THE BOYS
FROM
SANTA CRUZ
Jonathan Nasaw
Also by Jonathan Nasaw
When She Was Bad
Twenty-Seven Bones
Fear Itself
The Girls He Adored
Shadows
The World on Blood
Shakedown Street
West of the Moon
Easy Walking
THE BOYS FROM
SANTA CRUZ
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Jonathan Nasaw
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First Atria Books hardcover edition February 2010
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Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-1-4165-9178-8
ISBN 978-1-4391-0072-1 (ebook)
For Luke Nasaw
(who has always been like a son to me)
Part One
CHAPTER ONE
1
On the morning my father telephoned from Marshall City to announce that the FBI was closing in, I was in the trailer watching Teddy, my stepmother, getting dressed.
Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t there for the show. Teddy was a pre-op, post-implant trannie, built like a nose tackle with tits. But August can be brutal in the Sierras (the temperature was already ninety-two in the shade) and the trailer boasted the only air-conditioning on the property. I was fifteen, living alone in a nonair-conditioned school bus about a quarter mile up the hill from the trailer. No inside plumbing, but I had electricity and all the privacy I wanted. More important from their point of view, so did Big Luke and Teddy.
When my father called, I was sitting at the fold-down table in the kitchenette, working on my second cup of coffee. Teddy’s reverse strip show was taking place at the other end of the trailer. She’d left the bedroom door open, and came out half-dressed to answer the phone. I was only wearing shorts and sandals myself. Not wanting her to get any ideas, I pretended to be real interested in looking out through the half-open louvers at the vegetable patch behind the kitchen, where the dusty tomato stalks were slumped against their stakes like soldiers tied up in front of a firing squad.
Somehow I could tell from the silence that it was bad news. I turned around. Teddy had collapsed into the recliner looking as though somebody had whacked her in the paunch with a baseball bat and she was still trying to draw her first breath.
“What?” I asked her.
She looked over at me, surprised, like she’d forgotten there was anybody else in the room, then nodded slowly, with the phone to her ear and her mouth hanging open. I couldn’t tell whether she was nodding in response to me or to the phone. Finally, though, she pulled her shit together. She started saying stuff like “don’t do anything stupid,” and “I’ll take of everything,” and “nobody has to know anything.” Then she looked up at me again. “You better tell him,” she said into the phone, then held it out to me.
Ten years later, I can still remember the funky smell of the trailer, the rumble of the air conditioner, the way the dust motes danced in the stripes of sunlight knifing in through the louvers as I took the phone from my stepmother. “Hello?”
“Little Luke?”
“Dad?”
“Get out.”
“What?”
“Haul ass. Some very bad shit is about to go down. You don’t need to get messed up in it.”
“Where should I go?”
“Your grandparents.”
On my dead mother’s side, he meant. He was an orphan. I was about to become one. “No way. Not happening.”
“I don’t have time to argue. Put Teddy back on.”
That was it. No last fatherly advice, to your own self be true, don’t piss into the wind. Not even a lousy good-bye, much less “I love you.” I could hear the sirens in the background, so I understand the pressure the man was under. But would a kind word to me have fucking killed him?
Instead I got to hear Teddy’s last words to him. “I love you, baby.” Then a pause, long enough for an “I love you, too, baby.” She must have known what was coming, because she held the phone away from her ear. We both heard the shot. “Fuck you,” Teddy started screaming into the receiver. “Fuck you, you fuckers, just fuck you.” Really stretching the old vocabulary there.
I pried the phone out of her hand, heard a man’s voice, not Big Luke’s, yelling something about a gutless son of a bitch, and hung it up. I don’t know if I can explain what I was feeling. It was like I knew what had happened and I didn’t know, all at the same time. Everything else was crystal clear, though, everything I could see and hear and touch. Teddy was collapsed in the armchair. She had panties on, no shirt. Her beefy arms were hanging straight down over the sides of the chair like they didn’t belong to her. I put my hand on her bare shoulder. It was warm. She reached up and grabbed my wrist, leaned her wet cheek against my hand. Then she pulled my hand down and pressed it tight against her breast. I think for a second there she forgot who I was or thought I was my father or something. I took a good feel, more out of numb curiosity than anything else. It felt okay, but not like I thought it would. I could feel the implant squishing around.
Next thing I knew, I was on the floor with my ears ringing. My stepmother was heading for the bedroom. “If you’re still here when I come out, I’ll kill you,” she said over her shoulder.
2
Ten o’clock Tuesday morning. A stakeout in the post office in Marshall City, California. Sweat stains in the shape of landmasses were already spreading across Pender’s hula shirt from the armpits, the bulge of his belly, the small of his back, threatening to merge like the Pangaea hypothesis in reverse. Bill Izzo, his partner, sat in an air-conditioned car parked across the street, radioing a heads-up into Pender’s flesh-colored earpiece whenever someone fitting the general description of the unknown subject, or Unsub—male Caucasian, dark hair, bodybuilder physique—entered the building.
The reason Special Agent William C. Izzo was cooling it in the car while Special Agent E. L. Pender sweltered in the post office was that no matter how they were dressed, Izzo always looked like an FBI man and Pender never did. Six-four, beefy, homely, and bald as a melon, dressed in that soggy Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts, calf-high black socks, and open-toed sandals, he stood in the lobby, pretending to fill out an Express Mail form while stealthily eyeballing the fourth tiny door from the right, third row from the top, in the wall of brass-and-glass P.O. boxes. Because it might not be Unsub who picks up the mail, Pender had to keep reminding himself. Could be anybody: a brother, a girlfriend, a little old lady.
“Ed, this could be i
t.” Izzo’s voice crackled in Pender’s ear. “Jeans, red tank top. Arms like Popeye. Could be strapped.”
Pender acknowledged by twice tapping the miniaturized microphone under the collar of his shirt. The front door was to his right. As the man in the tank top passed him on his way to the P.O. boxes, Pender snuck a glance at the photo underneath the manila envelope he’d been pretending to mail. It was a grainy blowup of Unsub wearing the Lone Ranger mask he’d worn in the video. This looked like the same man; he reached for the right box, and he even twirled the dial of the combination lock with his knuckles, so as not to leave fingerprints.
“That’s our guy,” Pender whispered into his collar. But the post office was full of civilians, so he and Izzo agreed to take Unsub down outside, on the street. Izzo relayed the information to the deputy from the Marshall County Sheriff’s Department, who was out back covering the loading dock.
Pender waited for Unsub to pass him, then followed two or three paces behind. But just as Unsub opened the front door, the deputy sheriff came charging around from behind the building brandishing a pump-action shotgun.
Aw, fuck, thought Pender, as Unsub turned around and headed back into the post office, nearly bumping into him. Their eyes locked; Pender knew he’d been made. Gunfight at the O.K. Corral time. Unsub reached for the .38 automatic in the waistband of his jeans, Pender for the Smith & Wesson Model 10 he was carrying in a behind-the-back kidney holster instead of his trusty calfskin shoulder holster, which would have required him to wear a jacket in the August heat.
Advantage Unsub, who drew first and pulled the trigger while Pender was still fumbling behind his back. Happily for Pender, either the gun misfired, or Unsub had neglected to chamber a round.
By then Pender had succeeded in drawing his gun, but the lobby was too crowded for him to fire. Unsub faked left and darted right, across the lobby, dodging panicked postal patrons, then vaulted over the counter, heading for the loading dock in back. Which was supposed to have been covered by the plainclothes who’d blown the stakeout in the first place, only he, of course, was around front now.
The year was 1985. Pender—forty years old, twenty pounds over fighting weight, and smoking a pack of Marlboros a day—hauled himself ingloriously over the counter and chased Unsub out the back door, across the loading dock, down the concrete ramp, across a dusty alley, and through the back door of a two-story wood-frame antiques store. Izzo charged through the front door of the shop as Pender burst in through the back. A woman who had taken cover behind a glass knickknack case pointed timorously to the staircase leading up to the second floor.
“Any way out from there?” whispered Izzo.
“Only through the window.”
Izzo was wearing a Kevlar vest beneath a single-breasted gray suit tailored to fit it, so he took the point. Through the third of the three doors on the second floor, the agents could hear Unsub talking to someone on the telephone. The smaller Izzo gave Pender a little would-you-care-to-do-the-honors? wave in the direction of the door. Pender pointed down to his sandals. Izzo shrugged, splintered the door latch with his Florsheim. The door sprang open. Over Izzo’s shoulder, Pender saw Unsub sitting behind an empty desk with the phone in one hand and the .38 in the other.
Izzo yelled, “Drop it! Put your hands up!”
Unsub said, “I love you, too, baby,” into the phone, then put the muzzle of the .38 in his mouth, sucked in his cheeks, and pulled the trigger. This time the gun did not misfire.
3
I believed Teddy when she said she’d kill me. Up until then we’d maintained an uneasy truce, but with my father out of the picture, all bets were off. I didn’t leave the property, though. I had no place to go. Instead I snuck around behind the trailer and peeked in through the louvers in time to see Teddy, now wearing a T-shirt and shorts, backing out of the bedroom dragging Big Luke’s old green steamer trunk.
When she kept going, dragging the trunk out the door and down the cinder-block doorstep (which Big Luke had been meaning to replace with something permanent at least as long as I’d been there), I assumed she was going to haul ass like he’d told me to do. I peeked around the side of the trailer to see if she was gone yet, but she’d only dragged the trunk as far as the fire pit, a scooped-out circle of blackened ground with split logs around it to sit on. We hadn’t used it all summer, because the surrounding woods were too dry for open fires.
Teddy knelt and opened the trunk with a key, then trotted into the shed at the end of the driveway and came out with a big red gasoline can. She didn’t bother with the spout, just unscrewed the top and sloshed gas all over the trunk. She patted through her pockets looking for a lighter, but for once in her life (Big Luke and Teddy both smoked like chimneys) she didn’t have one.
She started back for the trailer. I ducked out of sight again, but as soon as she went inside, I raced straight across the clearing for the fire pit. I had to know what was in that trunk, I just had to. And to be honest, what I thought I was going to find was dope. (Big Luke and Teddy were small-time dealers, weed and meth, mostly.) Instead the whole trunk was stuffed full of videocassettes. What the fuck? I reached down, picked up one that the gasoline had somehow missed, and was turning it around to read the label when I heard a popping sound. Simultaneously, the dirt kicked up a couple feet to my left. I looked up, saw Teddy standing in the doorway of the trailer holding her dainty little pearl-handled .22 pistol. She fired again, from the hip. The trunk took a little hop, then there was a whomp and a whoosh, and the next thing I knew I was flying backward through the air.
I landed about ten feet away, barefoot: the explosion had blown me right out of my sandals. Through the flames and the oily black smoke and the rippling heat waves, I saw Teddy walking slowly across the yard toward me, aiming the gun two-handed. Every couple of steps the gun jerked, but I must have been deaf from the explosion because I didn’t hear any shots. It was like I was watching a movie, only somebody had turned off the sound.
But my nose still worked. I smelled the stench of gasoline and melting plastic and something even worse, that took me a second to identify. It was burning hair: I realized suddenly that my Mohawk was smoking. And Teddy was still coming. So now I was scrambling to my feet and slapping at my hair, while all around me bullets I couldn’t hear were smacking into the dirt, kicking up silent puffs of dust.
Then a miracle happened. When she reached the burning trunk, Teddy stopped, raised the gun, put the barrel in her mouth, looked me right in the eye, smoke billowing around her, and pulled the trigger.
Another miracle: I could hear again. Not the shot, but the soft crackling of the flames and the bubbling of the melting plastic, and finally, after what seemed like an impossibly long time, a two-part thud as Teddy dropped to her knees, then pitched face forward into the trunk.
It was over then, except for one last spooky sound, a high-pitched, drawn-out eeeeeeeeeeee, like steam whistling through a teakettle. I don’t know what it was exactly, whether it was Teddy screaming, which would have meant she was still alive somehow, or just something that happens when a body burns in that position, superheated air being forced through the vocal cords or something like that. But even after all these years, sometimes at night, when it’s very quiet, I still hear it: eeeeeeeeeeee…
4
Before 1985, the snuff film was something of an urban legend. Everybody knew somebody who knew somebody whose cousin claimed to have seen a sex video that included an actual murder, but nobody claimed to have seen one personally until the FBI’s Organized Crime division raided a warehouse in Paramus, New Jersey, in June of that year, and found a carton of identical video-cassettes labeled Principals of Accounting, Tape 3.
Even then, the videos might have gone unnoticed if Special Agent William C. Izzo hadn’t been the spelling bee champion of P.S. 139 in Queens in his youth. He not only knew the difference between principals and principles, he still remembered the mnemonic: the princiPAL is the student’s PAL.
At first view
ing, Izzo thought he’d uncovered some run-of-the-mill amateur porn: roly-poly, middle-aged woman having sex with a buff, dark-haired white guy wearing a white Lone Ranger mask. But in the last fifteen minutes of the half-hour video, the victim was throttled unconscious, then revived, throttled, revived, and ultimately strangled to death.
Watching it even once wasn’t easy—poor Izzo had to view it repeatedly, first with his ASAC (Assistant Special Agent In Charge), then with the SAC, then with the AD (Assistant Director). And after the spin-off investigation had been green-lighted with Izzo as CA (Case Agent), he watched it over and over, frame by frame, with a technician, searching for clues to the identity and/or location of the videographers.
The big break in the investigation, however, was provided not by Izzo, but by a rookie agent sifting through the warehouse garbage on a barge moored off Perth Amboy. In early August, the rook discovered a stained and crumpled bill of lading for a carton of educational videocassettes shipped from a post office box in Marshall City, California.
When efforts to identify the box’s leaseholder failed, Izzo proposed a potentially man-hour-eating stakeout. Figuring he’d need at least four agents to do the job right, he asked for eight and got one. Special Agent E. L. Pender from the Liaison Support Unit, who’d been working on a similar case in nearby Calaveras County, was dispatched to assist Izzo.
Pender had already been in California for nearly three weeks, helping the locals identify victims of the serial murderers Charles Mapes and Leonard Nguyen. Day after day, he studied the women in Mapes and Nguyen’s videotaped torture-murders in an effort to match their descriptions and likenesses with those of missing women from all over the western United States. And night after night he drank himself into a near stupor in an effort to shut off the goddamn VCR in his head long enough to fall asleep.
The Boys from Santa Cruz Page 1
