Crawlspace

by Lonni Lees

  The heat was causing the paint to dry before it hit the paper. He rose, frustrated, focused his digital camera, clicked off ten shots before packing it in. One good shot of the trolley, a car passing on the left, ass end of a bus heading south. That one had possibilities. Painting outdoors was crazy in this heat and impossible during monsoon season, so he shot photos and painted in the air conditioned comfort of his studio. Today had become one of those days. A bit of a cheat by his standards but it got the job done.

  Doobie shoved his supplies into the back seat then settled behind the wheel. Traffic pulled over to the side as a cop car flew past, blasting its shrill siren. He waited impatiently. Tucson was turning from calm to chaos—too much traffic, noise, crime—too many people. Not as crowded as the San Francisco he’d left behind but not good either. He’d always miss the early days in SF. He’d been part of the beatnik heyday—drugs, jazz, group sex, literature and art—a feast for the senses. It was inspirationally cool, man. Before the hippies descended on the Haight. They were the pretenders. The beats had been the real thing.

  * * * *

  Doobie and Yoriko sat in silence, Sunday sunlight streamed across the table as they sipped herbal tea and shared an herbal joint as she read the morning paper. He never read the paper, had no interest in the outside world. Painting and Yoriko were enough to fill his universe.

  She broke the silence.

  “Three drive-bys on the south side, Doobie. Another body in the desert. A jewelry store robbed on Fourth. A van full of illegals crashed north of Tubac.”

  “Forget that crap,” he said, pulling her from her chair and into the bedroom. That always got his artistic juices flowing. The vase of peacock feathers on the night stand were more than decorative and his imagination on the mattress was matched only by his creativity with brush and paint. That, not to mention his money and Sabino Canyon address, made him damn attractive to a young nubile chick.

  Life was good.

  * * * *

  Big Jim Bullock holstered his gun, put on his uniform and badge, as Paco sat in an easy chair reading the Thursday paper. Last year Jim had answered a call to a downtown gay bar. It was two in the morning when he’d pulled up. Five men were kicking the shit out of a kid. He was bloody as a slaughterhouse. Your typical gay bashing. Unmacho didn’t play well in Latino circles. Paco lay on the pavement, barely conscious. A wounded bird. A little sparrow. Big Jim’s heart damn near broke. The paramedics patched up Paco on the way to St. Mary’s. Big Jim was there when he was released. He took him home. Paco was his project, needy and grateful, passive and passionate. He needed to be pampered and protected. And Big Jim Bullock was a cop. Protecting was his job.

  “Oooh, Chim,” Paco squealed, “Look, Doobie has a new show. Artist reception Saturday.” Paco, and most of Tucson, devoured this section of the Thursday paper. It listed shows, restaurants, music, galleries—all the happenings. Jim eyed the living room walls, crammed with art, half the works Doobie’s. Art wasn’t Jim’s thing, but it had become Paco’s passion just as intensely as Paco had become his. Paco pointed to the paper, a photo of a Doobie watercolor above the listings.

  “Por favor, Chim, please, please, please.” His dark eyes begged like a wounded cocker spaniel.

  How could Jim say no to his little angel? That pouty bottom lip set Saturday night in stone.

  * * * *

  Doobie arrived early on Saturday, as was expected of him, dressed in his usual beatnik black with a chip on his shoulder and six stiff drinks under his belt. Old habits die hard. He hated galleries.

  He hated the politics and greed, the evil necessity of a process that devoured creative spirit. He hated openings most of all—having to chat up the common herd—answer the stupid questions of the pompous and pretentious uninformed. A night of pure bullshit and bombasity.

  Big Jim Bullock and Paco were the first through the door. Jim headed for the wine bar as Paco flitted from painting to painting like a hyper kid at Toys R Us, gasping his admiration in a staccato of Spanish and English. “This one, this one_“ he said, motioning Big Jim. Jim guzzled down the Merlot as he stood before the painting, the one in the newspaper—a trolley, a passing car, a bus. The colors were nice, bold. Purple against canary yellow. Red against blue. Not like the wispy, watery weak flowers painted by bored old ladies with nothing else to fill their empty lives. He liked Doobie’s strength, his perfection. Paco had made a good choice, an accomplishment for a kid who’s only exposure to art had been the graffiti that tagged the barrio. Jim was proud of him.

  They flagged over Doobie, who was accustomed to their insistence of taking their purchases home immediately. First painting sold. They were so fucking easy. This odd couple had become good customers. The only ones he looked forward to seeing. They were rebels—Jim giving the system the finger at the same time he wore the systems uniform—Paco flaunting his fairyness in a macho universe. SF would’ve loved them.

  Looking towards the door, Doobie saw the man standing there. Despite his immaculate “Tucson casual” clothes, Marco looked tough and greasy. Even seedy. The clothes did a poor job of hiding the man, who’d have looked more at home in cheap polyester. His demeanor was intimidating as piercing blue eyes darted from painting to painting. Instinctively, Doobie averted his eyes and headed for the wine bar, downing some Chablis to keep company with his stomach full of gin. Openings sucked worse than Tucson summers. More people streamed through the door.

  As agitated as a junkie itching for his next fix, a gruff voice said, “I want this one.” It was “Tucson casual,” loudly summoning anyone who’d listen. Doobie walked over as the man pointed at the trolley painting.

  “Sorry, it’s sold,” he said.

  Marco drew attention to himself as he bellowed “I’ll pay you double.”

  “It’s sold,” Doobie repeated, thinking:. One hell of a popular painting—should’ve done three.

  “Triple.” His eyes were menacing, glaring right through Doobie. Heads turned. Big Jim took two steps in their direction but the gallery owner got there first, diffused them both as tempers rose, reaffirmed the painting was unavailable. Seeing all attention focused on him, Marco stormed out the door. He hadn’t meant to create a scene. Just the opposite. He knew he’d acted stupidly, but self-discipline had never been his strong suit. He just wanted the damn painting.

  Doobie smiled. The night was looking up.

  * * * *

  Big Jim Bullock was a pretty good cop. He should have noticed the car shadowing in the distance as he and Paco headed home.

  Paco refused to retire until they found a spot on the wall for his latest acquisition, paid for by his mentor. Jim drove a nail in the wall and hung the damn thing even as he burned for bed, Paco’s body and blow jobs.

  * * * *

  The following night, Big Jim Bullock pulled into his driveway later than usual. Tucson’s body count was climbing and the workload was overwhelming. They needed more cops to keep up with it, but the pay was lousy, way lower than the average, so there were few applicants. And most of them wouldn’t have been hired anywhere else. They were a step or two above the perps they collared. At best.

  Three drops of rain steamed from the windshield as Jim looked up at the dark house. It was unusual for the lights to be off. His cop-antenna rose. Cautiously he exited the car and put his key in the door. He turned on the light as he entered. Paco was on the living room floor, blood surrounding his lifeless form. All thoughts of forensics and not disturbing a crime scene left Jim as he knelt over Paco and cradled him in his arms. Tears streamed down Big Jim Bullock’s face as he rocked his broken little sparrow.

  He made the phone call. When the cops and forensics arrived, they found Jim sitting in a chair. All he could say was “why?”

  Looking at the wall, he noticed a blank space where their latest Doobie had hung. Why, if it was a burglary, would someone take one painting and leave everything else? It made no sense. What was so special about that painting? That one little painting?


  Then he remembered the grease ball at the gallery last night. How his anger took hold when he couldn’t have that one painting. First thing next morning, Jim called the gallery. No, the creep hadn’t signed the guest book. They were just glad to have ushered the lowlife out the door and end the disruption. The gallery owner was cooperative when Jim asked for Doobie’s number.

  * * * *

  Doobie opened the door and invited the cop in. He didn’t like company. But Big Jim had called and there was desperation in the cop’s voice. He needed to talk. They sat as Yoriko poured warm sake and cats marched across their laps.

  “There’s gotta be something about that painting. That was the only thing missing. I keep thinking about it, but in all honesty, I don’t remember it that well. There was a trolley and a bus. Nothing out of the ordinary. Why was it important enough to kill for?”

  Doobie couldn’t figure it either. “Let’s go to the computer,” he said, “I always keep a copy on file.” He booted up and clicked on the file. The painting came up clear as a bell. A trolley, a passing car, the ass end of a bus. Jim stared at it—trolley, bus, an old red Chevy Lumina with the first three letters of the license plate. He saw the jewelry store in the background.

  “The car. It’s gotta be about the car,” he said.

  “Wait,” Doobie said. “I have the photo I painted from filed too.” He switched screens and pulled up the original photo.

  “When did you snap that?” he asked.

  “A week ago Saturday.”

  “The day of the jewelry store robbery.”

  He looked at the photo again. The license plate on the passing car was as clear as a soothsayer’s eyes. Bingo.

  Jim returned to the precinct and punched up the info on the license plate.

  * * * *

  The red Lumina was parked in the driveway when the cops surrounded the house. Marco cowered inside, eyes flitting around the room, desperate for an exit route. Jim kicked down the door and tackled Marco when he tried to bolt. The painting was on the floor, leaning against the dining room wall. There was still jewelry from the heist scattered on the table next to some crack cocaine and an empty gun. Marco was bloodshot, weak and wasted. He gave up. It was over.

  But not for Jim, who still held Marco in a hammerlock, yelling in his ear: “You dumb fucking junkie! You traded a couple years in the slammer for life—over this?” He looked over at the painting that had given his Paco such joy—and had cost him his life. Jim’s eyes were blinded by tears, his brain blazed with rage. He tightened his forearm against Marco’s neck, increased the pressure against his throat, made the weasel slobber like a St. Bernard as he gasped for mercy. It felt good. Too good.

  He was going to kill the bastard.

  “Back off, Jim” said another officer, pushing him off Marco. “This scumbag isn’t worth it.”

  But he WAS worth it! Jim could have killed him in a heartbeat, laughing at the sound of cracking vertebrae as the man’s life force drained from his worthless, ignorant body . But he heeded the other officer’s words. He backed off.

  It was the hardest damn thing he’d ever done.

  Big Jim Bullock sighed as he stood in the dining room, staring at the painting with its blurred license plate, as the other officer cuffed Marco and led him to the squad car.

  His beautiful Paco lay stiff and cold on a slab in the morgue.

  It was all so unnecessary.

  No one would ever have made the connection.

  TUMBLEWEED

  Charlie Blackhawk drove the silver 1979 Chevy Nova with his left hand on the wheel and his right hand around the cold can of beer planted between his legs. Its coolness against his thighs felt good. The small finger of his right hand absent-mindedly rubbed against his crotch as he hummed along to an old Waylon Jennings song on the radio.

  Forty minutes had passed since Charlie had last seen another car along the deserted stretch of road. Too many trucks and too many drunks heading to or from Las Vegas. Instead, he had pulled off the main road at Jean, Nevada and was driving along the old secondary road that passed through Nipton on the California side. It was still morning and Charlie had already passed through Ivanpah, Cima, and Kelso. Now he was driving along an empty stretch of desert called the Devil’s Playground. It’s got a nice ring to it, Charlie thought to himself as he hummed off-key to a honky-tonk instrumental playing on the car radio. He planned to pick up U.S. 91 again when he reached Barstow to stop for gas.

  Charlie felt himself getting hard beneath the Levis where his hand rested. He pulled his hand away, nearly tipping over the can of beer.

  “I wasn’t being bad, Momma. I wasn’t doin’ nothing bad.” He spat out the words through clenched teeth.

  Charlie pulled the Nova to the shoulder of the road, still mumbling to himself. He turned off the key and pushed open the door. He paced along the length of the car, uttering words that had meaning only to himself while he kicked the desert sand with his boots. Charlie was six-foot-one, tanned, and well-built. He had a rugged, outdoorsman look about him with a handsomely chiseled face.

  This morning’s beer was begging for release from Charlie’s full bladder. Steam rose as he pissed a sunning lizard off its resting place on a rock.

  Charlie laughed.

  Paiute Wells was behind him.

  That little hell-hole of a town had managed to bore him to death in less than a month. Nothing happened there and Charlie had become restless. It was time to find some action. He had been working his way back to California for the last three months, stopping off here and there to work for enough pocket money to keep him going.

  It was time to head back for the cabin. He walked back to the car, guzzled the remaining beer, and threw the can to the floor.

  He reached across the seat for his pack of Camel Filters, pulled one from the pack, and lit it. He drew the soothing smoke into his lungs, then exhaled as he turned the key in the ignition, stepped on the gas and returned to the road.

  * * * *

  Driving along the desolate stretch of highway, Charlie’s mind drifted like the desert sands from past to present and back again. It was a trick that his thoughts liked to play on him; taking him back, each time pulling ugly little pieces of that past and wedging them into the present. Sometimes Charlie drifted so deeply into the fogbank of mental trickery that he lost all concept of time and space. More often than not he was unaware of the retrogressions.

  About three miles father down the road, Charlie spotted the twisted wreckage.

  He slowed to forty, then thirty, then to a crawl as he pulled up behind the cars. They were a black Mercedes and an old Dodge and judging by appearances they must have hit each other head on. A New Mexico license plate hung loosely from the back bumper of the Mercedes. The front end was pushed in and the left fender was crushed against the Dodge.

  There was a young woman slumped behind the wheel.

  She was not moving.

  As he walked up to the dented door on the driver’s side he saw the blood trickling from her ear. One eye was partially dislodged from its socket.

  He walked to the Dodge and looked inside. The man who had been driving was thrown to the passenger’s side, his skull crushed where it must have slammed against the metal of the door.

  He was dead.

  Charlie returned to his own car and reached in for his keys. He walked around to the back and opened the trunk, pushing aside several license plates that lay among his clothing and other belongings. Removing a screwdriver from his tool kit he then walked around to the back of the Mercedes.

  Crouching down, Charlie began to unscrew the license plate.

  He heard a faint moan from inside the car.

  Ignoring it, Charlie finished loosening the license plate, stood up and walked slowly back to his car. He whistled as he walked. He threw the license and the screwdriver into the trunk and walked over to the passenger side of the Dodge.

  The door was jammed.

  Charlie held the handle and pushed
away from the car with his left foot while he pulled with all his strength on the handle. It finally gave way with a loud, creaking moan. The body fell, its arm and what was left of its head thudding to the ground.

  Rifling through the man’s pockets, Charlie finally found what he sought. He opened the wallet and counted the money that it held. Seventy-two dollars. Charlie took sixty dollars and pushed the wallet back into the dead man’s pocket. He grabbed the corpse under the arms and lifted it back to the seat. Brains, like a spilled bucket of earthworms, oozed from the crushed cranium. The blood was already clotting. Charlie kicked the door shut with his boot and spat on the ground.

  He walked over to the Mercedes and tried the door. It was locked. Humming and smiling as he walked to the other side of the car, he then tried the door on the passenger’s side.

  The door opened.

  He heard the woman once more although she did not move.

  “H...help...please,” she stammered, almost inaudibly.

  She was dying.

  Charlie ignored her as his eyes searched the floor for her purse. He finally spotted it, sandwiched between the woman and the door. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and roughly pulled her head back. He reached across her slumping body and took the purse. He looked up at her face. One eyeball rolled loosely against her cheek. Blood continued to trickle from her ears as she moaned.

  There was over seven-hundred dollars in cash along with several credit cards. He left the credit cards and took six-hundred and thirty dollars from the wallet.