“Where did you take this?”
“I didn’t take it. It was sent to my phone.”
“So who sent it?” I’m not fond of games on the best of days.
“My son, Jason. He texted me that this is the girl he intends to marry.” His expression transforms from a prim belligerence to sadness, as if he has just resigned himself to some awful truth. He takes back the phone and hits a button and hands it back to me.
Now I’m looking at Mindy and a character, standing with his arm around her, that my mind rejects entirely. In fact, my mind rejects Hamel, his dogs, and his living room.
¤ ¤ ¤
I was four houses away from my own, cruising on booze and heroin in the warm night, the empty attaché case in my left hand, the bike on autopilot, when the silver Mustang pulled up next to me. I noticed the driver first because he looked like a gorilla, hunched over so that his head would clear the ceiling, his eyes as dark and dumb as buttons on a coat. In the same split second I saw Ratboy, low in the passenger-side window, and suddenly, impossibly, a gun, a pop, a sting at my temple, and I flew off the bike onto the grass between the sidewalk and the curb.
I lay there and heard a car door open. Footsteps, then the attaché case, which for some reason I still gripped, yanked from my hand. A nasal voice said, “Fuck you, turkey.” A car door slammed. The roaring in my head began.
¤ ¤ ¤
I can still feel the grass on my cheek. Through the noise, I hear my name being called. I see light, and the anxious face of Jason Hamel.
“Are you all right?” He’s leaning forward, half out of his chair with his hand extended.
“Yeah, low blood sugar, no problem.” I wave him back into his chair and consider my revelation. Ratboy put the bullet in my head, and Ratboy’s got Mindy.
“You sat there, immobile, staring through me for over two minutes. Can I get you anything?”
“Forget about me. Where’s your son now?”
“Why, he’s on his way here. He called me about twenty minutes ago.”
“If that’s your boy, your wife must be a strange looking creature.”
“My wife died two years ago. Jason was adopted when he was two. His mother was an amphetamine addict. We tried to raise him in the way of the Lord, but another power has kept its grip on him.”
The echo of the hurricane in my head reminds me that I’m in uncharted territory. A silver Mustang. The car that took Mindy away.
“Your son shot at me and kidnapped my daughter. I believe he burned my house down. What do you propose I do when he gets here?”
“You’ll do what you have to do, I imagine. He’s beyond reasoning with.”
“What do I need to know?”
“He has a sidekick that drives him everywhere, since he can’t drive himself. Big brute, dumb as dirt, has a violent streak, and is entirely loyal to Jason.”
“Why can’t Jason drive?”
“He got arrested for the seventh time. Oxycodone and cocaine.” He looks at me apologetically. “A couple of sexual assault charges. I bailed him out every time. The best lawyers. This time he got two years probation plus a suspended license. He’s fresh out of rehab, a condition of his probation.”
The dogs prick up their ears in unison. I hear the crunch of tires on gravel and car doors slam shut. The dogs begin to yap and scramble around the table. Hamel stands up and turns to face the foyer. I stand and watch the front door open and Ratboy enter. I pull Mo’s gun from under my belt and point it at Hamel’s prodigal son. The dogs shut up and there’s a moment of silence.
“Well, if it isn’t dead man walking. We should kiss and make up, since you’re my future father-in-law.” He sneers and winks at the same time, an especially bad combination on his ugly face. I notice he has a lazy eye that seems to be looking at the tip of his nose.
I raise Mo’s Walther and pull back the hammer. I don’t know how heavy the pull on the trigger is, but I’m just a twitch away from blowing Ratboy’s head off.
“Where’s Mindy? That’s all that’s going to happen now—you’re going to tell me where she is and we’re going to go find her. Got it?”
Ratboy smirks and his good eye moves past me and over my shoulder. I hear shots as the window behind me explodes. I fire the Walther and Ratboy staggers backward, his hand clutched to his left shoulder. Two more shots from outside thwack into the living-room wall, and I hit the floor while Ratboy turns and runs out the door.
Tires on gravel.
17
Jason Hamel Senior is lying on the floor facedown with a hole in his back, right about at kidney-level. There’s blood pooling under him and he’s scrabbling at the rug trying to push himself up.
“Help me, for God’s sake.”
I kneel down and pull his arm to his side and roll him over. His lips are drawn tight over clenched teeth but he says, “I want to sit up. Get me sitting up,” so I maneuver him into a sitting position against the wall. I pull out my cell and start dialing for help.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling 911.”
“There’s no point. I’m not going to survive this. And I’m ready to meet my Lord.” He gestures with one hand for me to put away my cell. “Funny, about your name. It’s quite an irony.”
“What about my name?”
“Miner. Charlie Miner. I’ve been in the business half my life. Always worked with miners. And here you are, a Miner to watch me die.”
I shrug and say, “Irony, destiny, who knows?”
He reaches for the floor next to him and almost topples over. I help him back up and retrieve his glasses from the rug. He wipes them carefully on his ruined cardigan and puts them on. “Do you believe in destiny, Mr. Miner?”
“It seems all my beliefs are subject to review at the moment. Are you sure you don’t want help?” Ambulance, police, interrogation: all would put time between me and finding Mindy. I’ll call when I’m in the car.
He gives another little wave of dismissal and says, “I’m in His hands now. I believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, sent by our Father to absolve us of our sins.”
“Will he absolve you of the murders of the Caffey brothers?”
“You think I did that? Why on Earth would you say that?” He’s clutching his abdomen now, there’s blood leaking between his fingers.
“It seems that accidental falling and suicide weren’t very credible versions of their deaths. And, their dying was pretty convenient for your scheme. So come on, repentance is good for the soul, isn’t that what they say?”
Hamel grimaces in pain. His dogs are on either side of him, their paws on his legs, whimpering. One takes a tentative lick at his hand. Hamel looks down for a moment, then looks back at me. He moves a hand to adjust his glasses, leaving a smear of blood on the lens. Finally he says, “They mocked the Lord, but they didn’t deserve to die.” He shakes his head, his face a mask of pain and regret.
“So how did they die?”
“I never imagined . . . Jason overheard me talking on the phone. I was angry with the Caffeys. They had signed off on a report that I didn’t agree with.”
“You mean about the gold?”
“Yes, the gold. There’s a huge deposit there. I’m convinced of it. I saw it in a vision. It was going to fund my ministry, and they were going to ruin it.”
“So you had them killed and created a fake document.”
“No, no, no.” He’s getting pale now. His pants are soaked in blood and his voice is weakening. “Jason told me later that evening that I should stop worrying, that the Lord would find a way to make everything right and that he would be the arm of the Lord. He was fresh out of rehab and carrying on about how he was right with Jesus. Then James died and it seemed like a crazy accident. And Mark, committing suicide. I should have seen it back then, but I was in complete denial.”
“But you went ahead and dummied up a false report.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A tear drops to his cheek on the blo
ody-lens side. “I just wanted the report before the investors saw it. The Caffey brothers were mistaken. I was trying to salvage a dream.”
We sit for a moment. The one dog’s tongue takes another furtive lick, this time landing in the liquid redness seeping through.
It’s almost time to go. I’ve got two more questions.
“Tell me about Tanya’s money. Where is it now?”
“Tanya doesn’t have any money. Her husband is a hopeless gambler and a drunk, but he was smart enough to have a pre-nup with her. The investment in Santa Clarita was his last chance at digging himself out of a deep hole. She was blackmailing me for the cash, and then I was supposed to show him the report so he would think his money was gone.”
“What happened to it?”
“It’s all in the ground, out . . .” He looks down at his hands, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. I feel bad, he’s done me no direct harm, but now he’s just a source and I need to squeeze him before he dies on me.
“So where would your psychopath son take my daughter?”
“He likes to camp at the project. He wanted to marry her there. He thinks it’s a sacred place. He gets these ideas—sudden obsessions.”
“The project?”
“The mine. Santa Clarita. I took him there once to help him detox. I baptized him in the stream. He said he found Jesus. Later I found out he was high on the local peyote.” He’s breathing through his mouth now, staring at me, his eyes wide. He says, “Thank you for staying with me.” His stare loses focus. Both dogs give a startled jump and begin to whimper.
18
The average police response time in this city is about nine minutes. Add a few for neighbors to scratch their heads and wonder if they should make the call. I’m probably out of time.
I reach for Hamel’s wallet and a cocker snaps at my wrist. There are a few hundreds and some smaller bills, so I leave fifteen bucks and put the wallet back. There’s a Blackberry in his pocket. Dog teeth break skin this time, but I’m betting it’s worth it. As my former neighbor would say, intel.
I’m just turning onto West Channel Road when the black-and-whites fly past me, lights flashing and sirens blaring. The shotgun cop in the third car whips his head around and checks me out, but I’m moving west, turning south on the Coast Highway, and there’s nobody behind me.
So, Ratboy’s got Mindy and wants to marry her. I should be enraged, clenching my teeth and ready to swing an axe, but it seems that my condition has put a damper on how I feel about things. That’s a good thing, because my temper has led to a lot of bad decisions in the past. Focus on the mission, that’s my mantra now.
There’s a vibration in my pocket, followed by a Hammond organ playing “Rock of Ages.” I fish out Hamel’s Blackberry and check the Caller ID. It says, “J Jr,” which I presume to be Ratboy. On a hunch, I pull into the Santa Monica Pier parking lot and turn off the engine.
Bad luck would be that Ratboy’s calling from a cell phone. Good luck and he’s calling from a listed land line. I pull up an online reverse lookup directory and enter the number. And there’s young Jason, right down the street in Venice.
Oakwood’s a part of Venice I generally avoid. First they gentrified Ocean Park and pushed the poor people farther into Venice. Then they yuppified Venice and left Oakwood to the black and Hispanic communities, along with the gangs. Now rising property values are pushing these folks out toward Inglewood, but I’ll bet there are still some Shoreline Crips and Venice 13s left.
I pull up in front of a crappy little apartment building named The Flora. There’s a hydrant, but what’s a parking ticket in my situation? I tuck Mo’s gun in my belt and cover it with my jacket. The crappy little apartment building has its own crappy little lawn, with a fence separating it from the sidewalk. The gate is halfway off its hinge. Dogs bark in stereo as I walk through and scan the mailboxes. Sounds like a beast on the right side, a big angry howl punctuated by snarling and a rattling of the apartment door.
Every box has a name except number 11, so I’m guessing that’s my man. I start up the stairway to the second floor but have to back down because a huge black woman is descending. She would be unpassable even if she turned sideways. Especially if she turned sideways. She’s wearing purple tights and some kind of sequined poncho. She squints down at me and says, “He gone.”
I say, “Who gone?”
She says, “Funny lookin’ white boy, look like a rat, and his go-rillafren’ and the trashy little white girl. They left ’bout ten minutes ago.”
I back down to the landing and let her pass. I get back in the Z. It’s getting dark out and I have no idea where to go. Mo’s gun is pushing into my thigh so I dislodge it from my belt but keep it under my jacket. I close my eyes.
Now I’m looking back at myself sitting in the Z. I guess I went into roam mode on autopilot. I float up the stairs and through the door to number 11.
The place looks like an animal’s cave. There’s laundry all over the floor and the kitchen area is a mess. The sink is full of dishes and greasy water. There’s a futon mat on the living room floor, but no pillow or blankets. I navigate to the bedroom and find a completely different world: everything in its place, miniature cars lined up in precision on a bookshelf; magazines on a table perfectly aligned with the corners; photographs of Jason Hamel Sr. and his son framed and hanging in perfect symmetry above a dresser topped with meticulously placed knickknacks and, as their centerpiece, a framed shot of the two Jasons and a woman, all smiling, Jason Junior’s braces catching the light, his face pathetically happy and eager to please. Another shot shows Ratboy and his giant friend standing in front of a Chevy van, flashing gang signs. The big guy looks like he’s been hit in the face with a brick, or perhaps his features never fully formed. And another of the woman, Ratboy’s dead mother, with her thin, delicate face; her cheekbones, full lips, and unruly hair an unmistakable resemblance, at least in type, to my Mindy.
There’s a desk in the corner, with a computer monitor. Google Earth is showing me a map of the Santa Clara Mountains, somewhere south of and inland from Ensenada. There’s an image of a pushpin stuck next to a town called San Vicente and another one farther east. I feel a sudden weird panic and decide it’s time to get back to my body, quickly.
¤ ¤ ¤
From the sidewalk I see a big guy wearing a bandana with his hand inside an oversize jacket, which is wrong already because it’s a warm summer night. Another guy is leaning in my driver’s side window.
I re-enter the body. The kid already has Jason’s Blackberry, and now he’s reaching around me to get at my wallet. All the while he’s chattering away about dumb-ass white junkies and how they’re messin’ up the hood. I grab his shirt with my left hand and pull.
“Whoa, fuckin’ let go a’ me, Pops, or I’ll fuck you up!” This is the second time I’ve heard this today, and I’m not very impressed.
“I think you’re wearing your do-rag too tight, son.” He tries to jerk away but I’ve got a solid grip on him. I see his friend move closer to the windshield and start to pull his hand out of his jacket.
“DeShaun,” the kid yells. “Shoot the motherfucker!”
I’ve been holding on to Mo’s gun the whole time; now I jam the barrel hard into the kid’s head. “Tell DeShaun to give me his gun.”
DeShaun is looking confused; he checks up and down the block, whether for cops or backup I don’t know. The kid barks at him to give up the piece. When he gets to the window I tell him to reach in past his pal and drop it. DeShaun is about six four and has a big round face like a baby’s. I tell him to cross the street, which he does, walking backward. When he’s gone, I tell the kid to drop Jason’s phone and get out of my car.
I’ve got Mo’s gun in my left hand now, pointing out the window, and I start the Z and put it in gear. The kid’s already talking trash, but I’m heading for the border.
19
I’ve got two guns, three phones, and three hundred bucks and change. It’s at le
ast a couple hundred miles to where I’m going. Ratboy’s got a half-hour lead on me, but I don’t need to sleep or eat, so I might even catch up with him. Then what? A shootout at night on a Mexican highway with Mindy in the other car? And if I don’t catch up? I’ve got the name of a town—San Vicente—and a pushpin icon in a map of a mountain range.
Jason’s Blackberry rings. It’s Ratboy. I let it go to voicemail and I text him: cant talk
A minute later I get back: why not?
I’m heading east on the Marina Freeway, toward the 5 South. I text back: in bedroom—have a gun and im going to shoot the man
The Blackberry chirps twice and I read: fire the whole clip into his heart
Another two chirps and: then come to the mine and marry us
I recall that Jason’s web site mentioned that he was an ordained minister. I fire back: ill call when its over
I hate texting. I really hate people who text while driving. Now I am one. As an afterthought I type: keep her pure
And I get back: till my wedding night, with a smiley face.
I’ll show you a smiley face.
¤ ¤ ¤
I’ve never liked Mexico, but then there are a lot of things I don’t like. The 5 freeway ends at the border about two or three hours away, depending on traffic. Then there’s Tijuana to get through.
Every Southern California junkie knows Tijuana. Like Daniel said, doing H is like having sex with a gorilla. You’re not done till the gorilla’s done. Junkies and pillheads cross the border daily for the cheap fix. Walk across and turn right at the taxi stand and you’ll find a row of tourist shops with the lamest inventories of dust-covered unsellable crap—plaster statues of Jesus, wood carvings of dolphins, unplayable ukuleles, goofy sombreros with four-foot brims—and a skinny dark guy with a gold tooth and matching cross behind the register. He’s like the guy at a fancy uptown club: get past him and you can get to where the action is.
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