Enter our neighbor. A man named Jim Douglas.
Jim Douglas was a major force in my life. He was married to a woman named Candy and they had four daughters whom they loved and raised and parented beautifully. I’m still in touch with all of them to this day. Jim was a career military guy. He had been in Vietnam, a Green Beret. He had another color associated with him too. Black. Jim and Candy and their kids are black. But Jim’s skin wasn’t the only thing that was black. His belt was black too. He was a serious badass karate master. A black belt and a champion.
As much as Jim loved his daughters, he wanted a son. And me? Jim was the kind of guy that I was desperate to be around. At first, he just stepped in where my dad wasn’t so proficient. Taught me how to throw a football. Taught me how to shift my weight when hitting a baseball. My dad wasn’t threatened—something I later realized was really admirable. My dad liked that I was excited to hang with Jim. He liked that I was learning the things that I innately was interested in. Like sports. And camping. And how to really hurt a guy if you ever had to get in a fight.
Yes, Jim taught me how to fight. Not at first. Not for years. But eventually. I was about thirteen and I was at his house and I remember him sitting in a big recliner, drinking scotch. He filled up the chair totally. Jim was a big man. About five-eleven, pretty tall, but thick and strong and kind of stocky-looking when he stood up despite his height. In later years he sported one of those cement-hard guts. I hope I have one of those one day. What is the deal with those things? You have a gut, sometimes a big one like Jim’s, but it’s hard as steel. So you’re not really fat I don’t think. Anyway, that night, I remember vividly he wore a red, totally unbroken-in baseball hat with some kind of army logo on the front. The hat was enormous. Just a giant, flat front and a flat, uncurved bill. Like he had intentionally not broken it in all. Lee Trevino–style. I could tell you an entire story about the size and crispness of that hat.
He said, “Sit down, John.” And then he said, “John, you’re going to have to fight sometimes. Now, don’t start fights. And once I teach you how to fight that doesn’t mean you should find stupid reasons to practice either. You know what I’m saying? Make up stuff like you had to get in this fight or that fight. And another thing. Once I teach you to fight, don’t get sucked into cleaning up other people’s messes either. Some guy you know cops a bunch of attitude to some other guy, then wants you to clean up his mess? No, that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m just saying there are times you’re going to need to know what to do. There are times when fighting is the right answer. And when you feel like that is happening, you just have to ask yourself one question. One simple question. Is now the time? And if the answer is yes, then do this. One: Commit yourself totally to the cause. Two: Aim your punches for the throat and the nose. And three: Finish the job and get out of there.”
That was the introduction. He eventually taught me actual moves. He trained me. So I can fight karate-style or barroom-style. It’s not perfect. And I’m not a black belt like Jim. But, boy, it comes in handy a lot in my business. Most people, even tough guys, don’t really know how to fight. But even if they do, I always go back to another thing Jim said: “Technique isn’t what it’s all about. It’s about commitment. Ask yourself that one question. Is now the time? If the answer is yes, then go for it completely. Completely. And you’ll win over ninety percent of the time. Maybe more.”
Another thing Jim taught me a couple years later was in his words, “The most important thing in life, really.” Jim had a billiards room set up in his house. Wood-paneled walls. Pictures of him, his family, his army buddies. Jim and I were shooting pool. He wore a light blue terry-cloth shirt which looked amazing against his black skin.
I said, “What, Jim? What’s the most important thing in life, really?”
He looked at me and he was very serious. His eyes betrayed intensity and experience and truth. “Loyalty. Loyalty is the most important thing in life. You know why? Because loyalty is hard. You’ll see what I’m talking about when you get older. Life becomes grayer and more nuanced and the decisions you make get more and more difficult. It gets harder and harder to remain loyal to people. Listen, John. You’re going to make a lot of friends in life. And you’ll meet men and women who are charming and fun as shit and hilarious. All that stuff is easy. And none of it means dick compared to loyalty. Your friend who always makes you laugh? Who’s always there for a good time? That’s all fine and good, until he fucks your girlfriend. See? See what I’m saying? John, listen to me. Do you see what I’m saying? He ain’t worth a shit compared to your friend who always has your back.”
Which brings me to yet another thing that Jim taught me. It was right around the time of the loyalty lesson and Jim said it was connected. This time we were on a canoe trip. His wife and daughters and his brother, Otis, were with us too. But in our canoe it was just me up front, his daughter Shawna in the middle, and him in the back, in charge.
We were just paddling along, gliding down the river, and he said, “John, listen. Turn around and look at me and listen.”
I turned around and stretched my neck to look around Shawna at Jim. Jim wore gray gym shorts, a necklace with a cross on it, and a bright orange life preserver. Also: Army-issue shades. These days he had the aforementioned gut, which, I’m proud to say, he had no shame about whatsoever. I was looking at him, waiting for him to speak. As he paddled along he was sweating profusely, which he also didn’t appear to give a shit about.
He said, “John. Don’t ever make your mind up about somebody until you see how they behave when the pressure’s on.”
Instinctively, I turned to look ahead and make sure we were still going in the right direction.
“Don’t worry, I got the canoe. John. John. John, turn back around, son. Turn back around now.”
I did.
He continued. “See, somebody might seem great, and then something happens that puts a little tension into the situation. Forces that person to make a tough decision. Will he or she keep their cool and do the right thing? Or will that person suddenly become someone else? A panicking, selfish fool? Now, it can work in the reverse too.”
Jim was working the paddle, sweating, steering us down the river as he spoke.
He said, “John. John. John, look at me. See, somebody might not impress you at all. You know, in everyday life. Might be a bump on a log. Or even a seemingly selfish cat who doesn’t seem to understand the bigger picture. But then . . . then something heats up. I’m talking about anything. A guy being a jerk at a ball game. A car accident. A boss who doesn’t treat his employees right. And that person who you thought was a nobody will stand up and handle it like a pro. Tell the guy at the ball game he needs to adjust his attitude. Get people to the hospital that need to be at the hospital. Tell the boss calmly that he can’t treat people like that. Conversely, somebody who you’d think would handle pressure in just the right way, sometimes won’t. Sometimes that person who fronts confidence, who fronts courage, will wilt like a flower that’s been picked out of the ground. You see what I’m saying? John, do you see what I’m saying? When pressure enters into a situation, when the element of tension enters, that’s when someone’s true personality emerges. Remember that. Now turn around and paddle, help me steer a little, son. We’re getting off course.”
He chuckled at his little joke.
Back to the Santa Monica Mountains. Back to the story. See, it’s times like these, when a case takes a turn, when I can feel the fire coming, that I think a lot about Jim. About Jim’s advice.
And it comforts me.
So, my hike. I had decided to go on a hike to mull things over. To plan my next move. Here’s what happened on that hike.
26
I pulled the Cobalt off Sunset onto a little road that would take me to a hike I knew and liked. I found the trailhead, parked, changed into some shorts and running shoes. No one around, I did it right out in the open. Didn’t feel nearly as twisted as I had sitting at the s
urf break in a T-shirt and nothing else.
I headed up the trail. Look we’re not talking Grizzly Adams here, there were old ladies who walked these trails, but it was nice. Outside. Sun. Fresh air. The intensity of L.A. no longer choking me.
I was winding my way up into the sky. Thinking. Thinking about some of the other maybes. Like, did Suzanne tell Neese that she was going to quit or wanted out, and he got pissed off and popped her because of that? Can’t see it. Just doesn’t seem like good business. There must be some turnover in his bizarre world. He must allow them to leave at some point. Well, maybe Suzanne told him she was going to quit, he put some pressure on her to stay because she’s good for business, clearly that’s true, and then she broke her promise and told someone else what she did for a living. Come on. No way. She’s not a moron. See, that’s what bothered me. That’s why I wasn’t in the Cobalt headed downtown to talk to Ott. There had to be more to the story. It was very likely in my mind that Neese had this twisted system set up, but that he didn’t kill her. That maybe Jimmy Yates did. That maybe someone I hadn’t met yet did.
I was making myself crazy. I simply needed more information. I was getting too theoretical here. Too far down a little path called Maybe Lane.
Thirty minutes later I was almost at the top of the trail. I looked behind me and saw the big mass of sea—the Pacific. The waves breaking on shore seemed tiny when set against the now blackish-looking monstrosity of water that stretched into infinity. That stretched all the way to that curved line that was the horizon. It felt haunting, powerful. When I looked the other way I could see all the way to downtown L.A., the buildings in a little cluster covered in haze. I was sweating, and even though I was telling myself not to, I was running through possibilities in my head.
There was a smaller, less traveled trail that intersected the main one I was on just beyond where I was standing. It went up, even higher, to the peak of the mountain. I took it. It wound around through some thicker brush and trees. This trail was less maintained, less walked on, so there were bushes and vines haphazardly crossing it.
This trail had more mystery. More unknowns to it. It more represented what was going on in my head. Lots of variables, lots of strands and vines I just didn’t quite understand yet. And few that seemed to sync up and connect for me.
I got to the top of this trail, as high as you could go on this hike. The space opened up and there was a sort of natural viewing area here. It was private, peaceful, quiet. I sat down on a big, smooth, warm rock. I looked down at the ground next to the trail. Twigs and brush and . . . something moving. I sat very still and watched as a snake, a California rattler, moved, unaware of me, from the brush bordering the trail to right on the trail. Slithering. Moving, slanting, sideways and forward at the same time.
It was frightening, I had never seen one before. But it was headed away from me, it appeared to be simply crossing the trail. I was very, very focused on it. Aware that if I moved, it might panic, turn around, and strike me.
I was frozen, but locked on it, until it disappeared into the brush on the other side of the trail. It was a relief that I could no longer see it. The old ostrich mentality. You know, I can’t see it so I must be safe. When I finally stopped looking at the area where the rattler had been I was hit with a presence around me. I jerked my head up and to the left. Two men were standing above me. One guy had his arms at his sides. He was big, muscular, with a pockmarked face and black hair. His black hair had one of those white streaks in it. Skunklike. But not dyed. The guy didn’t put it there. It was natural. Caused by a birthmark, I think. I’d seen one before. Just a two- or three-inch white streak amid a shock of black. The other guy was big too. But bald, shaved clean. He was holding a crowbar. Old school.
This was going to get very ugly.
In my mind, my chances appeared. They raced by. I had no gun. Nowhere really to go. There were cliffs and precipices all around. Crowbar Guy reared it back. But it was White Streak who punched me hard, hard in the jaw.
I was down on the ground. And instinctively I looked for the snake. Where was that slithering menace? Another thing out to get me. Crowbar Guy brought the steel tool up high and swung downward hard, right at my head. Okay, these guys were not fucking around.
I dodged it.
White Streak was now in front of me. I kicked him in the balls. I didn’t get a direct hit, maybe the side of one ball, but enough to neutralize him for a few seconds.
I got to my feet. Crowbar Guy had it up again and it was coming down at my head a second time. I moved but it caught me in the shoulder. I punched him in the throat. Got him, he was down, the crowbar out of his hands lying on the trail. I went for the crowbar, get the weapon out of there, but didn’t get to it. White Streak punched me hard in the ear. A flash of red light exploded in front of my eyes, and I heard a piercing ringing that I knew wasn’t there.
I turned to face White Streak. I went for his nose with a right, but he blocked it. I kicked him in the nuts again, full contact, then tagged him in his left eye with my left fist.
I was jacked up, folks, I was all in.
White Streak was standing there, open, open for the kill. I went for his nose again, but he moved just slightly. I got him in the side of the face, but hard, very hard. But he didn’t go down.
I turned around. Crowbar Guy was crawling toward the crowbar. He grabbed it. I stomped on his wrist, may have broken it. The crowbar was set free. Myopically I went for it, leaned down to grab it. I was on it, it was in my hands, when a foot collided with the back of my spine. I shot forward, landed on the brush, landed on, I think, a cactus, whose spines, thirty, forty of them, went into my stomach. I was stuck to the earth essentially.
Down on my stomach, I still had the crowbar. I couldn’t do anything with it from my position, and I didn’t want them to get their hands on it, so I threw it over the side of the trail. It disappeared over the edge. It was twenty yards away now, down the canyon, out of the picture. I turned over, pulled myself off the cactus. White Streak, who had kicked me in the spine, stood over me. I grabbed a tennis ball–sized rock and threw it at his face. I caught him in the same eye I’d punched him in. Bright blood splattered in the air and formed a red mini firework in the sky. I got up, spines sticking out of me, and stood in front of both of them. Jim would tell me to get out of there, this one wasn’t winnable, but I wanted more.
I was going to go at Crowbar Guy, who was now crowbarless. And whose right wrist hung at his side, lifeless, at a strange, unsettling angle.
White Streak turned around, then back, and now held a gun pointed at my face. It was wrapped in a navy blue towel to silence the blast. I could just see the barrel sticking out the end. There was a calm over both of them. I thought: These guys are killers. Their orders? Kick the shit out of me, then end it, end me. Was this where it was going to be? Here on a side trail in the Santa Monica Mountains? With a silhouetted hawk overhead? With snakes and scorpions hiding in the brush beside me?
White Streak kept the gun on me. Crowbar Guy took two big, fast steps and kicked me hard in the chest. I went down, backward. My head banged against the hard sand. It was a dull, deep thud. Now dizzy, bleary, disoriented, staring skyward at the sun. The two men were hard to see, the sun was blinding me. I looked over to my left. And that’s when I saw the rattler. He was hidden in the brush but his face was inches from mine. Inches. I looked right at the creature’s diamond-shaped head, but mostly at the two dots that were his black, soulless, indifferent eyes. His eyes were the same, the same, as the eyes of Richard Neese. The snake’s head was frozen, perfectly still, but his neck was coiled, cocked, ready to strike.
Crowbar Guy grabbed my shirt with his good hand, lifted me up, pushed me against the rock I’d been sitting on when they appeared. White Streak pointed the gun right between my eyes. Crowbar Guy looked at the gun, then at White Streak.
All he had to do was pull the trigger. If I went for the gun, he could pull it. If I just sat here, he could pull it. A roc
k and a hard place—with my life on the line. I was scared, I was very, very scared. My body tingled and a wave of blood rushed through me, my insides, on their own, preparing for something big. And then I had an oddly rational thought. John, you have a choice. Would you rather die scared or die strong? And I said to myself: Fuck it. Let’s do it. And I sat up as straight as I could and looked right into the barrel, into that oily, black circle of death. My conscious mind, my subconscious mind, every part of me knew I had maybe one second left. Images began to appear in my mind. Quickly, but each one clear and searing and vivid. A dog I had as a child running to me across our lawn. My brother and me on a roller coaster, looking at each other as we roared down a deep drop. My mother hugging me and putting her cheek against mine and her hand on the back of my head. And then my father, sitting in his chair in a light blue dress shirt, giving me a tender but heartbreaking smile. And then one final image. It was a giant white oblong balloon sitting, floating, on top of a placid, blue, sun-dappled body of water. It was so beautiful. It was so peaceful. I waited for the bang.
It didn’t happen. White Streak didn’t pull the trigger. Instead, he first punched me in the face in the same exact spot the surfboard had hit, right above my left eye. A flash of pain went through my body. I felt the pain collect in my spine. Then he leaned down, picked up a rock, held his hand high in the air—pronouncing that it was coming—and struck me on the skull. My head jerked back and I could feel cool air hit the wound on my now opened cranium. Hot blood trickled down my face.
Then, the barrel of the gun was right in front of me again, but it was Crowbar Guy who said, “You know Richard Neese?”
The Detective & The Pipe Girl: A Mystery Page 15
