Save Me from Dangerous Men--A Novel

by S. A. Lelchuk

  “Tea at the Ritz,” I said. “Forgot the biscuits. Hoping you had a few to spare.”

  He grinned, getting to his feet. It was a process. Buster was big. A year or two north of forty, he wore his hair in a black ponytail that matched up with a long black goatee. Tattoos all over his bare forearms and probably plenty more elsewhere. He must have been six foot five, over 250. The kind of guy that would make some people cross the street at night. “What do you want?” he asked. “Need your carbs cleaned? New spark plugs?”

  “Was hoping for coffee.”

  “Coffee we can do.”

  Cigarette still in his mouth, he started toward the front of the shop, moving with a slight limp. “Jimmy!” he shouted. “Goin’ on break. Anyone who needs me, tell ’em to hold their breath and count to a billion backwards.”

  The skinny mechanic who had pointed me over nodded. “Sure, Buster.”

  “Oh, and Jimmy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You keep checking out this girl’s ass, and she’ll kick your skinny worthless tail a hell of a lot worse than I will, and twice as fast.”

  * * *

  Buster’s office was a tiny, claustrophobic space off the garage. Maybe eight feet by eight feet. It was one of the messiest rooms I’d ever been in. Almost literally not a square inch of flat space. He didn’t seem to believe in file cabinets, so there were stacks of papers almost to the ceiling. Fluorescent lighting, a dirty linoleum floor. A metal desk took up a chunk of the small space, a big executive-style leather chair on the far side, a metal folding chair on the other. A Mr. Coffee machine perched precariously on a slanted stack of coffee-stained papers. Cigarette butts and ash everywhere. I had to smile. The fact that the place hadn’t burned down yet was astounding.

  “Buster,” I said. “You should fire the maid. She’s slacking off.”

  He laughed. A big, booming laugh that filled the office even more than the papers. “Somehow I don’t see a maid working out here.” He went over to the coffee machine and dumped in ground coffee from a giant red forty-eight-ounce container and flicked the button. An orange light came on and, a second later, unhealthy hissing and sputtering noises issued from the machine. “See, Nikki? Only the red-carpet treatment for you.” He smirked crookedly my way. “A fresh pot for a fresh gal.”

  I had to laugh. “Jesus, I thought people stopped buying Folgers in 1950-something.”

  Buster sat back, shoving a stack of papers across the desk to make room for a ponderous elbow. “Well, this is how the other half lives, out here in the sticks. Folgers and Styrofoam cups. You’ve been spoiled rotten by those Berkeley tree huggers, I can see. Probably gone vegan by now.”

  “Speaking of spoiled, when’d you get the exec chair? Now all you need is a corner office. Beautiful views out over the Vallejo skyline.”

  He grinned. “Fancy, eh? When I hit forty, my back started to go. Too much time on the damn floor. The folding shit wasn’t doing it no more.” The coffee machine gave a final, wheezing sputter, and he poured two full cups. Styrofoam, true to his word. He took his cup and lit another cigarette, filling the tiny space with smoke. “If you need any soy milk or whatever, I know a great place about thirty miles down the street.” He stretched back comfortably in his chair and scratched the stubble on his neck. “They call it, what is it again? San Francisco.”

  I laughed and took a sip. The coffee was hot. Its only redeeming quality, but an important one. “I’m getting you a new coffee machine for Christmas. This one’s gonna die before you do.”

  I’d met Buster through, of all people, his ex-wife. His fourth ex-wife. She was the one who had hired me, ironically. The dissolution of his first three marriages had taught Buster that lawyers had their uses. He’d also learned, the hard way, that every divorce divided his net worth by half, not to mention child support. So, by the fourth he’d decided to play hardball. His lawyer had his marching orders. Apparently, Buster had told him if he budged an inch in the negotiations, Buster would be standing in his living room that night, wanting to ask why. Buster was a big, scary guy. His lawyer wasn’t backing down, come hell or high water.

  I’d been hired to communicate to Buster, delicately, that lawyers were all well and good, or would have been, if his about-to-be-ex-wife hadn’t found out that he ran a thriving chop shop out of his garage. I didn’t want to know exactly how many of the Bay Area’s missing cars passed through Buster’s World Class each year, but I figured he put most auto dealerships to shame. I’d had to explain to him that it was better not to fight the divorce in court. The marriage hadn’t gone well. There was a surplus of ill will. He didn’t want his wife talking about his side business, which she most definitely would.

  Eventually, we reached a point where we understood each other.

  The divorce went through, Buster’s retirement got pushed back by a few years, and doubtless he started working the chop shop harder than ever to make up for the financial hit. According to him, he’d also sworn off marriage and gotten a vasectomy, but he sometimes exaggerated. There was no way to tell for sure if Buster’s pipes still worked.

  He lit another cigarette and topped off our cups. “What do you need?”

  “Weekend getaway package.”

  “We can do that.”

  “I’m seeing the neon letters,” I said, gesturing with both arms. “Buster’s World Class Travel Agency. Getting Places in Style.”

  “I like that. Wheels are spinning. You wanna invest? You can be the silent partner.”

  “You got something comfortable for me? Not sure how far I’ll be going.”

  “Harley do ya?”

  “Sure.” I smiled affectionately. “I’ve always wanted to feel like a fat middle-aged man.”

  Buster shook his head. “Trust me, the novelty wears off after the first ten years.” He pushed his chair back and lumbered to his feet. “Let’s go take a look.”

  We headed back into the garage. There were three different Harleys. An older Softail, one of the massive Street Glides, and a Fat Boy S. The pipes blacked out, matte black paint, no chrome, big engine. I nodded to the Fat Boy. “True love, Buster. It exists after all.”

  He shook his head dismissively. “Say that until you get married.”

  “I can take it?”

  He nodded. “Guy dropped it off last week for a tune-up that it didn’t need. A doctor who does the weekend warrior shit. Get it back by Friday and we’re good.”

  There were times when the Aprilia was too distinctive or I didn’t want to be seen twice by the same person. Sometimes I didn’t want anyone to get a license plate or describe a motorcycle that could be traced back to me. Buster’s was a sort of library. He constantly had new motorcycles coming in for repairs. I’d borrow one, here and there. Untraceable. Owners didn’t notice an extra few miles on the odometer.

  “Here.” I handed him an envelope. There were five hundred-dollar bills inside.

  “Not needed. Haven’t you ever heard of comps?”

  “Got an expense account this time.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” The envelope vanished. I got onto the Harley. It had a different feel from the Aprilia. The handlebars tilted back, the front tire angled out, the seat much closer to the road.

  “This work for you?” Buster asked.

  I nodded. “This works. How’s the leg holding up?”

  “Eh, it’s fine. Feel it when it rains, is all.”

  “Lucky you don’t live in Seattle.”

  He laughed again. “No shit. Look what it did to Cobain. And that sonofabitch had a hell of a lot more to be happy about than I do.”

  When I’d come to the garage after hours to deliver the bad news that he wouldn’t be able to fight his divorce in court after all, Buster hadn’t been happy.

  Not at all happy.

  The divorce had stressed him out, he’d explained later. Lawyers stressed him out. The prospect of losing a lot of money stressed him out. His about-to-be-ex-wife stressed him out. He hadn’t been slee
ping well. Plus, he’d always had a temper problem. Which was why he’d pulled a big stainless steel .357 revolver, pointed it, and given me five seconds to leave his garage.

  I gave him a big spiel about not wanting to shoot the messenger, but it hadn’t dissuaded him.

  He’d started counting.

  Since then, he’d always been grateful that I’d only shot him in the leg. Considerately avoiding bones and arteries and instead putting a bullet through the fleshy part of his ample left thigh. It was true. I had done Buster a favor. He’d pulled a gun. He knew as well as I did that he’d escalated things to a point where anything could have happened. A gunshot to the leg was a fairly workable resolution. And I’d driven him to the hospital afterward. He’d cursed me out the whole way, but later admitted the gesture had been sweet.

  He’d recovered nicely. Just a very slight limp.

  After the divorce went through and the matter was settled, I’d felt bad. Maybe because my former client—his former wife—had driven me crazy. She was not an easy woman. Not at all. And I’d only been mixed up with her five weeks, not five years. One of the few cases I regretted taking. Five years with Buster’s ex-wife and I probably would have behaved worse than he had. So, I showed up to his garage one afternoon with a case of Red Label. By way of apology. Turned out that however Buster felt about me, he liked scotch more than a little.

  We spent the afternoon sitting in a giant red-finned Cadillac convertible parked in the back of the garage. Something that would have been right at home in about 1965. The car was comfortable. Big, spacious bucket seats, the radio going. Top down, so Buster could do his chain-smoking without driving me nuts. We sat there working our way through the first bottle and into a pretty decent chunk of the second, Buster putting down two or three to each of mine.

  By the time I rose rather unsteadily out of the Cadillac, we’d become friends, of sorts. Scotch would do that to people. He was a good guy, Buster. At least in my book. He was honest. That counted. We stayed in touch. Doing each other the occasional favor. A few more bottles of scotch here and there. The people I trusted—people like Buster, Charles, and Jess—helped me in different ways. And I counted them as friends. I didn’t have that many friends. It was good to have a few.

  The Harley came to life with a visceral rumble. I rode out the open bay door. I had everything I needed in a backpack. Outside, I checked the iPad. Assuming she was in her car, the GPS tracker would tell me where to go.

  It was time to find Karen Li. Time to find out what she had taken.

  22

  She was in San Francisco but heading north. Even as I watched, the dot edged up on the map. Toward the Golden Gate Bridge and the 101 freeway that ran all the way up to Seattle. That gave me a choice. I could loop around, follow, and try to catch up. Or gamble on where she’d end up. Not many choices immediately north of the city. If she wanted a freeway, the 101 was it.

  I gambled. Worked my way around San Pablo Bay on the 37, riding fast, aiming to link up with the 101. It was a chilly, gray day. Light rain swept out of the sky and wind gusts rocked the big motorcycle. When I reached Novato I pulled over and checked the iPad. Karen Li was only a few miles north, still on the 101. I had guessed right. I moved faster, cutting through traffic until I saw the red Porsche. It was doing a steady eighty in the left-hand lane, the top up. I drifted closer until I could see Karen Li’s black hair in the little rear window. It was her.

  Satisfied, I eased over a lane and dropped back a few cars.

  We stayed on the 101 through the rolling hills of Petaluma and Santa Rosa, passing vineyards and pastures full of sheep and black cows standing with that angular flat shape, like cardboard cutouts. We continued north.

  Then something interesting happened.

  Without signaling, the little red convertible cut into the right-hand lane. I followed. Still a few cars behind, I saw the Boxster’s brake lights as it slowed onto an exit ramp. Then, very suddenly, it swerved back onto the freeway, cutting over the solid line and rumble strips. Cars honked. A trailer truck just missed the little roadster and its loud horn blared.

  Already on the exit ramp, I didn’t bother to try to follow the Porsche back across the divider. Instead, at the intersection I took the entrance ramp straight back onto the freeway. Either I had seen a confused driver nearly take the wrong exit and catch herself just in time—or I had watched the fumbling, rookie maneuver of someone trying to ditch a tail. A basic trick. Like getting onto a subway car and jumping off before the doors closed. Counting on the fact that any pursuers would have to exit, or would make such a fuss trying to cut back over that they’d be spotted.

  Interesting.

  I caught sight of the Boxster as it turned off the freeway a second time, this time exiting. I followed, letting more space grow between us. Fewer cars meant it was easier to be spotted. Did Karen Li suspect she was being followed? She couldn’t have recognized me. Was she just generally cautious?

  Or were other people following her?

  We were on the 128, a narrow two-lane road that angled sharply up while curving back and forth in hairpin twists. I let the Porsche get still farther ahead, out of sight. There was nowhere for her to go except forward. It began to rain harder. Drops splattered off my helmet visor. The road descended sharply into Anderson Valley and I caught a glimpse of the red convertible on the flat road in front of me. We drove through several small towns, Yorkville, Boonville, Philo, passed meadows and vineyards and signs for wineries and farms, and then abruptly we were in a redwood forest, the high trees blocking what little light there was. The redwoods fell away as suddenly as they had appeared and we were on the coast, the choppy, gunmetal water of the Pacific stretching to the sky. The Boxster headed north on Highway 1. Out by the ocean it was windier. Sharp gusts rocked the Harley. A driving rain lashed into me.

  We reached the town of Mendocino and the Boxster braked and turned in.

  I continued until I was out of sight, then pulled an illegal U-turn. A minute later I was in Mendocino proper, in sight of the high bluffs looking over the Pacific. Little shops and restaurants and a two-story hotel stood along one side of the main street. The side closer to the sea was an expanse of flat, high grass, threaded with trails that led to the bluffs. On a sunny, warm day the trails were probably full of hikers and families. Today they were empty.

  I could see Karen Li. She had parked by the hotel and stood in the rain. A long black raincoat over her slim figure. She unfurled a black umbrella and took a black handbag from her car. Oddly, she didn’t walk toward the town. She seemed oblivious to the cozy little cafés and pubs that any normal traveler would have hurried into after a long, wet drive. She set out in the opposite direction. I watched her figure diminish into a small black dot.

  Moving toward the high bluffs and gray sea.

  * * *

  Most people tended to be better at remembering details than faces. A blue hat, a red T-shirt—these would wedge into memory far more than eye color or bone structure. The hotel on Main Street was furnished in a Victorian style—plush armchairs, rugs, a crackling fireplace. I found a restroom and changed hurriedly, pulling clothes from my backpack. When I emerged I had traded my boots for white sneakers and was dressed in blue running tights and a black athletic halter top. My hair now swept up in a ponytail under a cherry red 49ers cap, and a pair of white Apple earbuds in my ears. The unconnected cord tucked into a fanny pack on my waist.

  I had pulled up on a Harley, in a leather motorcycle jacket. That was one person.

  Now I was a jogger. Someone else.

  I left the backpack under a couch in the lobby and headed out into the rain.

  I ran slowly, feeling the wind raise pinpricks along my arms. Feet squelching into wet grass, white sneakers already muddied beyond repair. Not entirely sure if I was being watched. If Karen Li had wanted to choose the ideal place to spot someone following her, she couldn’t have picked a better setting than this flat, open landscape. I found a twisting path that wo
und toward the edge of the bluffs. Below, maybe fifty or sixty feet, the sea churned over craggy rocks, the water forming whirlpools, white patches of foam frothing up, swirling away, reappearing. I caught a glimpse of a black umbrella, far ahead. Behind me, the little town faded. The ocean swirled and foamed. As we drew closer to the edge of the bluffs, the ground became rocky and uneven.

  I stopped. I could see her. A motionless dot on the gray landscape, roughly a football field length away. Framed by the gray sea, she suddenly seemed a fragile and at-risk figure right out of literature, somewhere between Anna Karenina and The Woman in White.

  She wasn’t alone.

  In front of her were two other people.

  I pulled a pair of binoculars from the fanny pack and lay down in the wet grass, not caring about the mud. I was soaked, anyway. The binoculars were small but powerful. Faces sprang into focus. The two men from San Francisco. Also wearing black raincoats and holding umbrellas. I watched as Karen Li set down her black bag. The skinnier man picked it up, said something, walked away. The other man was saying something, too.

  I took a sharp breath. Without warning he had suddenly leaned in and seized her thin shoulders. Her back was to the ocean. I could see her shaking. See him saying something. Underneath, a fifty-foot drop into the whirlpools and rocks and frigid Pacific currents.

  I remembered their watchfulness, the whiff of danger that had rolled off them in the coffee shop. The expression of terror on her face as she left. That had been a very safe and public place. Now she stood literally at a cliff’s edge.

  Alone. No one else in sight.

  No one to help her.

  In the space of several seconds my role had fundamentally changed.

  I no longer needed to follow Karen Li. Now I needed to save her life.

  * * *

  In perfect conditions the world’s fastest man could cover one hundred yards in just under ten seconds; the fastest woman, about a second longer. On a track, I could run it in less than double that time, but given the wet grass and treacherous footing, there was no way I’d reach them. I didn’t need to, though. I just needed the man to see me. I didn’t much think about what would happen then. Maybe he’d run. Maybe a more aggressive reaction. But he wouldn’t push someone off a cliff in front of a witness.