“What?”
“I’m getting too old for this.”
“Well, yeah. They could’ve killed you, Cal.”
I pointed at the swollen mass. “I traded that for a cracked skull. I’ll give it a few days.” Winona frowned but knew my aversion to hospitals and didn’t bother to argue. As we got up to leave we caught a glimpse of ourselves in the mirror and stopped. My nose was swollen and bruised, and the gauze bandage on my temple was already streaked with blood. Winona’s wound, just a week old now, was no longer discolored, but the stitches were still in place.
Winona said, “Behold, the walking wounded,” which set us both off again. I never realized a good beating could give you the giggles, but there it was.
That night we slept in her bed, which was three steps up on a landing, like a stage. I lay on my back and groaned for a while. Winona snuggled in next to me and began gently kissing my eyebrows, my cheeks, and finally, ever so softly, my lips. I said, “I’m feeling better already.” My body may have been pummeled but my spirit was willing, and together we found a way.
Afterwards, as she drifted into sleep, a squall blew through and pelted her windows with wind-driven rain. I lay there listening and thinking. Not really thinking so much as trying to cope with the stinging disappointment. My best lead had blown up in my face, and I wasn’t sure where to turn next. A good man’s freedom, reputation, and livelihood depended on my ability to solve this case. And now, for the first time, I glimpsed the possibility of failure.
It wasn’t a pretty sight.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Winona wasn’t domestic at all, but she did have a decent drip coffeemaker, and I had a couple of cups and a piece of toast before I felt good enough to climb into the shower. “Call me later,” she said as I finally labored my way down her front steps with Archie in the lead. “And remember, if you get a headache or feel sick, go to the hospital.”
I waved a hand in response without turning my head, because my neck was too stiff. Winona’s grandfather had been a decorated war hero and an activist against the dams built on the Columbia River in the 1950s. She inherited many of his warrior traits and hated injustice as much as I did. But at the same time she was nurturing and compassionate, traits that softened her hard edges. I was damn lucky to have found her.
Nando called just as I pulled into one of the two parking spaces next to Caffeine Central. “I am sorry I missed you last night, Calvin. “I was with a lady friend and didn’t realize the battery on my cell phone was dead.”
“That seems to happen a lot when you’re with a lady friend.”
“I refuse to be a slave to my cellular phone. A nasty little ring from it can kill the buzz. How did the meeting with the Rufino woman go?” I filled him in, and when I finished a long pause ensued. “Oh, I am sorry, my friend. These people who attacked you need to be taught a lesson.”
I gave him the phone number Pastor Holquin had given me. “Maybe you can contact Isabel and get the story straight. There’s still a chance she may know something about Delgado’s driving job.”
“Oh, I will do that for sure, Calvin. And if she does not answer or refuses to cooperate, I will go to the Springwater Corridor and hunt her down. After she has told me what she knows, I will also find her two friends and give them a good lesson in Cuban manners.”
His voice had acquired a menacing edge. “They didn’t kill me, Nando. I’ve got enough clients right now, so don’t do anything crazy.”
He saved the good news for last. “I think we have found the woman with the tattoos, Amanda Burke.”
A door closes and another opens, I thought. “What do you have?”
“An artist at a parlor on Hawthorne thinks he may have done a dragon for her, but he claims he couldn’t possibly violate confidentiality.”
“How much of the two thousand I gave you is left?”
“Half.”
“Start at two hundred.”
After we finished talking, I locked the car and let us into the back of Caffeine Central, took my dog up to the apartment, and fed him some kibbles from a bag I kept for just that purpose. A queue of five or six prospective clients had already formed out on the sidewalk, and when I opened up and invited them in, I said, “We don’t do take-a-number here, so remember the order you were in outside.”
Portland’s a clean, well-run city populated with friendly, inclusive, and compassionate people, but, like any big city in the post great-recession era, it had major problems. Topping the list was a homeless crisis that spawned tent cities of desperate people under every bridge and a gentrification wave that was changing the character of entire neighborhoods and forcing longtime residents out.
I spent the morning tending to the casualties of these problems—a couple of evictions without cause, including a single mother of three who received an eviction notice even though she had nearly a year left on her lease, a young couple from Alaska who had been cited for camping but claimed they were just sitting on their backpacks in Overton Park, and a young man so stoned I couldn’t figure out what his problem was. I told him to go to De Paul over on Washington Street to detox, but I doubted he would.
“Why do you do this work in Portland for nothing, Calvin?” Nando had asked me once not long after I’d set up shot at Caffeine Central.
Spurred by the plight of a young, homeless artist with the street name of Picasso, I’d gotten involved almost inadvertently, so I had to think about my answer. “I spent a career down in L.A. prosecuting people,” I told him. “In this country, if you’re charged with a crime or a civil offense and can afford a good defense attorney, you have a shot at coming out unscathed. If not—if you can’t afford an attorney—the system treats you harshly. I was part of that system. I guess I’m trying to give back, you know, tilt the playing field in the other direction a little.”
He nodded. “It is better, I think, to be rich and guilty than poor and innocent.” Nando accepted the system for what it was, so his statement was less irony and more a reason to pursue wealth. But when the chips were down, my friend had a strong moral compass. It wasn’t long after that exchange that he offered me the use of Caffeine Central at a greatly reduced rent.
***
On the way out of town that afternoon, I took the Hawthorne Bridge over the river, dropped down to Division Street and parked a half block from the Smiling Leaf cannabis shop. Aaron Abernathy was waiting on a well-dressed, middle-aged couple so I browsed the edibles isle, wondering which would taste better, the Hashey’s Chocolate Almond Bars or the Infused Mountain High Orange Zest Mints? He finally noticed me and shot a dagger look my way. I smiled back, and when he finished up he came over to me, his distorted earlobes swaying like fleshy earrings, his face pinched with irritation.
“Looks like the other guy won, Claxton.”
I forced a good-natured smile. “Accident.”
“What is it now?”
I looked around. “Just curious to see how this retail pot business works.”
He nodded at the couple leaving the store. “That was a three-hundred-dollar order. Those folks are going to party down. That’s how it works.” Then his eyes narrowed. “Get to the point, I’m on the clock.”
“How’s your stepmother?”
He dropped his eyes, and I saw his jaw clench. “What do think? She’s dying.” He was taking it hard, no question.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I, uh, do you think it would be possible to have a couple of minutes with her?”
He brought his eyes up. They’d gone hard as steel. “Let her die in peace, Claxton.”
I nodded respectfully. “Look, Aaron, I’m just trying to tie up some loose ends.”
He held my gaze, his jaw flexed again, and he licked his lips. “Yeah, well, I’d like to tie up your loose ends, believe me, but I’ve got customers waiting.”
I could see his point.
From what I knew about pancreatic cancer, it was swift and painful. The last thing Irene Halstead needed was some lawyer barging in on her. On the other hand, my client’s life was on the line, and I was on the line to defend him. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked permission.
Chapter Twenty-eight
It was pitch black and spitting rain by the time we pulled into The Aerie. When I entered the front door, a blast of cold air followed me, triggering the thermostat above the massive iron radiator in the hall. It came to life with a shuddering CLUNK, reminding me that my antiquated heating system was on its last legs.
I built a fire to take the chill off, and after feeding Archie I suddenly realized I was starving. I pounded some peppercorns and rubbed the course granules into both sides of a small filet, seared it in a hot, cast iron skillet, and put it in the oven to finish it. Meanwhile I added fresh chopped ginger, garlic, and red pepper flakes to hot oil in a wok and then dumped in a bag of fresh spinach and cooked it down while a couple of small potatoes nuked in the microwave. I served it all up—the steak au poivre medium rare—with a glass of Le Petit Truc pinot noir.
I think it was Jim who said to me once, ‘A glass of good wine can turn an ordinary meal into a delight.’ He was so right.
I was tired, and my left arm ached, so after dinner I retreated to a leather chair next to the fire, propped the still-swollen limb on a pillow, and began reading Woodrell’s Winter’s Bone. I must have been dozing when my cell pinged with a text, because I lurched forward, sending the book to the floor and Arch to his feet.
The text was from Candice Roberts: At his house. He’s in the bathroom. What an arrogant asshole!
I sent this text in response: Get off your phone and watch yourself. This is not a game!
She shot back: No worries!
I liked her chutzpah, but it confirmed my worry that Candice wouldn’t take her undercover work with Blake Daniels seriously enough, that she’d be overconfident in her ability to fool him and extract information. If Daniels fooled Lori Kavanaugh and was possibly behind Sean McKnight’s blackmail plot, then he was a dangerous man, indeed. It was a chilling thought, and that night I drifted off to sleep full of worry about Jim’s right-hand woman.
***
“What in the name of hell happened to you, Cal?” Gertrude Johnson, my neighbor and my accountant asked me. It was Saturday morning, and we’d met up to chat at the fence line separating our properties, a habit we developed over the years. I gave her a brief description of the attack, blaming it on a miscommunication but without giving her many details. She made it clear she was skeptical of my story but let it pass, choosing instead to impart cheery news. “Your receivables are down over twenty percent. That is not a sustainable trend.”
I shuffled my feet and averted her steady gaze. A semi-retired forensic accountant, Gertie did my books more out of pity than any need for income. Her hair was dark with streaks of pewter, and her eyes were robin egg blue, their brightness undiminished with age. She wore that no-nonsense look that I was sure she saved just for me. “Kavanaugh’s going to pay me on a monthly basis,” I offered up. “That should help.”
She pursed her lips and nodded. “Well, you better tally up his hours and round up when you do.” Then she added, “You know, Cal, you could make that twenty percent up if you stopped your pro bono work for a while. Losing that day plus the rent on the building’s killing you.”
“Aw, come on, Gertie, you know I’m not going to do that. I’ll get back on track.”
She drew a corner of her mouth up into a half-smile and nodded. “Sure you will. By the way, I just read in The Oregonian the other day that Portland has the hottest rental market in the U.S. Mendoza could probably quadruple his income at Caffeine Central. He’s not going to jack up your rent, is he?” A fifth-generation Oregonian, Gertie was skeptical of foreigners, particularly individuals coming from a communist country whose collusion with the Russians almost triggered World War III.
I laughed, hoping it didn’t sound forced. “Of course not. Nando wouldn’t do that.” But to myself I said, he wouldn’t, would he? I quelled that disquieting thought and changed the subject. “Speaking of money, I just heard about a screaming deal.” Her forehead wrinkled up at me. I had no standing with her when it came to money. “Uh, there’s an investment firm in Lake Oswego that’s offering six and half percent returns.”
Her look turned full-blown skeptical. “That’s a high return for this environment. Must be for the one percent.”
I nodded. “They buy debt cheap and collect on it.”
She scowled and shook her head. “You’re not think—”
“No. I wouldn’t touch it, even if I had the two hundred and fifty thousand minimum, which I don’t.”
“Good,” she said. “Those gains are tainted.” We finished up, and I watched as she strode up her south pasture with long, purposeful strides, her boots leaving heavy prints in the still green grass. Before she left, she promised me a blueberry pie from fruit she froze last summer. Gertie made her pies from scratch, and there simply wasn’t anything better. She must have felt sorry for me.
I walked back down through the vegetable garden, a fallow, weed-choked field now, and into the garage, gathered up a coil of heavy galvanized wire and a stout pair of wire cutters, and headed down to the south fence line. My arm wasn’t feeling much better, but I wanted to repair the hole cut in the fence by the intruder who poisoned Archie and attacked Winona. The fence was installed by the mining company that had extracted and crushed basalt from a deep seam running east to west below my property line. The seam was depleted years before I moved in, but the six-foot chain-link fence was still standing virtually good as new. The intruder had cut a three-foot vertical slice in the links and forced the two sides apart, creating just enough space for him to squeeze through. I imagined him doing that while Arch lay dying on the other side, and a fresh wave of anger washed over me.
When I tried to bend the two stiff sides back in place I nicked my hand. “Ouch. Should have worn gloves,” I said to Archie, who lay on the damp grass next to me with his ears down and his big, watchful eyes tracking my every move. I ran a finger lightly along the jagged tips of the severed wire. They were sharp as razors, their cut edges like shark’s teeth in a leering, vertical mouth. Archie got up, wagged his backside, and whimpered in sympathy. I wondered how much of his ordeal he remembered. By the look in his eyes, a lot, I decided.
I’d just finished bandaging my hand when my cell buzzed in my pocket. “Two hundred is not enough,” Nando said, as if we had never ended our previous conversation.
He was referring to the recalcitrant tattoo artist. “Okay. Double it. Anything beyond that, I’ll have to get the client to sign off.”
“I hope this tattooed lady is worth it,” he responded.
“You and me both.”
I had no sooner signed off with Nando than Archie announced a visitor. I went out the kitchen door and rounded the porch just as Candice was getting out of her Fiat. She looked none the worse for wear having spent an evening with Blake Daniels. Archie greeted her like a long-lost friend and, dropping to one knee, she reciprocated. I smiled at my dog’s behavior and knew instinctively that the two of them would get on.
After explaining my appearance once again, I invited her in and we sat down at the kitchen table. She wore a maroon visor, maroon and gold sweats with ASU emblazoned across the top and down the pant legs, and white tennis shoes. She smiled a bit sheepishly. “Pardon the outfit. I’ve been playing tennis in McMinnville. I play a guy every Saturday who played at the U of O. We make it a kind of Pac 12 rivalry thing.”
“Who won?”
She beamed a smile. “I did.”
I wasn’t surprised. She was tall and trim and moved with the fluid grace of a true athlete. “So, how did it go with Blake last night?”
The smile faded. “Oh, God. To think I was actually
interested in him. He can’t pass a mirror without stopping to admire himself, and he may own a winery, but he doesn’t particularly like wine. He drinks Scotch, lots of it.” The smile reappeared. “But he’s into me. He’s taking me to dinner tomorrow night at the Joel Palmer House.”
“Did you pick anything up?”
“Not yet, but I did learn he gets really talkative after he’s had two or three drinks. I brought up Lori early on, probably too early.” She laughed. “I told him you had the nerve to ask me where I was the night she was killed. Then I said, ‘Better watch out, he might ask you next,’ you know, as a joke. He laughed at that, but let it drop right there without another word.”
“Interesting, but, uh, that’s skating pretty close to the edge, don’t you think?”
She shook her head. “Nah, he bought it. What was even more interesting—after a couple of belts he started asking me questions about Truc.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Oh, he started out real general, you know, how’s it going over there? But he kept getting more and more specific about customers and sales, that sort of thing. I didn’t tell him anything that’s not already public information, but I have a feeling more questions are coming.” She laughed. “I finally had to start making out with him to shut him up.”
I groaned and fought back the image forming in my head. We talked some more, and when we finished up I shook my head and exhaled. “I still don’t like this, Candice. It’s too damn risky. You should stop right now.”
Her face hardened the way I imagined it looked when she was about to blow a ninety mile-an-hour serve by an opponent. “No way, Cal. I can handle this guy.”
To be honest, I went through the motions knowing she wouldn’t change her mind. Candice knew no fear, but that just meant she knew no fear within the universe she inhabited. I’d seen much, much more than her and knew there was plenty out there to be afraid of.
Blood for Wine Page 15
