I felt Cassady tense up. “That’s too much money.”
“Yeah, does seem a little excessive.”
“Halladay’s dirty. He’s buying your cooperation, just in case.”
“Or maybe it’s just really important to him not to be exposed. His incompetence in this instance is pretty shocking.”
“I hate to say it, but maybe you should give the money back.”
“I thought about it, but it’s not that easy.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Jade and Richie. They’re in real danger.”
“Can that danger reach us here?”
“Maybe.”
She raked her eyes across me and got out of bed. Naked, she crossed to the closet and pulled something off the upper shelf. I felt myself grow aroused again at the sight of her rippling dancer’s thighs and her trim curved ass, which tightened as she stood on tiptoe. She came back carrying two boxes. One held her 9 millimeter Beretta, double action, semi-automatic handgun and the other, her cleaning kit. She sat down cross-legged, pulled the sheet over her thighs and went to work, methodically disassembling the pistol. She ran the bore brush carefully through the breech end of the barrel, pulling it back with great care to avoid damaging the muzzle. After several passes, she dripped solvent onto a clean patch, wrapped it around a jag, and ran that through the barrel three times before extracting it. The gun hadn’t been cleaned in a long time and the patch came out fouled and black. She repeated the process with a clean patch. Better. Then a dry patch, which came out nearly spotless. Her lips, usually full and pliant, were set in a hard line. She cleaned the slide with a toothbrush and ran it along the frame grooves. Then she lubricated each piece separately and reassembled it. Her model takes a fourteen round clip, which she loaded with standard 9 millimeter, NATO shells. She flicked the safety to the ‘on’ position, and placed the gun back in its box. She returned the boxes to the closet and before getting into bed, very deliberately ran her oily fingers across her breasts ‘til they glistened. We made love, silently, with a ferocity that was frightening.
After we were finished, she licked my throat and whispered in my ear, “There’s one thing you can never forget.”
“What’s that, Baby?”
“My aim is true.” She chuckled, a throaty purr that reminded me of a sleek jungle feline, eyes on her young, ready to kill at the slightest sign of danger.
Chapter V – First Blood
In the morning, the northwest sky was almost black in contrast to the grey and brown to the south and east. The fires had precedence over all other news, and we sat glued to the TV. Maleah demanded to be driven to school so that she and her friends could have breakfast in the cafeteria. When I dropped her off, I gave her an especially big hug, which she accepted reluctantly. Friendly almost to a fault, she is not a touchy-feely person and has no use for constant physical contact. Our most intimate moments generally occur when watching horror flicks and children’s comedies together. She curls up next to me in the den, and we dwell there together in an almost perfect world.
Today, as she was about to get out of Cassady’s gold Altima, she stopped. “Dad, are we in danger from the fires?”
“Not here. Our town’s very protected.”
“That’s what I thought. Okay. Bye, Dad.”
She slung her shoulder bag over one shoulder and marched toward the cafeteria, not a tomboy, not a girly-girl either, in her jean jacket and straight-legged jeans. I felt a rush of love and intense protection, against the Arnold Clippers of the world.
On the way to East L.A., as Brad steered us through the morning traffic, I was struck by a sudden thought. “I forgot to tell you guys, but Arnold Clipper wears the most fucked-up, dirty and disgusting old Reeboks you can imagine.”
“Maybe he’s got a new pair.”
“Sure, maybe so, but people might recognize him based on the old pair. It was an obvious affectation. Didn’t match his smashing workout outfit.”
Brad nodded thoughtfully. “Bobby and I talked to a lot of people yesterday. Although nobody told us much, I had the feeling that a couple of people knew exactly who Arnold was, and maybe Richie too, for that matter.”
“How did Bobby do?”
“Fine. He looks like the ultimate rough trade masher.”
“Don’t tell him that. Might hurt his feelings.”
“He’s a good guy. Reminds me of some of the guys I met in rehab, except he seems more sincere. When I was in recovery, a lot of guys were still scamming; heavy persona, very little substance. I don’t think that’s the case with him.”
“Correct.”
“He told me something very interesting.”
“Yeah?”
“He said that what puts a guy with PTSD over the edge, is not getting shot at or living in constant fear, or sleeping in the jungle in a foxhole with centipedes crawling all over you. It’s not even necessarily seeing your friends killed.”
“What is it then?”
Brad glanced over at me. “Killing people. We’re not set up for that. God knows, we’re capable of a lot of raunchy shit, but killing people and being human don’t go together very well.”
He changed lanes, smoothly pulling in front of a Kenmore 18-wheeler. I thought about the two guys I’d shot. I was glad they’d both lived, even though they’d had it coming and the world was better off with them out of commission.
The first guy was a white meth head in Fontana. It was back in my early days before I had Audrey to tail the adulterers. I was sitting in my car. It was about 120 degrees, and I had the windows down. The husband was in Room 211 at the Easy Rest Motel, on the edge of town, getting nasty with a peroxide blonde. Suddenly this freak appears at my window, brandishing a stainless steel hunting knife. Tells me to give him my wallet, get out of my car and leave the keys in the ignition. I complied with all three requests and a fourth he hadn’t asked for. As he was getting in, his amped-out jaw twitching like a jackhammer mashing rivets, I shot him in the back of the leg with my .38. It was ruled self-defense on my part and the freak, who had a record, got 10 to 25 for attempted armed robbery, brandishing and carjacking. I remember my lawyer telling me that I was very lucky this happened in Fontana and not in a more liberal community. This was during the late ’80s when victims still had more rights than perps in some parts of California.
I felt sick for weeks, haunted by the thought that I didn’t have to shoot him; I could have just clubbed him with the gun. The people I talked to, though, including Tony, told me I’d done the right thing. Clubbing a guy is too risky. He might not go down and turn around and stab you.
The second time was one of those occasions you try to bury so deep you hope it never comes up. I’d been retained by a desperate mother to find her six-year old son, who had been kidnapped by her psycho ex-husband. Perp was running on empty, armed and dangerous. The police were in on this one, too, but I just happened to get there first, tracking him down in an apricot orchard, north of Corona. When I got there, he had his son tied to a tree with a gag in his mouth. He was digging a grave for his boy with a short-handled spade, with the intention of burying him alive, or so he claimed later. Maybe it was the sixth sense of the insane, but he realized I was coming up on him from the leeward side, my .45 leading the way. He went for his gun, which turned out to be a useless .25 piece of junk. I fired first, hit him in the shoulder and kept on squeezing. They don’t call ‘em semi-automatics for nothing; by the time I stopped, he was down and nearly out. One of the bullets had grazed his spine, and he’s now in a wheelchair doing life in Soledad. This time I was a hero, but the damage was done. For the next several years I avoided the violent cases, yet here I was seven years later, once again feeding at the trough of never ending violence.
Brad dropped me off at Leo’s Brake and Paint Shop. My Camry oozed forest green, and this was not the first time Leo had swapped colors to help me throw goons off my trail. When I got to Bobby’s, everybody was in the kitchen. Jade in baggy jeans and an oversiz
ed work shirt still looked utterly desirable. She was spooning pancake batter into an old cast iron frying pan while Bobby, who looked ten years younger, was pouring coffee. Brad, who is a good cook, was stirring scrambled eggs. For a split second I thought that maybe Jade had graced Bobby with the gift of her body. I dismissed the thought. What Bobby loves more than anything is the chance to be part of a family unit, real or imagined, and here he was, happy as a clam.
I was eager to get moving, but let them take their time and enjoy a leisurely breakfast. I sipped coffee and agonized over whether to send Bobby out in the field. If he stayed here with Jade, she would be protected but his talents would be otherwise wasted. I also wasn’t too keen on having Brad work alone. Careful by nature, he was nevertheless green. Bobby’s forbidding presence tends to protect everyone in his orbit.
Sometimes a coin flip is every bit as valuable as thinking things through. In the end, it was decided for me.
Bobby cocked a thumb toward Jade. “If I hang here with Beauty, I’m useless for anything else. I say we go out and Jade stays here, and keeps her eyes open. Anything looks fishy, she phones us pronto. We’ll trade phones. I take hers, she keeps mine. No reason to think mine is being monitored.” It sounded reasonable. For all his eccentricities, Bobby is one crafty dude. “And, we’ll turn on my electric fence.”
“It’s running?”
“Sure, I just don’t use it that often. I don’t like to shock people without probable cause.”
“What about the goats?” asked Jade.
“They know the rules. Venture too close to the perimeter, they get zapped.”
I gave Bobby and Brad each $1,000 and sent another $1,000 along for Audrey. “Spend it freely. You want to buy people drinks and get them talking.”
After they left, Bobby in his PT Cruiser and Brad in his Passat, I huddled with Jade. We spoke about how the alleged Fishburne was not tall and African-American like the real one; rather, he was short, pale and thin-faced, with slicked-back, straight black hair. The Forest Grove representative presiding at Cicero’s memorial service, William Jameson, was spare, elderly and smarmy. He had shaken hands with each guest, and Jade recalled his solemn diction and clammy palm.
Before leaving, Bobby had shown Jade how to turn on the electricity which was activated at the breaker box on the back porch.
I showed her my spare gun, a Glock 17. “You know how to use it?”
She took it from me, expertly ejected the clip, popped it back in, pulled back the slide ejecting the bullet and caught it with a smile.
“I’ll take that as ‘yes.’”
“You do that.”
I opened the front door. “Soon as I’m gone, turn on the juice.”
“It’s nice having some men around to take care of me.”
“No fear.”
As I drove toward Glendale, the smoke from the northwest seemed blacker and more ominous. A thin sun bled through the darkness and traffic was snarled. Finally, I turned off I-5 and took the back route past the warehouses on San Fernando Road.
Dr. Tarkanian’s office was located upstairs in a nondescript two-story building on Glendale Avenue, near Los Feliz. I drove around the block a few times and parked a few doors down. The wooden stairs leading up to his offices creaked, and the air smelled of smoke and the great unwashed. The waiting room was half-full of elderly Armenian ladies, wearing the traditional head scarf, and long dark skirts.
The young receptionist was hardly more than a teenager, but her dark eyes were laced with cunning. I showed her a business card, Law Offices of Brian Bellamy, LLP. Personal Injury and Accident.
“I would like to see the doctor.”
“Dr. Tarkanian is very busy.”
Blocking her from view of the waiting patients, I slid a Franklin across the counter. She snaked the hundred dollar bill without changing expression.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you.”
She disappeared through a doorway behind her, reappearing seconds later. “The doctor will see you in ten minutes.”
“Excellent.”
I sat down near the ladies, who were watching the daytime soaps, oblivious to my bribe. Five minutes later there was a newsbreak. The Malibu fire was threatening palatial hillside homes, and was expected to only get worse.
The receptionist ushered me into Tarkanian’s office. Sipping a Starbucks Latte, he had a refined, overly affected appearance.
“Dr. Tarkanian, I’m Brian Bellamy, Attorney at Law.” I gave him a vigorous handshake, which he met with a limp wrist, wincing only slightly. “I have a thriving personal injury practice, and used to do a lot of work with Dr. Rufenkchyan back before, you know---” I let my words trail off.
“I don’t know Dr. Rufenkchyan.”
“Really? It’s a damned shame what happened. We were settling four or five cases a month, real cases, and then he had to go and get greedy. There’s nothing more dangerous than providing unnecessary procedures. I don’t understand it. Why take the risk when there is so much legitimate work just staring you in the face?”
“Maybe he had financial problems,” said Dr. Tarkanian. His voice had that sonorous musical quality that is common among Armenian-Americans.
“He’s got more than financial problems now. He’s overseas and the Feds are looking for him. They’re like a contagious disease. Sooner or later you catch it, or rather in this case, they catch you.”
“Where did you get my name?”
“Joey Abouchian recommended I talk to you.”
He said nothing but his expression told me he was impressed. Joey is a legend among cappers.
“Joey’s my guy. He’s been working for me for three years now. Of course, as you know, he works for a lot of other attorneys too. No one guy can handle all of Joey’s business. So, here’s what I propose. You charge the standard rates and you don’t have to kick anything back to me, if we settle at least three cases a month.”
Tarkanian pursed his lips and thought it over. “I must say, that’s a reasonable offer. Let me sleep on it and talk to a few people, and I’ll get back to you in a day or two. Did you leave your card with my receptionist?”
“I did, but I really need an answer now. Joey’s brought in three new cases already this morning. One severe whiplash over in Burbank, broken ribs and a cracked fibula up in Pacoima, and a grade two concussion in North Hollywood. If I can‘t handle these he’ll just take them elsewhere.”
“I’m sorry,” he replied firmly, “but I don’t make snap decisions.”
I shrugged, reached into the manila envelope Halladay had given me, and took out Cicero’s death certificate. I shoved it across his desk. “Perhaps this will help you make up your mind.”
When he saw the certificate, he blanched. Not just a nervous start or a look of concern, but rather the paling of a man who‘s just seen a ghost.
“Just what the fuck is going on, Tarkanian? Level with me, or I’m gonna arrest you.”
“What?”
“You ever been to Men’s Central? You know what they do to people like you there? They cut your balls off and stuff them down your throat till you choke to death.”
He tried to stand, but his legs had turned to jelly. He collapsed back into his chair. “Show me your badge,” he said weakly, his breathing suddenly labored.
“I don’t have a badge, but I’ve got a goddamned license. I’m a private investigator. I carry a pistol, two, actually, and I’m going to make a citizen’s arrest and haul you down to the station.”
He shook his head and stared down at his lab coat. “What do you want me to tell you?”
“The truth.”
“All right. But if I do you have to promise to leave me alone.”
“You don’t get to make demands, but if you level with me, I’ll get amnesia.”
He nodded and paused to gather himself. “On the evening of August 16th, I got a call from Mrs. Lamont. She was frantic and asked me to come over immediately. I’d been caring
for her husband for several years. He’d had four angioplasties, and had serious atherosclerosis. I called an ambulance and drove over and by the time I got there, he was in cardiac arrest. Massive myocardial infarction. I couldn’t save him.” He shook his head sadly.
“Good story,” I said mildly. “Only one problem; they were separated and Mrs. Lamont was already living in San Francisco on August 16th.”
Tarkanian wilted. It was as if I’d wrapped a noose around his neck and he was dangling over the trapdoor. Just to ease his decision, I extracted my Colt Commander, and idly pulled back the slide. Terror replaced fear and sweat leaked out of every pore. His whole body was shaking.
“I never saw the body. I just got the information from a man who said his name was Borders, Thomas Borders. I filled out the certificate and he gave me some cash.”
“How much?”
“$5,000.”
“You work cheap. What did Mr. Borders look like?”
“Not too tall, thin face, dark hair combed back, a little rough around the edges.”
‘Fishburne.’ I glared at the good doctor. “Are you in the habit of filling out death certificates without even seeing the body?”
He shook his head. “Would you please put that gun away?”
I put the safety on and placed it back in my belt. “You’re an idiot. For 5 grand, you could be indicted for conspiracy, mail fraud, making a false statement, and money laundering. In short, you’re looking at many long years at Club Fed which, while certainly not as unpleasant as Men’s Central, is probably not the place you’d choose to spend your golden years. Now, suppose you start by telling me how much you were really paid.”
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