by Johnny Shaw
“Artesian well. I like the company of animals, they . . .” Rudy stopped abruptly. “That’s right.”
“What?” I asked.
“Minerva left three weeks back. You ain’t never getting that drink.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“They all leave, son,” Rudy said. “But you didn’t come out here to chat about my love life or my bestiary. And even though I’m a desert outlier, don’t worry, those two things are yet to intersect. What kind of trouble have you gotten my boy into?”
“It’s not Bobby. It’s your granddaughter. She’s gone missing.”
“Which granddaughter?”
“Julie. The older of the two.”
“How long ago she go missing?”
“About a week ago.”
“Why are you here and not Bobby?”
“He got shot in the shoulder while looking for her.”
“Who shot him?”
“Julie. Your granddaughter.”
Rudy set his drink down. It toppled over and rolled the length of the deck and off the end. Both of us watched, making no effort to grab it. I didn’t see it land, but I imagined a huge pile of glasses on the ground below.
I said, “I think she’s out in Plaster City, but I can’t prove it. Until I know for sure, the cops can’t do a thing. It’s private property mostly. The owner is dead so it’s in a kind of ownership limbo perfect for squatting. The gang that pitches camp there is the crowd Julie runs with. She’s mixed up in some bad shit.”
Rudy stood up and cuffed me on the back of the head. It didn’t occur to me to defend myself. “No cussing, son. Foul language degrades both the speaker and the listener. I don’t allow no harsh language here. When you’re on my deck, you show respect.”
“Swearing is out, but hitting people is okay?” I felt the back of my head for a bump.
“More people need to get hit.”
Erring on the side of diplomacy, I ignored the assault. “Julie got mixed up with a bad crowd. Thinks she’s grown up. We want to get her away from those people, but there’s a good chance she won’t want to go.”
“You talking about them Mexican bikers, yeah? Los Hermanos. I know them by sight. Seen them. They been out in Plaster for some time. No one out here gives too much of a holler. Mostly live-and-let-live types out this way. Far enough from civilization, they can whoop it up all they like and they ain’t going to bother no one.”
“You know anything about the fights they hold out there?”
“Fights? Like dogs?”
“No. People.”
“Boxing matches?”
“Of a kind. Girls. Teenage girls beating the living sh—heck out of each other. Julie’s one of their fighters.”
Rudy wiped his face with his handkerchief. “That’s where the world is headed, son. No respect for human decency. Children fighting? Julie can’t be more than twelve or thirteen.”
“Julie is sixteen.”
Rudy nodded, but his expression showed conflicting emotion. Hard to describe, like he was questioning all the decisions in his life in a brief moment. He turned to look at the expanse of barren desert that was our view.
“It’s a business,” I said. “People pay money to watch these girls—mostly runaways—fight. Live and on the Internet.”
“The world has lost its shame. How could someone . . . ?”
“I can’t answer that without swearing.”
Rudy continued to nod, taking it all in.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” I asked.
“On another day I would lecture you on poisoning your body, but not today. You can smoke, so long as you let me have a couple drags.”
“I could give you your own.”
He shook his head. “Don’t want a whole one.”
I lit a smoke, took a drag, and handed the cigarette to Rudy. He took a deep inhale, closed his eyes, took another one, and handed the cigarette back.
“You came out this way thinking I could help, I suppose. What do you think I can do?” Rudy asked.
“I just need to know whatever you know about Plaster City. I grew up down here, but I know nothing about this part of the desert. Is there any way in? Anything.”
“I don’t know Plaster much more than what you can see from the road, but I can ask the other outcasts. Nothing that’ll raise no alarms. See who knows what. We’re not a meddlesome bunch out here in the Yuha, but we see things.”
“Bobby’s at JFK in Indio, if you want to visit.”
“I don’t like to leave my place.”
“He should be out soon. I might be able to convince him to come here.”
“Why don’t we kill that chicken right before we eat it and not no sooner? I’ll call you if I hear things.”
FOURTEEN
People wanted to help. That was the thing about the Imperial Valley. Whenever I had asked for a hand doing anything, I never got a “no.” I always got an “I’ll put the stove on simmer and be there in ten minutes.”
Buck Buck Buckley and his brother Snout were downright excited. Snout’s enthusiastic shout of “Avengers Assemble” had bolstered my confidence, making me feel like maybe we were starters and not the scrubs off the bench. Optimism had a way of skewing realistic views.
That enthusiasm only lasted up until I played the first girl fight video for the crowd. I didn’t show the one with Julie. That would have been too much. In the one I screened, the girls looked like they were barely thirteen. The same group of shouting men, maybe forty or fifty of them, played their part as ringside spectators.
Sitting around the table with beers in front of them and staring at my computer screen, my crackerjack team went from hearty introductions and how-have-you-beens to open mouths and murmured swearing. Griselda had already seen the videos, but it’s not the kind of thing that one got inured to. Angie watched for the first time, mouth closed tight, anger in her eyes. Even Buck Buck and Snout appeared affected. And those two idiots were in their comfort zone when it came to illegalities and violence.
“They’re girls,” Snout said, confused. “Pretty little girls.”
“It’s like watching someone dissect a kitten,” Buck Buck said. “We get to hurt the people that made this, right?”
But it was Russell who looked the worst for it, the furthest out of his element. He added a new dynamic to our team, some actual brains. Russell had told the crowd that Becky wanted to be there, but had to work. Just because your daughter is missing, don’t mean the bills stop coming. He told me in confidence that Becky was worried about her inability to curb her anger. She felt awful about beating up Gabe and admitted to feeling a lot of anger toward Julie. She was concerned, wanted to help, but was afraid she would make things worse.
Russell had also offered to bake some brownies for the meeting, but I declined the offer. He brought rugelach instead.
Bobby was supposed to be released in the next day or two, but I didn’t think it prudent to wait. We had to get moving. If Julie was in Plaster City, she wouldn’t stay there forever. With his injury, Bobby should be in the dugout anyway, even if he wanted to be on the field. By setting the plan in motion without him, I avoided that argument.
Not that we had a plan.
When I decided that they’d had enough, I shut the video down. Everyone looked at me, pissed off. Not sure if the anger was from the content of the video or directed at me for showing it to them. Probably both.
“Sorry about that,” I said, “but everyone needs to know what we’re dealing with. The real problem we’re facing isn’t in these videos, it’s here.”
I turned and pointed to the map of Plaster City and the Yuha Desert that I had tacked to the wall. I had searched the house for a retractable pointer, but after twenty minutes, I decided it wasn’t in the cards. The map included the surrounding terrain, but considering that was all roadless, open desert for miles in every direction, it didn’t really add any information. The Algodones Dunes were on the east side of the Valley, classic sand dunes
. The Yuha Desert to the west was flat, visible-for-miles desert. Dry, alkaline dirt that created a giant cloud from walking, let alone driving. You couldn’t sneak up on a blind sloth in the Yuha.
“So here’s where we’re at. I got shit-all for evidence, but I’m pretty sure that Julie is in Plaster City. That’s where they have the fights and that’s where her boyfriend’s biker gang lives. They call themselves Los Hermanos or Los Hos. Griselda can tell you more about them.”
Griselda tipped an invisible hat, one of the rare times I saw her out of uniform. “Not much to tell. They’re not in the gang books here or in Riverside, which means they’re more wannabes than anything else. A cop I know who keeps track of tagging in the county said he’d seen some tags, but that’s the length of law enforcement’s awareness of their criminal enterprises.”
“So what are we scared of?” Buck Buck said. “A bunch of tough-guy posers.”
“Just because they’re not affiliated,” Griselda said, “doesn’t make them not dangerous. And they’re business savvy enough to make and distribute these videos. A good fighter never underestimates his opponent.”
“Thanks, Gris,” I said. “We have to catch sight of Julie. Then I can contact the Sheriff’s Department like a good citizen and they will have reason to investigate, to get a warrant, all that cop shit.”
Griselda nodded.
“But unless we have eyes on her, I can’t ask Gris to go in guns out. Too many repercussions if I’m guessing wrong. So what we got to do is find a way to get a look around inside. You know, easy stuff, taking a peek inside a Mexican biker gang’s compound. Without raising their hackles or making them suspicious. We don’t want to spook them or Julie. Because once she’s on the run, we’ve lost her.”
I pointed to the highway, the one road leading into Plaster City.
“So nothing fancy. No confrontation. A two-part plan. We concentrate on finding out if she’s in there. After that, we figure out how to get her out. Hopefully with the help of the law, but—close your ears, Gris—if not, any way we can. I’m taking any and all ideas.”
“How many bad guys we talking about?” Buck Buck asked.
“Don’t matter to me,” Snout said, cracking his knuckles.
“One more reason to get a look around. That’s one big area where they live. There’s a bunch of structures. I didn’t get a good look. Could be fifty in there, but probably more like twenty or thirty. That’s the gang and their old ladies, if they got any. If there’re any teenage girls there, we got to treat them like innocents. Could be prisoners, there by free will, but most likely some bastard marriage of the two.”
“Let’s storm the castle,” Snout said. “I’m all about making a battering ram for the front of the van. We charge in there, fuck things up, save the day.”
“Not really a plan, more of a sketch. And have you been listening? I already ixnayed the direct attack.”
“He gets excited,” Buck Buck said, apologetically. He gave Snout a slap to the arm.
“What?” Snout said.
“Here’s what we should do.” I said. “We all have different ideas, different brains, different backgrounds. We each take a half hour, think about the situation, come back with our plans, and brainstorm it out. See what this brain trust can come up with.”
I stood up and stretched my back. “No idea is too stupid for this crowd. I’m going to check on Juan. See how Mr. Morales is holding up taking care of him.”
“What about Tomás?” Angie asked. “Can you ask him to help?”
“I’m not convinced he’s uninvolved,” I said.
“You’re still in contact with Tomás Morales?” Griselda said, shocked. “His name’s come up a whole lot in the last few weeks. Some big push for control north of the border is the word. Seriously, any major crime, there’s implications that he’s involved. That kind of exposure is strange. Especially for him. The guy is slick. No criminal record. All associations. Used to keep it low-key, now if it’s in the Imperial Valley, illegal, and organized, he’s got his thumb in the tamale pie.”
“I know him, Gris, but that’s all,” I said. “It’s not in my plans to ask him for any favors.”
“If he’s involved and you tip him off to what we’re doing out at Plaster City, you’re putting us all in danger,” Griselda said.
“I’m putting everyone in danger no matter how you slice it.”
Morales Bar was doing a good business. It was a weekday night, but Mr. Morales had brought in a three-piece band as entertainment. With only a vilhuela, guitarron, and a trumpet, the three men were great and shockingly loud in the Quonset hut bar. One of them had given Juan a small concertina to play along. He had his old man’s rhythm so he couldn’t keep time, but he danced and played with abandon. The band’s volume drowned out whatever musical mangling he did. The Linda McCartney to their Wings, as it were. The Mexican farm workers nearest the band tossed him quarters.
Juan spotted me and waved with one hand, letting the concertina Slinky to the floor. I waved back. He picked up the end and got back to business. I watched him play. I could have watched him all night. I never would have thought that the best part of my day would be seeing my son laugh and play and smile. Mostly because I never would have thought that I’d have a son.
I walked to the bar, Mr. Morales meeting me with a wet bottle of beer. I took a drink.
“How’s the babysitting? Juan looks like he’s having a blast.”
“I had him barbacking, but he’s useless carrying kegs.”
“It’ll probably be another hour. Is that okay?”
“He’s got about forty drunk uncles keeping an eye on him. Take your time.”
“You talk to Tomás at all?”
Mr. Morales looked down the bar at the customers waiting for more beer. They didn’t shout or attempt to make eye contact. They knew better.
“No. He’s a criminal.”
“Come on, you know a lot of criminals.” I turned and waved my hand toward the bar crowd. “From what my Pop told me, you’re a bit of one yourself.”
“Ain’t no criminals in here. Maybe a few thieves, plenty of brawlers, but no bad guys. We all do illegal things. Who doesn’t? But what Tomás does, those things are wrong, unforgivable. And he does them not for need, but something else.”
“Power,” I said.
“Okay,” I said, “let’s see what we all came up with.”
Snout raised his hand. I pointed to him and he stood and held a piece of paper like a kid giving a book report. “You said no idea was too stupid. So remember that. We wait until the next time they have the fights, okay. We dress Griselda up in a school girl’s uniform and—”
Griselda interrupted. “I’m going to stop you right there, Captain Pervert.”
“You look young, right? You probably get carded. And I bet you kick some major ass, being a cop and all. Do you know martial arts? I could teach you some hopkido I learned in a book.”
Griselda opened her mouth to respond, but I cut in. “First off, we’re not putting Gris in a position where she has to punch a child in the face. A serious flaw in the plan. But more importantly, Gris can’t actively participate until we know that Julie is there. She could get in a fuck-ton of trouble if anyone knew she was involved with whatever we end up doing.”
“We don’t know when the next fights are anyway,” Griselda said, still giving Snout the hairy eyeball.
“Buck Buck,” I said, “What do you have? Before Gris kicks your brother’s ass.”
“Crop dusters. Do some flyovers and see what we can see. Pirate Jenkins owes me a favor and he’s got an old biplane.”
“Please tell me they call him Pirate because he has a parrot.”
“He might. I don’t know. He’s got one eye and one leg though. But don’t worry, he don’t let that stop him.”
“Yeah, only lazy pilots have depth perception,” I said. “Don’t you think that maybe the people on the ground would notice a low flying plane? They’re not exactly q
uiet.”
“I didn’t think of that. I just wanted to do a Red Baron.”
Russell cleared his throat. “That actually segues nicely to my idea.”
Other than the hellos at the beginning of the meeting, it was the first time I could remember hearing Russell speak.
“Thank you, Russell,” I said. “It’ll be good to hear an idea that isn’t completely insane.”
“You said no judging,” Snout said. “It’s hard going first.”
Russell didn’t bother to stand. “It seems to me that if you want to get inside a fenced-in area, you can’t do it directly. You need some form of subterfuge,” Russell said. “You need to hit a ball over the fence and ask the neighbor to go into his backyard to retrieve it. Perceived innocence should allow us to walk in.”
Buck Buck said, “Having a pickup baseball game out in the middle of the desert is going to be a little suspicious.”
“That was a metaphor. Have you heard of Plaster Blaster?”
“Um. I’m all about doing whatever it takes,” Snout said, “but I don’t see how making a plaster cast of my dong is going to help.”
After the laughter waned, Russell explained. “I don’t know if it still happens, but in late fall, early winter, a bunch of people—scientists, engineers, hobbyists—go out to that part of the desert and fire model rockets. It’s in a dry wash close enough to Plaster City to give it its name. And they’re not launching your grandfather’s rockets. Big ones.”
Buck Buck got excited. “Why didn’t I think of that? I been out there once to watch. YouTube it, man. Dork nerds—no offense, Russell—get way into it. Someone made a full-size X-wing one time. It was badass. Blew up in three seconds, but that makes it awesomer, because they did all that work knowing that’s what was going to happen. It’s not like it was going to reach the moon. They just wanted to see that rad bastard fly.”
“I hope whoever was in the cockpit ejected in time,” Snout said.
“There wasn’t anyone in the cockpit, dumbass,” Buck Buck said.
“Then who was flying it?”
“If that isn’t until fall, how does that help us now?” I said, interrupting them. I knew Buck Buck and Snout well enough to know that if I didn’t nip that debate in the bud, they would eventually come to blows. In the Buckley family, whoever won the fistfight won the wordfight.
