Ted dropped him off at the board and care and Hutchins made a show of paying, but Ted put a hand on his arm and said no payment today.
“Sorry you lost your grove,” said the old man. “Tell your mother and father to think about selling everything. Get a smaller place in a city, one that won’t burn down. A place with a community pool. They can travel. Live off savings.”
“They don’t have any savings.”
“Mine went somewhere, too.”
He turned and waved as the automatic glass door slid open. Through the slats of a wooden fence Ted could see the patio area with its plastic chairs and tables, and the old people and their wispy white hair, their canes and wheelchairs and bottled oxygen. He watched for a while. It was nice to watch without being seen. That was part of the reason he liked driving the taxi, because he could watch life through glass, like on a TV or a monitor. On the wall of the building he saw still another offensive campaign poster for Evelyn Anders, which showed her face and proclaimed: THIS TOWN IS YOUR TOWN—RE-ELECT EVELYN ANDERS FOR MAYOR. She managed to look both professional and attractive, which Ted found underhanded.
Later he picked up Lucinda Smith at her condo on the golf course and took her downtown to Major Market. This was the fourth time she’d called Friendly Village Taxi in the last ten days. She was a pretty brunette, thirtysomething, though she hardly spoke to him. She never took her sunglasses off, never smiled or laughed. No ring on her finger. She was brief about her shopping today, as usual. In Ted’s view she was either sullen or brokenhearted but he couldn’t tell which. When she was done getting groceries he dropped her off at home and she gave him her usual two-dollar tip.
“Have a nice day,” he said. Lucinda gave him a curt wave and headed up the stairs to her front door.
He looped around to Mission and drove back into town, the air still pale with ash. He drove past where the boy had been killed. The girls were there again with their banner raised, WHO KILLED GEORGE? Ted noted their cheerless expressions and wondered why the kid hadn’t just gone to the nearest crosswalk.
Next he drove a squat dark pregnant girl from the Catholic church to the Fallbrook Hospital. He tried to use his limited Spanish but got nowhere. She neglected to tip him. By the look of her she’d arrived in the United States just days ago, if not hours. She said nothing but she paid Ted in U.S. dollars, carefully counted, which he assumed were given to her by the same nanny state that had taken away Mr. Hutchins’s driver’s license.
After that he took a family of four to the airport in Carlsbad and earned a ten-dollar tip, though the round-trip took nearly an hour and a half out of his workday. Back in Fallbrook he got a fill-up and a wash at the GasPro station because nothing reflected more poorly on a driver than a dirty cab. He talked briefly with Ibrahim, the manager, who had escaped Saddam’s police in Baghdad and fled to America. Ibrahim claimed to have been an oil engineer but the gas station job was as close to oil engineering as he could get for now. Ibrahim was a big man with quick eyes and he kept a Koran on the counter beneath the canned tobacco display.
Ted picked up his daily after-lunch fare, Mr. Rossie, a cheerful older man who claimed to be retired CIA. Rossie had had a stroke about a year ago, around the time Ted started driving, and he’d done physical therapy almost every day at one fifteen ever since. Rossie walked with a wide-stance quad cane and offered a nod, smile, and garbled words to almost everyone he met. Ted couldn’t figure out how much of Mr. Rossie’s mind was still good. But it was easy to figure the federal government pension and health insurance must be good indeed, because PT was one hundred and twenty-five an hour, which meant someone was coughing up $625 a week for the old spy’s rehab. Ted thought about Mayor Anders and the cartoon he’d posted of her and suddenly more cartoon ideas came swarming into his mind. He laughed softly and vowed again, in honor of Patrick, not to draw another cartoon of the good mayor.
While Rossie was in therapy Ted got a sandwich from the market and drove out to the Fallbrook Community Air park to watch the small planes take off and land. A beautiful old yellow Piper Cub that often arrived this time on Wednesdays came tilting in like a bulletin from the past. He could hear the artillery thundering out on Pendleton, which he thought of as the sound of peace. He thought of Patrick and hoped he’d be okay. He ate in the car and listened to Cruzela Storm, the new hit singer. She had grown up in San Diego. She was unbelievably good, in his opinion, with beautiful melodies and mysterious lyrics and a voice the color of honey. Ted was prone to obsessing over small noncuddly animals, certain people, music, books, TV, computers. He was about to start the CD again but remembered that he had to be waiting for Mr. Rossie at two fifteen for the ride home.
* * *
Later in the afternoon, dispatch called Ted to say he had a fare waiting outside the smoke shop in Village Oaks. When he pulled up a big Mexican kid pushed through the door and came outside. Ted noted the pomade and the killah wrap-arounds, the Raiders windbreaker, baggy black shorts, white knee-highs, and Dickies work boots. Of course, tats everywhere. The boy threw open the back door and got in and Ted felt the car rock.
“Henry?” Ted asked. “Going to Ammunition Road?”
“That’s what I told your boss.”
“I’m making sure.”
“Then make sure you take me to the liquor store first, the one by the Kyoto restaurant.”
“It’s your time.”
Ted hit the meter and watched the five-dollar pickup charge register. Henry—probably not even eighteen, Ted guessed—stared out the back window through his shades. Ted had seen him around, hanging out with the Fallbrook Kings, a street gang. The boy’s name was actually Edgar, Ted was pretty sure. Edgar had a girlfriend who dressed provocatively and often clung to him in public. Hard to miss her, thought Ted. He wondered why Edgar used a fake name just to procure a taxi ride.
He parked in front of Lucky Liquor and the big boy-man got out. Ted watched him in the sideview. With both hands stuffed into the windbreaker pockets, Edgar looked around, then warily walked into the store. He took a long time inside but Ted couldn’t see him through the tobacco and beer ads on the windows.
And, of course, another Evelyn Anders campaign poster. There was also one for her opponent, Walt Rood. Rood had a warm smile. His campaign poster said: SMALL GOVERNMENT THAT WORKS. He was an investor with a good reputation. Ted knew he was being endorsed by the Chamber of Commerce and that the Village View had called the race “a dead heat.” Still it seemed that Anders’s posters outnumbered Rood’s three to one.
Finally Edgar came out and took a hit from a half-pint of something in a dark flat bottle. The bottle glinted golden in the sunlight while he wadded and tossed the small brown bag into a trash can by the door. Ted watched him slide the bottle back into his jacket pocket and stride heavily back to the cab. The kid climbed in and slammed the door. “Ammunition,” he said again.
Ammunition Road was on the west side of town and ended at the entrance to the Naval Weapons Station on Camp Pendleton. Ted drove along the apartments where many of the Marines and their families lived. Not much to look at. The patios were littered with toys and barbecues and the drapes were almost always drawn. He could approximate the length of deployment by how neglected the yards and patios were. The military life was difficult, he knew. At eighteen, Ted had been embarrassed and angered at failing the physical for all branches of the armed services—his damned feet, of course.
“Pull into the lot and drive me down by the chain-link fence,” said Edgar. Ted pulled into the parking lot of Parkside Apartments. It was full of the muscle cars that young men like, and plenty of little tiny economy cars too. Three Marines stood beside a late-model Camaro with the hood propped open, looking down into the engine as if it was about to say something.
“This is the wrong place,” said Edgar.
“Looks wrong.”
“What’s that mean? What do you mean by that?”
Ted’s pulse rose and his breathing sped up. Anger. “This is
mostly Marines, not Mexicans. We can drive around all you want, or you can just tell me where you really want to go.” By now he’d guessed that Edgar had something specific to do. Something not altogether pleasant. Thus, using a false name to reserve a cab. And the stop for liquid courage. And the bogus run to Ammunition, clearly not his turf. And his nervous mood.
“Old Stage,” said Edgar.
“That makes sense.”
“’Cause that’s where the Mexicans live? You’re full of shit and I don’t like you.”
Ted felt his vision constricting—gun barrel vision, he called it. It always came with anger. Along with the fast pulse and the rapid breathing. And with anger his hearing became acute: now he could hear the crackling tin turn of the half-pint lid, then the gulp and swallow. “You can get out here if you want,” Ted said. “But the ride is still nine dollars.”
“You take me to Old Stage or you don’t get paid.”
“Do you have the money?”
“I don’t have to show it.”
“I don’t have to take you to Old Stage, either.”
In the rearview Ted saw him brandish a wad of bills. Ted drove Fallbrook Street to Old Stage and made the right. The little houses of the barrio slid past his windows, then the Mexican shopping center with the Mercado, the taqueira, and the zapatería. On the right was the VFW Post 1924 where Ted assumed Patrick would soon be spending some time. Near the end of Old Stage, Edgar told him to make a left on Via Ventana, a small cul-de-sac rimmed by small stucco homes. There were cars parked along every inch of curb, and the driveways and garages were full of vehicles too, mostly older and American-made. Ted saw a nice lowered Impala painted candy-apple red. Four guys were in it, watching him.
“Stop here.”
“Eleven dollars.”
Ted turned to watch the big boy throw open the door and haul himself out. Then Edgar was at the window pointing a gun at Ted’s face. “Turn it off and drop the keys on the ground.”
Ted looked at the gun. His field of view had ratcheted down to almost nothing, but he saw in hyperfocus the black cave of the barrel, the age-worn bluing at the end of it gone silver like the muzzle of an old dog, and within the barrel the first spiral of rifling, twisting back toward the hand that held the gun. Ted turned off the engine and dropped the keys to the sidewalk. They landed with a loud clank. He told himself to stay calm. “That’s a big one.”
“It’s big enough to blow a hole in your head. Give me the bills from the box. No change. You got five seconds.”
Ted opened the cash box, which was just a small metal toolbox with the top shelf removed. Friendly Village Taxi had provided it to Ted but it didn’t even lock. The change banged around loudly while Ted raked up the bills. He held them out and the boy snatched them away and stuffed them in his jacket.
“Gimme the tips, too. From your pocket.”
“But that’s my money. I need it for the groves.”
“Roll with it, fat boy.”
Ted worked out his humble earnings and handed them over. His hand was shaking but still he thought, That’s my forty-two bucks in there and I want them back. The red Impala started up and rolled slowly away from the curb. Ted aimed his gun barrel vision at the driver and committed the face to memory. “Those are the Fallbrook Kings,” he said. “Is this some kind of initiation?”
“You’re a genius, gordo.”
Edgar stepped back and peeled a ten off the tip roll and dropped it on Ted’s lap. He kicked the keys under the car, then slid the gun back into his jacket and jogged off diagonally across one of the small lawns. He looked back, then let himself through a chain-link gate that latched loudly. Through the mesh Ted saw the big drooping pepper tree in the backyard and the branches hanging low and the flicker of Edgar moving below them across the yard. A dog barked ferociously and Edgar cursed.
Ted heaved out and fished his keys from under the car. He ran as fast as he could across the yard but he was slow. Looking over the gate he saw that the yard was thick with foliage, and a brick wall ran along the back of it. He threw open the gate and ran for the wall and pulled himself up onto it and looked over. Something launched. He saw a hurtling cave of teeth and pink meat coming up at him, and he heard the loud snap of those teeth, then the pit bull fell away and gathered itself for another jump. Ted slid back down his side of the wall and heard the growls and then the screech of tires from beyond the house.
He lumbered back across the yard, his feet already smarting from the exertion. He slowed and walked back to the car, trying to let his pulse slow down, his breathing relax, and his vision return to normal. When he reached the open door of his taxi Ted took a deep breath, crossed his arms over his chest, tightly, closed his eyes, and rotated his body counterclockwise. He turned in circles as fast as he could. It was a tic from childhood. Pat said it was like he was unscrewing from the world, and Ted said he was trying to fly away. When he stopped turning and opened his eyes the world had changed not one bit that Ted could see.
He sat in his taxi and felt his mind starting to reassemble. At least I’m not shot, he thought. Not hurt. I only lost thirty-two dollars in tips and the charges for one day’s work. Friendly Village Taxi is insured. Ted stared out at the fence. His vision relaxed, peripheries falling into place like a kaleidoscope shifting into a new pattern. He wondered, What’s Edgar going to do when I see him around town again? In Fallbrook everybody sees everybody sooner or later. What am I going to do when I see him again?
Ted parked at the Fallbrook Sheriff Substation and waited for his body and mind to mesh. He muttered the Lord’s Prayer, which sometimes seemed to help. He made it halfway through. And by then some kind of timing belt seemed to have reengaged inside him, and his inner engine started to run more smoothly. He could still smell his fear, ammoniacal and bitter.
His feet throbbed as he crossed the parking lot. Twenty-six years, two surgeries, and many expensive orthotics and Ted still couldn’t walk faster than a chameleon without it hurting. Inside the sheriff’s department afternoon sunlight came through the blinds and hit the finished concrete floor, then laddered up the front desk and the flags of the United States of America and the great State of California. The black desk sergeant regarded him with frank suspicion. He had rousted Ted just a few weeks back for a failed brake light on his cab, then given him a nystagmus test in broad daylight, humiliating Ted in front of all of Fallbrook. My government at work for me, he thought. He took a deep breath, nodded at the sergeant, then turned and walked back out.
CHAPTER SIX
Evelyn Anders sat in the back of the Fallbrook Fire Department sedan and looked out at Rice Canyon, where the devastating fire had started. The early October morning was warm and dry and the scorched earth wheezed smoke and ash. Rice Canyon was steep and rugged and serviced by only one paved road, which intersected Highway 76 six miles from the Fallbrook city limit.
She hadn’t seen the canyon in two years, since she and her husband had gotten a sitter for the kids and come out here to hike and watch birds, then gamble and spend the night at the Pala Casino. Now she looked out at the utter destruction on display. She remembered Rice Canyon as a lovely, thickly wooded area, clotted with lemonadeberry and sage and ceonothus, which, she knew, would all burn like matches in any drought month. And October was the absolute worst month of all. It looked like a hydrogen bomb had gone off.
Fallbrook Fire Chief William Bruck swung around in the front passenger seat and looked at her. “Evelyn, we’ve just learned something interesting that I’d like to share with you. Last week, an online English-language Al-Qaeda magazine called for homegrown terrorists to start fires in the U.S. They published detailed directions on how to use simple timers and accelerants. The terrorist magazine is called Inspire.”
“Good Lord. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“The DHS didn’t tell me until about thirty minutes ago. They’ve sent an arson-terror specialist—Special Agent Max Knechtl. He told me that no one has claimed responsibility for
this fire. But the good news is that NSA electronically monitors Inspire readers here in the U.S. And they report to the DHS. So, if there’s a connection…”
Evelyn wondered if NSA surveillence of e-magazine readers without a warrant was good news or not. But there were larger questions here, or at least more urgent ones.
“And the other good news,” said Bruck, “is that I’ve wrapped up the investigation and gotten everything into the lab.”
“Well, Bill—we’ve wrapped it up,” said Sheriff Stan Hazzard, who sat in back with Evelyn. The two men chuckled. The driver, a young fireman with a buzz cut, glanced back at Evelyn in the rearview.
“What did you find out?” asked Evelyn.
“Oh, that’s going to take some time,” said Bruck. “We may have evidence of arson. But we’ve also got San Diego Gas and Electric power lines, apparently downed by the wind.”
“How long until you know what caused the fire?” asked Evelyn.
“The lab is good,” said Sheriff Hazzard. “A week at the most.”
“But you can see right over there that the trees were higher than the lines,” said Evelyn. “And we know they were swaying like crazy in the winds that night. It’s the power company’s responsibility to keep the trees away from their lines, right?”
“Exactly right,” said Bruck. “Except Ashley found what may well be accelerant.”
“Ashley?” asked the mayor.
“Our arson dog,” said Bruck. “We really can’t discuss what she may or may not have found, Evelyn.”
“Then, without discussing it, can you at least tell your mayor what you found? We lost three lives here, Bill. And you’re talking about Al-Qaeda and homegrown terrorists.”
Full Measure: A Novel Page 4
