by Fante, Dan
I was making progress.
I HAD NO intention of going back to my apartment. It was hot there and I wouldn’t go back at all if I could help it.
Back in Woody’s car, I drove the two miles along Pacific to the ramp at Santa Monica Pier, then took it down the hill to the ocean. Once on the Coast Highway, I headed north.
Fifteen minutes later I was in the La Costa area of Malibu, where a steep hillside of three-million-dollar homes meets the coastline.
I pulled up in front of a tourist-type shop, just south of the old Malibu Sheriff’s Station.
I got out and locked Woody’s Honda.
Inside the shop, along with T-shirts and souvenir key chains, Malibu calendars, swim fins, and Styrofoam surfboards, I found what I was looking for: a prepaid cell phone with a thousand minutes of talk time. I paid cash for the phone. I was now further off the radar.
HEADING NORTH AGAIN toward Point Dume, the traffic was moving easily. Twenty minutes later, when I got to the back gate of Mom’s house, I parked fifty feet away on the street outside her wall, under a row of her tall fern trees.
This was not a social visit. I quietly unlatched her back gate, then walked quickly across the paved carport to her open garage.
Once inside I went directly to Jimmy Fiorella’s old freestanding metal cabinet that had been kept in the garage for years. It contained personal junk. Athletic stuff mostly. His three sets of golf clubs, the baseball bats and gloves I had used as a kid, and an old cracked and worn leather jacket Pop had worn years before when he hiked the cliffs of Point Dume in the wintertime.
On the only shelf were two of his old, broken typewriters and a thick canvas bag tied shut with a long strip of rawhide. I was in luck. It was still there!
Pulling the bag down I untied the leather strapping, wiped off the dust, then opened the box. The gun inside was a wooden-cased .44 caliber 1851 Army Colt. A presentation piece. Pop had won it in a poker game many years before from a neighborhood bulldozer driver and had promised to pass it on to me when I was still a teenager. He had taken the gun in lieu of a three-hundred-dollar debt. His bulldozer gambling buddy had never come back for it.
I had come to have a decent knowledge of guns over the last several years and was sure the old Colt was worth considerably more in today’s market—enough to maybe purchase the kind of gun I needed and maybe enough to spare to keep me going until I found out who had killed my friend, then evened the score.
I retied the rawhide around the canvas bag, then started walking to the back gate.
Halfway through the gate I stopped, realizing I wanted to check in on Mom. We’d been having a rough time these last few weeks.
I stowed the Colt in the canvas bag in Woody’s trunk and headed back through the gate to Mom’s kitchen door, then knocked.
Coco let me in, smiling. “James,” she chimed, “always good to see you. Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” I said, hugging her. “How’s the old girl?”
“She’s her usual self, James, working on a new chart; in good form, except of course concerning her blood pressure. Please come in and say hi.”
When I reached the patio Mom looked up. I walked over and gave her a kiss. “Whatcha workin’ on, Ma?”
She smiled up at me, then began flipping some pages. “Oh, I just started doing this man’s chart today,” she said. “He’s one of the richest men in the film business in Los Angeles and, according to this, anyway, he’s easily among the most strange.”
I looked down at the printed and graphed white sheets in front of my mom. “Did you get him from your ad in Malibu magazine? Those clients usually pay you pretty well.”
“I think so, but I’m actually not sure. His secretary telephoned, then put me on hold. It took my client five minutes to finally come on the line. He never told me how he’d found out about my work. But I am pleased to say I’m being compensated handsomely. By the way, James, did you hear about the two foreign girls who went missing at the beach near Paradise Cove? The paper said they were from Guatemala. They were nannies for a rich couple. It’s quite odd.”
“Yeah, I did. I heard about it at the noon AA meeting. Any news about what happened to them?”
No. They’ve apparently disappeared and no one seems to know why. We live in unusual times. Even a place like Point Dume isn’t safe anymore.”
“So fill me in on this strange new client, Ma.”
“Well, he has one of the most unusual natal charts I’ve ever come across. It’s a bit bizarre, actually.”
“No kidding. Who is he? What’s he like?”
“No names. Remember, he’s a client. But I can tell you this: his natal Pluto is in the eighth house, squaring Venus. It’s very odd. Violence and sexual obsession.”
I rolled my eyes. “Geez, Mom, right here in Malibu? On stable, conservative Point Dume? First the Guatemalan nannies and now your weird new client.”
“You have a tendency to trivialize what you don’t understand, James. It’s not your most endearing personality trait. In fact the earth—all of us—are undergoing a major transition cycle.”
“More Mercury retrograde, right?”
“It’s rather more complex than that. In fact many in my field see it as a day of reckoning, the possibility of impending transformation.”
Mom took off her glasses and stared up at me as if expecting bad news. “So, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company today? Dare I inquire into your financial situation?”
“I wanted to say hi is all, Ma. I was out this way so I decided to drop by.”
“Very thoughtful, James. Thank you. Please sit down with us and have a cup of tea. Would you like a sandwich? How about some pie? Coco made a nice mince. I know you like mince pie. I can put this chart aside. It’s not pressing and not due for another week.”
“Sure, Ma,” I said. “Pie and coffee sounds good.”
ON MY DRIVE back toward Santa Monica I let my mind go back over what I knew—the swirl of disconnected crap that had invaded my life over the last half month.
1. Over two weeks ago I’d chased down a crazy woman (impersonating a man) in a yellow Porsche convertible on my way home from a job interview. Then, after that, I had caught up to her at Guido’s Restaurant and evened things up. The woman had threatened me with death.
2. Three days later my mother’s car had been torched down the street from Sherman Toyota. Perp still unknown.
3. My biggest sale at the car dealership had turned out to be a scam—identity theft. My commission was lost.
4. I’d found my friend’s mangled and tortured body.
5. I was suddenly fired from my job for not divulging information the car dealer should not have had access to.
6. I’d met Vikki and begun an affair, for better or worse.
The swirl of sudden complications could not all have been coincidence. I didn’t believe in coincidence. Somehow I’d made it to the top of someone’s shit list. The question was who and how.
WHEN I REACHED the Cross Creek shopping center I turned left at the light. My job now was to find out if there was a potential link between the crazy girl in the Porsche and the other stuff. I needed to get as much information as I could about the incident on the Coast Highway and the confrontation with the woman at Guido’s Restaurant.
After parking Woody’s Honda, I approached the two red-jacketed valet-parking guys, who appeared to be ready to change shifts.
Fishing in my pocket I came up with a ten-dollar bill.
“Hey,” I said to the good-looking blond surfer type, whose nametag read “Tim,” “I could use your help.”
Tim smiled. “Sooo . . . what’s up? You a cop?”
“Cops don’t hand out money, Timster,” I said holding up the folded bill but making sure the number ten on it was covered by my thumb.
“Okay, so whose chimp do I have
to screw while you film me? Ha ha.”
“I’m doing backup work on an investigation. A couple of weeks ago a yellow Porsche got vandalized here on your lot. I need some details about the Porsche and the driver. Can you help me out?”
Tim looked at the folded bill in my hand. “Sure, I guess so. I remember filling out the insurance papers with the other guys who came out from town. I’m pretty sure I’ve still got my copy in my truck.” He pointed. “Over there. You from the insurance too?”
“I’m following up,” I said. “Double-checking the details.”
We walked to Tim’s yellow truck, which had a surfboard rack in the bed. He chirped the driver’s door open. After fishing around in a plastic file box on the floorboard, he came up with a duplicate yellow form. He handed it to me. “There ya go,” he said. “Now, I’ll take my money.”
“Thanks,” I said, handing him the bill. “Do you need the form back?”
Tim unfolded the bill, then sneered. “Geez, pal, you’re quite the big spender. A guy can’t take a leak in this town for ten bucks.”
“Sorry. Next time I’ll bring the gold watch.”
“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, they said that the car insurance is gonna take care of the damage, so the restaurant skated and no one blamed us. So, you know, no biggie.”
Opening the yellow insurance form I read down the checked boxes. The policy number was there but the Porsche owner’s name was nowhere on it.
“What we have is a zero here, Tim. There’s no plate number. I need to confirm the owner’s information. How about the tow truck? The car was towed. Who did the owner call? Or did you call the truck yourself?”
“Auto Club, as far as I know,” says Tim.
“Well,” I said back, writing the information down, “that’s a beginning. I can start there.”
“Did you need the name of the driver?”
I scratched my head. “That’s why I’m here, Timster. I did say ‘owner’s information,’ didn’t I? I sorta thought you’d put that together on your own.”
“Hey, sorry. Ha ha. Well, okay, the car belongs to that producer guy, Karl Swan. His daughter Sydnye was driving it that day. They live on Point Dume. The big mansion with the gate on Grey Fox.”
“That’s what I’d call helpful, Tim.”
“She never smiles. She’s been here quite a few times. And she tips like for shit, too. Mikee helped her for an hour and a half that day. Made calls for her, got her two cold glasses of water—and guess what Mikee gets for his trouble?”
“What did Mikee get, Tim?”
“Zippo! Not even a friggin’ thank you.”
Back in Woody’s Honda I now had what I needed. I started the engine. “Bingo!” I said out loud.
IN SANTA MONICA, at Ace Loans Pawn Shop on Lincoln Boulevard, I parked at a meter, then used my fake Handicapped placard to avoid dropping quarters into the meter. I stuffed my snub-nose under the front seat, then went inside with my dad’s Colt in the canvas bag under my arm.
The store had strong overhead fluorescent lights fastened to the high ceiling by long chains. It was empty of customers but packed floor to ceiling with pawned junk.
The guy behind the counter was on the phone. I looked around for a few minutes at the watches and jewelry and knives in the showcases until he’d hung up, then I took the boxed Colt out of its canvas bag and set the box on the counter between me and the uncle who wore rimless glasses balanced on his forehead.
“I want to sell this gun,” I said.
The middle-aged unsmiling guy reached under the counter and pulled out a rubber-tipped kind of screwdriver. He flipped his specs down onto his nose, then opened the case that held the gun, using this tool to prevent scratching the antique finish of the box.
Then he put on a pair of rubber gloves. Clearly, this uncle knew antique guns.
He carefully picked up the Colt with one finger on the barrel tip and the other on the heel of the wooden butt, making sure to not touch the steel finish of the single-action revolver.
Next, he tested the hammer and cylinder several times, making sure the action of the gun was in good working order. Then he rotated the cylinder and looked in each chamber. The whole procedure took a couple of minutes.
Finally, he unfolded the presentation document that came with the gun. He held it up to the light, read it, then examined the print and paper with a magnifying glass, then slid it back into the envelope.
“Nice gun,” Captain Humorless finally grunted. “An original cased Colt in decent condition with a presentation letter. How much do you want for it?”
“Make me an offer.”
“Where did you get this gun?”
“It’s been in my family for years. On a shelf in our garage. Are you the Ace of Ace Loans? Are you the owner?”
“I am now,” Stoneface replied without looking up.
“I used to come here with my dad when I was a kid,” I said. “He bought sets of used golf clubs from you guys. We’re longtime customers in this store. I’m hoping I’ll get a fair shake from you, price-wise.”
“We always make a fair price, sir.”
“There used to be an older guy running the shop. He was . . . nice.”
Uncle finally looked up and our eyes met. “My father started this business in 1955. We’ve been in the area since then.”
The guy then pulled a stack of reference books out from under the counter and began cross-referencing the gun. “I’d like to see some ID, please.”
I handed him my California driver’s license.
He checked the license under a blue light, then looked on the back, saw the restriction, then glanced up at me.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Just checking,” he said.
Finally, he handed the license back, then eyed me carefully again for a couple of seconds. “Look,” he said, “this is a collector’s piece—especially with the documentation. I won’t loan you money on the item but I will buy it from you.”
“How much?”
He opened another book then looked the gun up a second time.
“Cased Colt. In fair-to-good condition with a presentation letter. And you’re a return customer. We value return business.”
“How much, pal?”
“Sixty-three hundred dollars. It’s worth more to a collector, maybe significantly more, but I’ll have to list it in the magazines and take offers over the Internet. That all takes time.”
I was shocked—and pleased as hell. The heavy old gun had been in Jimmy Fiorella’s corroding metal cabinet for almost a generation. I hadn’t had time to look up its value in the online collector’s guide but I knew that with the letter it might be valuable. I just hadn’t realized how valuable.
“Okay,” I said, trying to keep a poker face, “make it seven grand and you’ve got a deal. Cash.”
“Cash? Of course, cash.”
“Seven thousand.”
“Sixty-three hundred, sir.”
“C’mon—make it sixty-five.”
“Sixty-three hundred, sir. I’m allowing two hundred more in my offer because you are a return customer. We appreciate client loyalty in this store.”
“Okay, I’ll take it. And you’ve got a six-inch folding knife with carved ivory grips in that case over there. How about throwing that in too?”
He smiled for the first time. “Sure, I can do that. That’s an excellent knife. It was custom made. Are you a hunter?”
“You could say that. I’m after a pig.”
SEVENTEEN
On my way toward the 405 Freeway, with a roll of cash in my pants, I had the feeling I was now making progress. My ace in the hole had been Jimmy Fiorella’s old Colt. Now I could afford what I needed: the samples research and the computer work. And the clean SIG or Glock I wanted to buy would be expensive, but was the right tool
to get the job done. I’d hopefully have enough money left over to carry me for the next couple of weeks.
I’d tried Carr’s number on my throwaway cell as I was getting off the 10 Freeway to the 405 leaving Santa Monica, hoping for some kind of update on my computer trace request and to confirm a meeting with Mendoza and get his exact address. My call went to voice mail. In my message I told Carr to use my new phone number.
Per usual, it took less than five minutes for Carr to call back. The Mendoza thing was on. According to Carr, the guy was a retired highway patrol cop and dealt guns as a high-priced sideline. Carr had never met Mendoza but had worked with him for the last few years on trade-offs and security and off-the-books private West Coast arms deals. I jotted down the address and directions as I drove.
FORTY MINUTES LATER I was in Canyon Country. Mendoza’s house was in a recent desert development that, like many California housing tracts these days, was dotted with For Sale By Bank signs on the lawns. It was a mile from the freeway.
I’d been running Woody’s A/C for the last half hour and was slammed by the outside temperature when I opened the car door. Easily a hundred degrees. Brutal.
Retired cops and city workers had colonized this haven for snakes and cactus and gila monsters over the last twenty-five years, seeking affordable new homes for their families. Their reward was a daily two-hour commute each way on the 405 Freeway back to L.A. at gas prices that had doubled over the last five years, while their home equity went into the tank. The bumper-to-bumper traffic to and from Los Angeles was only part of the price of relocated rural happiness. The big bonus for these rednecks was moving into the mostly white, working-class neighborhoods and a potential lifetime NRA membership. The folks in Canyon Country were armed and ready.
IN MENDOZA’S DRIVEWAY were two cars. One was a tricked-out off-road Jeep with roll bars, big tires, and a lift kit. Parked behind it was a late model black Lincoln Navigator SUV. Above the garage door, attached to the red brick facade, was a bleached white steer’s skull complete with horns. It had a bullet hole between the eyes. There was a small row of windows on the garage door itself. They were blacked out by curtains or paint. My bet was that Mendoza did his gun business out of his garage. This ex-cop apparently was not a particularly careful man. But hey, this was retired cop country, and one shield protected the other.
