by Johnny Shaw
Noises came from the office.
“See. Someone’s here already. You’re going to be okay.”
“You didn’t call no one,” Bobby said, his voice slurring.
He was right. EMTs or an ambulance would’ve had to already be parked out front. It wasn’t the paramedics. It wasn’t firemen. Hell, I would have settled for a Reiki Master or intuitive healer at that moment.
It wasn’t even a someone. It was those fucking dogs again.
“Of course,” I said.
The two dogs stood in the office doorway, drooling and staring and working on their horror movie personae. Luckily Chucho had only grabbed Bobby’s pistol and had forgotten about his own. I rolled Bobby over. He grunted in pain. I grabbed Chucho’s pistol from his waistband and pointed it at the dogs.
“You fuckers even think about it and I’ll plug you both. I swear to God.”
I fired a shot just to the left of them. The dogs jumped and yelped, frightened by the sound. They didn’t exactly run away, but they retreated, doing their best to maintain their dog dignity.
I finally dug out my phone and called 911. I gave the too-calm lady our location and told her that my friend had been shot, but kept the details vague. She instructed me to be patient and apply pressure to the wound.
Patience. Pressure. I would have repeated it as a mantra, if Bobby and I didn’t have a few things to discuss before he passed out and the ambulance arrived.
After all, we had to get our story straight.
The cops came with the ambulance. After the paramedic lady patched my leg, I went with the cops. Bobby went with the ambulance. They were cool enough to tell me that it looked like he was going to be okay, that the bullet wound appeared to come from a small caliber, and that it hit high enough to dig into the meat of his upper pec muscle. They weren’t cool enough to let me go.
The EMT handed me off to a very patient, or possibly bored, detective who took my statement. I told mostly the truth, although I didn’t mention the guns we had brought. Mine was still under the couch in the office and Chucho’s was at the bottom of a big drum of used motor oil, a needle in the haystack of the very messy garage.
The gist of my statement was that Bobby’s innocent teenage daughter had gone missing. We had reason to believe that she was at the garage with her boyfriend, Chucho. The gate had been unlocked and open. Thinking that the garage was open for business, Bobby had gone into the office. I had waited outside. The dogs attacked me. Someone shot Bobby, he didn’t see who.
To his credit and damn him, the detective had some good questions.
“You say the gate was unlocked. Looks to me like it was cut with bolt-cutters.”
“It was like that when we got there.”
“It also looks like the office doorknob was shot off. Any idea why that is?”
“Yeah, I don’t know. I’m thinking someone broke into the garage before us, robbing the place or something. We maybe walked in on them. Probably who shot Bobby.”
“Why did you go onto the property if those two big-ass dogs were in there?”
“Obviously I wouldn’t’ve. I didn’t know they were there. They must’ve been around back. I’m stupid, but not that stupid.”
“And you didn’t see nobody? You were outside and you didn’t see no one?”
“No, sir.”
“How many shots were fired?”
“I don’t remember. At least one.”
“Closer to one or five?”
“I seriously couldn’t tell you. There were dogs mauling me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Should I have a lawyer here? Am I in trouble?”
“Do you have something to hide?”
“No. It’s more of a specific, should-I-call-a-lawyer-right-now kind of question, not so much a general, you-have-the-right-to-an-attorney kind of question.”
“I’m trying to determine the events leading up to your buddy getting shot. Who did it and why that person ran. Especially since it was you doing the trespassing. Tends to suggest there was something more going on. Maybe even something to do with the missing girl.”
“I get that. I’m just saying that I was the guy outside who got attacked by dogs. That was my role in the whole thing.”
“Yeah, I’m hearing you. Can’t say I believe it, but I’m pretty sure you didn’t shoot your buddy.”
The detective wrote some notes in his little book. He stared me in the eyes, one of those psych-out/lie-detector looks that cops throw at you. That look they think makes it seem like they’re reading your mind, but mostly just looks like they’re pinching mud.
I knew my statement was a house of cards on a windy day, but I wasn’t going to be the one to tell the police that Julie shot Bobby. Although they might look harder for a teenage shooter than a teenage runaway. Punishing could be easier than saving.
The detective didn’t press me any more than that. He repeated variations of a few questions mostly for clarity, and let it go at that.
That had been hours earlier. And other than my brief chinwag with the guard, I stared at the walls and ceiling. I considered taking another stab at sleep, but my heart rate still raced from the action and I was antsy to get out of there.
The door to the holding cell opened. My fat Mexican friend filled the lower half of the door frame. Short and thick, he must have stood on his toes when he talked through the window.
“Veeder,” he shouted.
“Why are you yelling? I’m three feet away.”
“Your lawyer’s here.”
“Is he now?” I said, not knowing that I had a lawyer. I hadn’t even made a phone call. A red-faced Mexican man I’d never met walked into the cell and thrust out his hand to shake. His suit was nice, but not flashy. His smile was artificial, but cordial. And his handshake was firm, but not finger-crushing. I liked him immediately, even though I knew that his likability was entirely manufactured.
He turned to the guard and dismissed him like a waiter who lingered at the table too long. “You can go, officer. I need to speak to my client alone, as is my privilege and right.”
The guard nodded and left, head down like a disciplined puppy. I liked my lawyer even more.
“I am Hector Costales.” I only heard his accent in the pronunciation of his name, newscaster-style. “I should have you out inside of an hour. I don’t predict that charges will be filed. At least not until the investigation is complete. As you are a property owner, have a child, and are white, they won’t see you as a flight risk. They consider you a witness more than a threat and know where you’ll be if they need you.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
Hector Costales continued to smile. “You’re not curious who sent me? I would have thought that would be the first thing you would ask.”
“It’s not really a mystery, Mr. Costales.”
“Hector.”
“I don’t have a lot of friends with lawyers on call. Or money. Or that give three shits about my well-being. Thank Tomás when you talk to him. Tell him I’ll pay him back.”
Hector nodded. “My client is not out of pocket. I am on a kind of retainer.”
“The real question is how did he know I was here?”
“As you know my client, you already know the answer. If something happens in the desert, my client knows about it. It’s his bailiwick.” I’m going to sound racist, but there was something odd to me about a Mexican using the word bailiwick. It’s the second whitest word I could think of after insurance.
“Any news about Bobby? Maves? Robert Maves? The guy I was with,” I asked.
He checked his watch. It was a nice watch. “As of forty-five minutes ago, his condition was stable. He is at JFK Memorial here in Indio. I can take you there as soon as you are released. However, as he was brought in for a gunshot wound, the police might not let you in right away. They’ll want to question him first.”
“Yeah. I talked to them already.”
“And told them nothing, I hope. That’s w
hat I advise you to do.”
“Nothing but the truth. I didn’t see anything.”
Hector Costales winked. “Your timing is surprisingly good. The Riverside County Sheriff’s Department had to pull some Indio PD personnel for a murder investigation in La Quinta. Understaffed, they’re not going to want to deal with whatever scrape you and your friend Maves got in. A mystery not worth solving. The rare upside to racism and classism. A dead millionaire in La Quinta eclipses a Mexican farmer shot in Indio any day of the week.”
“God Bless America,” I said, trying to read his face and figure out if Tomás had told him anything about my presence at Driskell’s house. But Hector Costales might as well have been wearing clown makeup, with the frozen smile he had on his face. I wondered if he was crying on the inside.
True to his word, I walked out of the Indio Police Department fifty minutes later with the sun setting in the west. It took another half hour to find the impound lot where my truck had been brought. It ended up being right next door to the station.
I thanked the good fortune that we had swapped Bobby’s Ranchero for my truck. Who knew what kind of arsenal he had in that thing? Nunchakus in the glove box? A rocket launcher behind the seat? For all I knew, the whole thing was a fucking Transformer. Which would explain the bright orange and red paint job and racing stripe.
When the guy at the impound lot tried to brush me off and tell me to come back the next day, I went ballistic, throwing swear words around like I was the Johnny Appleseed of foulmouthery. Of course, that didn’t help. But money talks. The fourteen dollars that hadn’t impressed the paramedic was enough to keep the impound lot open an extra fifteen minutes. Fourteen dollars to one person could be a different fourteen dollars to another. There was a lesson in there somewhere, but I obviously wasn’t good at learning from my mistakes or successes. I just plodded forward like the stupid fucking monkey that I am.
Driving to the hospital, I felt a sense of relief. Even though our quest had been an abject failure, we had found Julie and established that she was unhurt. We had also established that she was armed and dangerous. Sometimes you don’t win the war. You don’t even win any of the battles. All you have left to celebrate is the victory of getting home alive.
When Angie picked up, she didn’t sound happy. “I thought you were coming home.”
“I am,” I said. “It went to shit here. Bobby got shot. I’ve been sitting in a jail cell for the last few hours. Just got out.”
“Is he going to be okay?”
“Got shot in the shoulder. He’s at the hospital. I’m heading there now. And then home. I should be back in three hours or so. Hopefully in time to tuck Juan in, maybe talk to him a little. If not, at least I’ll be there in the morning when he wakes up.”
“He didn’t talk to me for most of the day. Really kept to himself, which isn’t like him.”
“I’m sorry I’m not there to help.”
“You will be. See you soon. And Jimmy,” Angie said, “I’m glad you didn’t get shot.”
The nightshift at JFK Memorial Hospital in Indio, California, defined chaos. In all its noise and turmoil, the waiting room bordered on self-parody, almost too over the top to be believed. It was like an angrier version of the DMV, but with dying and bleeding people yelling in Spanish and kicking vending machines. Okay, it was exactly like the DMV.
When I tried to cut in line to “ask just one question,” the eighty-five-year-old man at the front of the line showed me the hilt of a hunting knife in his belt. As politely and quietly as I could, I made my way to the back and stood impatiently behind a woman who I was pretty sure was made out of tuberculosis. She coughed freely and wetly onto the head wound of the bleeder in front of her. With each violent jerk, her wig shifted on her head like a fried egg in oil.
After an immune-system-testing forty-five minute wait, I was told that I was in the wrong line talking to the wrong person at the wrong desk in the wrong part of the hospital. Through a mask of pure apathy, I was told that Mr. Maves was on the second floor in the Detention Unit and I needed to talk to the desk up there. I didn’t know if she literally meant I needed to talk to the desk, but that’s what she said. I thought about finding the old man who wouldn’t let me ask my one question, so that I could kick him in the shin. But considering the efficiency of the hospital, he had probably already died. I let that thought comfort me.
As I stared at the wall directory, trying to make head or tail out of the maze, my newly appointed lawyer, Hector Costales, appeared, grabbed my arm, and walked me down the hall. He stepped quickly, forcing me to keep pace on my hobbled leg.
He handed me a suit jacket that he had gripped in his hand. “Put this on.”
I did. It fit.
He handed me a comb.
I hadn’t showered in a while so the greasiness made my hair stay in place. Poor man’s mousse.
Hector Costales slammed on the brakes. Three steps later, I stopped and turned back to him. He looked me up and down and winced.
“It’ll have to do. Try to keep the gimp hidden,” he said.
He reached into his briefcase and handed me a legal pad and pen. An unintelligible scrawl covered the lines and margins.
“Stare at this like it’s the most important thing in the world. Like you’re studying for a test. Act like you’re writing, but don’t write. Those notes are important. Don’t look up unless it’s to make sure you don’t trip.”
And then he was moving again, not waiting for a reply.
DETENTION. Painted on the wall in thick, government letters so that there was no misunderstanding. It showed you how messed up Indio could be. JFK was a small hospital, yet there was an entire floor devoted to patients under police detention. Beneath the DETENTION sign was a hallway with a metal detector and, in front of that, a desk with a cop sitting at it.
Hector Costales picked up the only item on the desk, a clipboard. Using the pen tied to it, he wrote on it and handed it to the cop. No words spoken. The cop read the clipboard, gave us both a look, and nodded. He handed us each small plastic bowls. Following Hector Costales’s lead, I emptied the contents of my pockets into the bowl.
Once we were through the metal detector, another cop took over. He conferred with the desk cop and then escorted us down the hall. When we reached the door to number 113, we stopped and the cop unlocked the door. The whole thing was done as efficiently and impersonally as possible.
The room looked like a standard hospital room, except there were locks on the cabinets and bars over the windows. There was no television either. Bobby lay on his back in bed, an IV running into his arm and his left shoulder patched up thick with gauze. He turned when we entered, a goofy smile on his face.
“Hey, buddy,” Bobby said, slurry as a ten-beer night. “Can you check and see if this hotel has a pool? The mean waitress won’t talk to me no more after I asked her for a handie.”
“Maybe we should come back,” I said.
“Why’d you bring Luis Guzmán with you?” Bobby pointed at Hector Costales. “I loved you in Pluto Nash.”
“We’ll come back later,” I said.
Bobby’s distinctive laugh filled the room. “I’m fucking with you, Jimmy. The painkillers are good, but this ain’t my first demolition derby. My body has built up a tolerance to most forms of not-sober.”
“Ain’t really a time for jokes,” I said. “I thought you might die. All that fucking blood. Cops and ambulances and doctors later, and everything is still double-fucked. I spent the day in a jail cell when I need to be home. You spent the day in a hospital—the detention area, I might add. Which is essentially hospital jail. Not very funny.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Bobby said. His voice shook a little. “I just can’t cry no more. Spent the last hour, thinking and bawling. Like watching the end of Rudy or Old Yeller over and over. I couldn’t stop.”
“It’s okay to cry.”
Bobby shook his head. “You think I don’t know that? Shit, man, when have y
ou ever known a drunk that don’t get weepy? You take me for one of them dumbasses thinks crying ain’t manly? Crying ain’t weak. Crying means you care. Means shit matters. What’s manly about not giving a shit? Or caring what other people think? I’ll make a fucker cry that thinks crying is stupid, see how he likes it to cry.”
Bobby stopped, shut his eyes tight, and then opened them wide. “Okay, maybe the painkillers are a little stronger than I thought. My brain took a back road there.” Bobby nodded toward Hector Costales. “You going to tell me who the Mayan is?”
“He’s our lawyer.”
“No,” Hector Costales corrected me. “I am Mr. Veeder’s attorney.”
“What about Bobby?” I said.
“What about him?”
“I’m sure that Tomás meant for you to represent both of us.”
“I am sure that he did not, as he told me specifically that I was not to represent Mr. Maves. ‘That estupido Bob Maves is on his own.’ His words.”
“Why does Morales hate me?” Bobby asked.
“He thinks you’re trouble,” I said. “I don’t know where he got that idea.”
“He’s a fucking super-villain.”
“You did attack him the other night.”
“He’s always had a problem with me.”
“When we were kids, you used to fuck with him a lot, call him Tommy Teto and Where’s Waldo. Could still be mad about that.”
“You forgot Mexinerd. In my defense, he was a ten-year-old that wore giant cataracts glasses and carried a briefcase around. Also, I was a dick back then.”
“Even crime lords have feelings.”
I noticed Hector Costales’s eyelids drop a little on my use of the phrase crime lords. Lawyers preferred discretion. I didn’t.
“If you’re not here for Bobby,” I said to Hector Costales, “then why are you here?”
“I am here because you wanted to be here. This was the best way to make that happen. Even family can’t see him in detention. Only his lawyer. The men outside believe you are my associate. Not a lie, but not the truth.”
“But you’re not going to help Bobby?”
