Chapter 7
Sanders lived out in Marina Del Ray, an upscale seaside community that had a high cost of entry. I drove past his house which was a modern eyesore of painted concrete and glass windows. It would have made a dandy prison. It was built on a double lot, but the land still wasn’t enough to contain the ugly structure which dominated the neighborhood of trim Cape Cods. The front yard was only a few feet deep, all perfectly manicured green grass and two dainty trees that would soon outgrow their limited space. Parking here was a nightmare, the street clogged with luxury cars and oversized SUVs. I managed to find a space a block over and slid the Impala in.
“Ready?” I asked Pauline as we got out of the car.
“I guess so. How do I look?”
She was still wearing a sweatshirt and exercise paints. I replied, “You’re the type of woman who could wear a burlap sack and the men would still come running. The women would be asking where you got that delightful dress.”
“You’re the biggest liar I’ve ever met.”
Smiling, she took me by the arm and together we walked back toward the house. The neighborhood here had a distinct nautical air, with gaudy anchors and overly cute names written on weathered boards near the front door. Of course there was a massive marina only a few blocks away and the weekend sailors here must have been numerous. Personally I had no experience with sailing beyond being pulled on a set of skis. I had no urge to change that either.
As we approached the front entrance, the sound of music and laughter could be heard emanating from the interior. I knocked a few times but there was no response. It was obvious that no one could hear us. Opening the door, I let Pauline pass through first. Inside was even worse that the exterior; a padded black leather sofa, thick white carpeting, track lighting, and a large flat-screen television was my first impression of the living room. There was a mob of people here, the men all khaki pants, polo shirts, white teeth, and short hair, and the women wore sleeveless dresses with sculpted hairstyles and big gold earrings. It was my version of Dante’s Inferno.
A man and woman broke away from the pack and approached us.. He was approaching middle-age fast: large belly, a nut brown head that had been shaved bald, and a roadmap of wrinkles around blue eyes. One would never have guessed that just a few years ago this man was an elite soldier; the only evidence of that was the sure and steady way he moved through the crowded room. The woman was a sloppy blond with a black dress and just a hint of white showing in her hair. She didn’t look particularly happy to see us, but perhaps she was a touch more sober than the others.
“You must be Mr. Poole,” he said, sticking his paw out to shake.
We shook hands. His grip was hard but sweaty. He ground my knuckles together. I didn’t return the favor.
“I’m Eric Sanders. This is my wife, Rachel.”
“Please to meet you.” I shook her hand. The clasp felt like a wet noodle.
I said, “I’m sorry to interrupt your party. What’s the occasion?”
Beaming, Sanders said, “This is my team of real estate agents. We’ve been busting our asses trying to make this big deal go through. We’ve been buying up old homes over in Compton. I have some contacts in the city government that say this certain area is going to be home to a new public housing development. Needless to say when it comes time to sell the property, we’ll make a nice big profit off the deal. It took a lot of cash and time to makes this all work.”
I’m sure he wouldn’t have told me all of this if it wasn’t for the booze running through his veins. Of course what he was doing was highly unethical, buying the homes of poor people who had no idea that their property value was about to skyrocket. I wanted to give him a good smack, but instead smiled and nodded in agreement like he was the cleverest fellow on the planet.
I said, “That’s great. By the way, let me introduce you to my girlfriend here. Say hello, Tricia.” That was the fake name that we had come up for her.
It took Pauline a second to realize that we were discussing her. “Hello,” she said uncertainly. She was too guileless for this game of deception.
Sanders took her hand and kissed it with a drunken flourish. “You are a beauty! Come over and meet my friends.”
With Sanders leading the way, Pauline disappeared into a crowd of admirers. I just hoped she kept her promise and remembered to stay away from the alcohol. A bigger concern was that she could forgot to respond to her cover name or give mine away. I began to wander, first grabbing a Diet Coke from a table busy with drinks. I went from room to room, saying hello to the few people who bothered to make eye contact with me. I was a stranger here, not part of their little seedy business, so I was mostly ignored. That was okay with me; I was just passing time until I could talk to Sanders alone. By the look of these drinkers it would be a few hours before that happened. I could only imagine how hungover they would be when it was time to stumble into work.
The rest of the interior was decorated in modern America nightmare – unobtrusive colors, heavy furniture with an almost medieval build, and completely lifeless paintings on the wall – reproductions, of course. It had all the life of a hotel room. You could bulldoze this entire collection of junk into the sea and no one would care for the loss.
It was an open floor plan, each room melding into another without walls or doors. I reached the end, trying to find a quiet place to sit and think. My nostrils were assaulted by a familiar smell that seemed out of place in this neighborhood. I turned near a corner bookshelf and saw the shadow of a sofa stuck in a darkened niche. Someone was sitting there. A yellow flame snapped open and I saw a glass pipe being lit. It was crack cocaine.
“Excuse me,” I said as I tried to back out without causing any undue trouble.
“Fuck you, mister,” a voice in the gloom said. The pipe was dropped. It was a young man, really more of a boy. He was up on his feet, charging toward me.
In the dim light, he was nothing but a steak of flesh, dark hair, white shirt and light pants. Just as he was about to tackle me, I neatly stepped aside and let him go by. I gave him backward kick which gave a bit of unexpected momentum. He tried to compensate, but quickly lost his footing on the wood floor and tumbled forward into a big potted plant. Fighting inside a home can be a dangerous proposition if you don’t keep track of your surroundings.
With a roar, he pulled himself up off the ground. It was one thing to lose a fight, but to lose it so easily was embarrassing. He was going to try and pummel me into the ground, even if it was going to kill him. I had to put an end to this quickly before it got out of hand. This time he came at me slowly, trying to gauge what my next move was going to be. He certainly was no boxer – his footwork was all wrong. Jutting my jaw out, I made myself an easy target. The massive roundhouse swing that came was telegraphed from a mile away. I stepped into it, getting so close that I could smell his sour breath. His bicep grazed the side of my head. I punched him sharply on the side of the neck. He crumpled to the floor, this time falling on top of a side table. The lamp fell off and broke with a smash.
I snapped out of my combat stance and tried to look confused. The overhead light turned on, flooding the area with that pale white fluorescent light. Sanders came rushing in with his wife, followed by a few other guests from the party. Pauline was in the back of the pack, her expression blank.
“What in hell just happened?” Sanders asked, looking over the wreckage. The kid was on the floor, writhing in pain as he desperately tried to stand up.
I angrily spat out, “I was attacked by this brat here. I was looking around your house and found him smoking crack.”
Sanders turned his ire on the boy. “Is this true, Chris?”
With a sway, he stood up, and surveyed the gathered crowd. He said, “You don’t give a shit about me. Why should you care what I do?” He glanced toward Rachel and then stormed off, leaving a wake of curious onlookers.
R
unning after him, Sanders bellowed, “Come back here! Come back here! I’m not finished with you!”
There was an uncomfortable silence from the guests. No one wanted to be here anymore.
Rachel was at my elbow. She said in a low voice, “I’m sorry you had to be involved in this little family drama.”
“I’m still confused. Who was that boy, his son?”
“Yes, that was Chris, the offspring from Eric’s first marriage. Needless to say he and I don’t get along very well. He’s only seventeen and one gigantic pain in the ass, to put it kindly. I just hope you weren’t hurt.”
“I’ll live.”
“Well you must excuse me. I have to see after the guests. She hurried off.
Only Pauline remained. She looked confused.
“You doing okay?” I asked her.
“It’s strange. I’ve been hidden away at my house and your place is like a fortress. I’ve been alone for so long that I don’t know how to talk to people. Those men in there were pawing at me. I wanted to scream but I couldn’t do anything but listen to them and pray it would end soon.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left you alone. I guess I wasn’t thinking.”
She gave me a weak smile, indicating some sort of acceptance for my apology. “I wish we could go back home. I liked traveling. It felt so damn free like I didn’t have to think of my troubles anymore.”
“We won’t be here for too much longer. We’ll be able to leave in the morning.”
“I guess I should have stayed at the motel.”
“Maybe so. But everything will work out.”
She slipped her arms into mine. Together we went back to the living room. There was no one left here. It was quiet now. The party had died a sudden death. I sat down on the sofa. Pauline took the other end. Our wait wasn’t too long. Sanders came out. He looked disheveled and had a slightly unsteady walk. The drink was really starting to catch up to him.
“You’re still here?” he asked, obviously annoyed.
“I’m sorry what happened in there. I certainly didn’t come here with the expectation of getting into a fistfight with your son.”
A flash of anger showed, momentarily lighting up those drunken and dulled eyes. “That little shit had it coming to him. You got him good, alright.”
“I’ll pay for any damages,” I suggested.
He shook his head. “No, I’ve got loads of money. I’m a rich man. Anyway, it should be that fool boy who should be picking up the tab. I’ll take it out of his allowance. Consider the matter dropped.”
“That’s very kind of you. I wonder if you still have some time for a little interview. I’m only going to be in Los Angeles until tomorrow morning, so would right now work?”
Sanders eyed Pauline. “I don’t want to say anything that would offend your girlfriend, so I would prefer to speak without her around. You see some tough situations went down in Afghanistan; horrible and bloody combat, for one. It’s not a conversation for polite company.”
“Why don’t the two of us go out and get something to eat?” I suggested. “I’m sure you know of a good restaurant that is open this time of night.”
“You know that’s a brilliant idea. After that little spat with Chris I think it’s best that I leave the house for a little while.”
“And just what am I supposed to do in the meanwhile?” Pauline asked grumpily.
“Take the car back to the hotel. I can get a taxi back.”
“Okay. I know how to find my way back.” She didn’t look very happy by this idea.
“I’ll walk you out.” I got up from the sofa.
Sanders said, “Let me go tell my wife. I’ll meet you outside.”
I opened the door for Pauline. We walked back to the Impala. I dug the keys out of my pocket and handed them to her. “Are you positive you know the way back?”
“I lived in Beverly Hills for a long time. I know my way around Los Angeles.” She frowned. “You’re not going to hurt Sanders are you, Dev?”
“Whatever put that thought into your head?”
“We were inside the house. I was talking to some man who couldn’t stop looking at me in that queer way that young men get. When I heard that crash and ran into that room and saw that boy lying on the floor, I remembered what you said about being good at violence. I saw something in your eyes that I hadn’t seen before – at least from you. It made me scared. It made me think of Keith.”
“I told you that Keith and I were much alike. But I will never hurt you or anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”
“You sound like judge, jury, and executioner. What happens if you’re wrong? Did that ever occur to you?”
“It hasn’t yet.”
Pauline gave me a sour look. A peck on the cheek and she hopped in the car, started the engine, and took off. I watched the taillights recede. The car turned and then was gone. I thought that I didn’t like to have a traveling conscience with me and was glad that she had left. But I also felt a disappointment with myself, almost as if I wasn’t living up her impossible expectations. Even with everything that had happened to her, she still clung to some middle-class morality. Such innocence was touching, and perhaps that was really what Keith wanted to destroy; not just a high class woman, but her very sense of identity.
A horn honked and a low slung black Jaguar came to a screeching halt in front of me. The windows were rolled down. Sanders was behind the wheel.
“Come on, let’s get that grub,” he said.
I walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. As soon as I got in, Sanders took off with lurch. He was driving like a mad man, all anger fueled by booze.
“You ever have any problem with the police around here?” I asked as politely as I could.
“What?”
“You’re driving a little fast, that’s all.”
He slowed the car down to a more reasonable rate. With a little bad luck he would still get a patrol car after him, but the chances were now greatly reduced. He said, “I’m just worried about my son, Chris. He’s been nothing but trouble ever since the day I got married to Rachel. I don’t know what to do.”
“We all did stupid things when we were young.”
“What do you mean? You caught him red-handed smoking crack! That shit is addicting.”
“You can put him in rehab or you can let him experiment and hope he finds out that drugs aren’t his thing. He doesn’t strike me as an addict.”
“I guess so,” he said uncertainly.
“If he’s doing that in the house, it means he isn’t a serious user. He could have done that at the beach, in the garage, or even at the dealer’s house. Instead he was practically smoking right out in the open. It seems to be that he wanted to be caught – probably by you.”
“You know, you’re making me feel better already. I bet he’s just trying to get back at me.”
“I guess so.”
“It’s a damn shame that Chris doesn’t get along with my wife Rachel. Those two should be thick as thieves.”
“It’s an old story. No son or daughter likes their stepmother.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. At least Chris will be heading off to college next year. Maybe there will finally be some peace and quiet.”
Sanders pulled into the parking lot of a greasy spoon. There weren’t many cars here, which wasn’t surprising considering it was just after midnight on a weekday. I was relieved that we weren’t going to eat at a chain restaurant. I hated the fake atmosphere of those places, designed at a soulless corporate headquarters for maximum friendliness and minimum portions. It was a fine way to turn a profit if you didn’t give a damn about the customer and was more interested in pulling money from their wallets.
We went inside. It was comfortably dim and there was a smell of breakfast in the air. The few other customers didn’t pay us any attention. A yawning waitress showed us to a booth. I
stuck with water to drink and ordered an omelet. Sanders got a pot of black coffee and a cheeseburger with fries. That kind of eating wasn’t going to help his waistline.
“So where do you want to start?” he asked, while pouring a cup of coffee.
I never could understand how someone could imbibe so much caffeine at such a late hour, unless they were practiced insomniacs. “How did you join the Green Berets?” I asked.
“Looking at the money I have now and you would never guess that I didn’t go to college. My parents just couldn’t afford it. So, like many other poor kids, I joined the army. Of course it was better than hanging around Park Ridge in Chicago and collecting welfare. I wanted to get out of that dump and see the world. Sure, I didn’t exactly cotton to all the rules and regulations in the army, but I’m a natural target shooter. When I was in the army, I won competitions. They liked me so much that I was sent to officer school. After that it was the Green Berets.
“It was actually a good peaceful life until 9/11 hit. Before that shit went down I was married young and had Chris. I won’t say much about my first wife. Let’s just say that motherhood didn’t come naturally to her. She ran off with another guy only a few months after Chris was born. Anyway, after all that trouble with Al-Qaeda there was a big demand for Special Forces. I said what the hell and decided to stay in the army. I was involved in all the shit right from the beginning – Tora Bora in Afghanistan and then in the hunt for Saddam over in Iraq. However a few years of that bad mojo and you start to think that if you don’t play your cards right, then a bullet is going to find you. I always wanted something bigger in life; not just to be a grunt or even a low-level officer in the army. When the current president started the surge in Afghanistan, I was put under Bob Peabody’s command. That was the last tour I did before quitting that whole wretched business and going into real estate. It’s been going real good ever since.”
“What did you do on that last tour?”
“The usual: try to train some backwards natives how to act like real soldiers. Between you and me, it isn’t worth the trouble. The spirit is there, but the discipline certainly isn’t. Those bastards can’t shoot and they certainly aren’t very brave. I don’t blame them myself; why die for your country when there isn’t anything to die for? Afghanistan is an ancient country. It’s been there for centuries and no one has ever really conquered it. Sure, we’ve got one hell of an air force and can beat any army on the Earth, but the Mujahideen will just outlast us. They’ve got the will, something the American population and especially the politicians don’t. The bad guys will win the war alright, no matter what the armchair generals say.”
The food came. We began to eat.
Now it was time to show him a card in my hand. “According to Colonel Peabody, you were real close to Bill Kinney. What can you tell me about him?”
That name made Sanders look up from his plate. He stopped chewing. A French fry dangled loosely in his hand. “Nothing much,” he said with a mouthful of food. “I mean we hung out and did lots of crazy stuff together. Old Bill was one hell of a fighter, which was funny since he had a family back home. You would think that would make a man real cautious. I’ve always been real careful myself.”
Now it was time to show another card in my hand. “Did Bill worry about money? After all, no one gets rich in army and he had a family to support.”
Sanders stared hard at me, his eye blazing with anger. “Are you a government agent? IRS?”
“I can assure you that I am not. Why do you ask?”
“Your questions are taking a strange turn. Bill and I were just friends, that’s all. It was a damn shame that he died. Who would have thought that old Bill, Mr. Indestructible, would get killed by a sucker punch from a snot-nosed brat.”
“Strange things happen.”
“Yes they do. Like a mystery man showing up on my doorstep with some breezy redhead. He proceeds to beat up a man younger than himself, but yet you don’t have a scratch. I’m trained in hand-to-hand combat myself. What exactly did you do to Chris?”
I didn’t answer. Instead I dropped another bomb on him. “What can you tell me about Keith Miller?”
His eyes cold as ice, Sanders licked his lips. It wasn’t nervousness. Instead he was making a decision whether or not to strike me. I could tell because I had seen that look before. I prepared myself to duck.
Instead he asked, “What exactly has that bastard Colonel Peabody been telling you about me?” His voice was low and threatening.
The waitress took this moment to interrupt our conversation to ask us how the food tasted. We both broke into easy smiles, acting the part of pleased customers. After refilling my glass, she retreated back to the kitchen. By the expression on her face, she didn’t quite buy our story. The tension in the air was so thick that it couldn’t even be cut with the dull butter knife resting in my right hand.
Before Sanders could continue, I cut him off. I kept the tone of my voice friendly, but not displaying any weakness. “There’s no reason to get excited. I’m doing a special chapter on the black-market. It was the colonel’s opinion that you, along with Kinney and Miller, were involved in something illegal. I would like to hear about it. I promise that I won’t mention anyone by name. You can be an anonymous source.”
The tension in the air broke. Sanders smiled, obviously no longer considering me a threat. He said, “I’m afraid the colonel was talking out of his ass. There’s no story there.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positively. I’m an honest businessman so why would I be involved in anything illegal?”
“I’m sorry to have wasted your time.” I could tell he was lying.
“It’s no problem. We’ll finish up this late night dinner and I’ll drive you back home. I’ll even pick up the check.”
I ate the rest of my omelet, taking my time as Sanders regaled me of stories about his heroics in Afghanistan and Iraq. It mostly sounded like bullshit, but I pretended to be more interested than I really was. By the time we both finished eating, we were wary friends again. He paid using a credit card, bragged to the waitress about the tip she was going to get, and then we left the restaurant.
Using the clicker on his remote, Sanders unlocked the car doors of the Jaguar. I got in first. He slid in behind the steering wheel and jammed the key into the ignition. At the same time I cracked him hard in the side of the head, just above the ear. With a single surprised gasp, he went unconscious and slumped forward.
The Color of Sin Page 7
