life, or Marv’s for that matter—either Marv was an expert at covering their tracks, or Tovah had forgotten to take out the trash. There was no joy at all, in fact, until my fingers recognized something inside one little plastic bag, and my heart hammered in response to the find.
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