“Fuck you, man. I ain’t your maid,” growled Flaco.
“You made the mess, you clean it up.”
“No.”
“Or I can let Bobby here finish what he’s itching to do.”
They looked at the M14 in his paws, slowly got to their feet and started to clean up the broken glass and wood.
“What do you think?” I asked Bobby quietly.
“As I see it, you’ve got two choices; bury ‘em, or turn ‘em in.”
“No. I mean what he said about Cicero.”
Bobby shrugged. “I dunno, bro. It’s kind’a weird.”
The uncanny revelation was crawling through my mind. I took a breath and said quietly, “If I’m right, Clipper killed Cicero because they were lovers, and then for whatever reason, Cicero wanted to break it off. I guess Arnold didn’t like the rejection.”
“What?”
“So the ultimate ‘fuck you’ to Cicero was for him to get close to his son, Richie.”
“Bro, that’s too fuckin’ dark.”
“Yeah, but everything we’ve heard about Clipper is that he’s in love with Richie, so it sort of makes sense.”
“Jade, she can’t ever know that.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I agree and if Halladay’s using Clipper to get to the trust, popping Richie’s the only way to do it, which Clipper won’t let him do. He could, I guess, get him to sign it over, but as that would also hurt Richie, again I can’t see Clipper allowing that.”
“What I don’t get is why stage the hit-and-run on Cicero?”
“I dunno either.”
Bobby said, “If you’re gonna disappear someone, you just do it. Either way, according to those two clowns, Cicero’s dead. How he died doesn’t really matter.”
“Yeah, but I’m missing the bigger picture here and have no idea what it is.”
“We need another bag.”
I looked at Gordo. “What?”
“This one’s full,” he replied.
“I’ll get it,” said Bobby.
He went into the kitchen, retrieved a new bag and handed it to them. He placed his M14 by the now missing French doors, grabbed the full one and placed it outside. They continued to clean up the last pieces of wood and glass.
Bobby reappeared, picked up his rifle and came over to me. “So what’re you gonna do?”
I shrugged. “Halladay wants the money. I get that. What I don’t understand is what Clipper wants.”
“He’s a psycho. Who the hell knows or cares what his motive is?”
“I do, ‘cause it’s the key to this whole situation.”
They had done a good job and were sweeping up the dusty remains.
I studied them and switched my pistol to the other hand. “Who cut the actor’s head off?”
Flaco glanced at Gordo, frowned and replied, “How’re we supposed to know?”
“‘Cause I have an eyewitness that’ll testify that you two, along with Clipper, dumped the body.
Fatso took an aggressive step forward, blocking the skinny biker from view. “Yeah, cabron? Then you better--”
The crack of pistol fire at close range is all I heard as the bullets from Flaco’s hidden .32 seared past my head. In times of extreme stress, everything can seem as if it’s happening in blurred slow motion. Bobby and I fired simultaneously, our bullets slammed into them, spraying blood and gore up the wall. His M14 had almost cut them in half. We stood there, our ears ringing. The stench of cordite, blood and piss filling the air. I lowered my gun and looked at Bobby. He went over and nudged the bodies with his boot.
“Dead and gone.”
The weight of what had just happened was beginning to press in on me. “Jesus Christ.”
“What d’you wanna do, Nick?”
“Do?” I replied. My voice sounding strange, thin, distant.
Bobby came over and took the nine millie out of my hand. “Bro, get a grip.”
I looked at the blood and bits of tattooed flesh slowly dripping off the mantelpiece, the spray pattern across the wall. I desperately wanted to feel something, anything, but all I felt was numb.
He said quietly, “We call this in, the cops’ll be all over us like flies on shit. We’ll beat it; I mean it’s clearly self-defense, but who knows how long they’ll detain us. Clipper’ll be alerted. So will Halladay. But the real problem is that Jade and Richie’ll be vulnerable, and fuck knows what’ll happen to ‘em.”
He was right and we both knew it. The desire to protect them was overwhelming, even though it could cost me my liberty. “I guess we have to bury these bastards.”
He looked at them with utter contempt and shook his head. “Fuck ‘em. They were gonna kill us.”
I shrugged. “So what do we do?”
“I have a compadre who runs a hog farm.”
“Oh, man, I dunno.”
“Why not? Hogs gotta eat too.”
I realized I’d been holding my breath and let it out. “No, that’s just wrong.”
“Are you high?”
“No, but I could a use a few shots’a bourbon.”
“We’ll do that after we dump the guns and feed the porkers.”
I hesitated and Bobby grew anxious. “Make your mind up, bro. We don’t have time for any weak shit.”
Even though it felt wrong, I knew that he was right. “I’ll get the body bags.” Years ago when we were first becoming pals, Tony Bott gave me half-a-dozen body bags as a gag. Figuring you never know, I’d always held onto them, hiding them up in the garage where Cassady wasn’t likely to spot them.
When I came back in with two bags, Bobby was pulling a pair of rubber utility gloves over his massive hands and stuffed what remained of the bikers into the bags. I sliced open several black garbage bags and taped them over the entrance where the French doors used to be. Next, we wiped up all the blood, shoving the blood-stained rags into one of the bags. We washed the wall and floor with a mixture of hot water, bleach and disinfectant. It wouldn’t stand up to a UV blood scan, but on first blush it would pass. I retrieved the Yukon from around the corner and backed it up to the garage. We piled in the body bags and dismantled their guns, putting them in an old shoebox. Before we took off, Bobby stashed his M14 up in the attic. Cops take a real dim view of fully automatic guns, particularly when they’re fitted with a silencer. They’re not fond of bodies full of bullet holes in body bags either, but if our luck held, that would be only a passing concern.
As Bobby drove, I looked at myself in the side mirror. My left eye was nearly closed and there was a bruise extending from it clear to my chin. It was painful, but fortunately, nothing seemed to be broken, and I could still see after a fashion.
Bobby wore a more relaxed version of his 1000 yard stare, and was silent as we cruised at a smooth 60, heading north on the 605 freeway. I was still trying to get my head around how we were about to dispose of the bodies, and was grateful for the silence, no matter how brooding. I got a chill as we passed the Santa Fe Dam recreation area; the geography was like some strange lunar landscape. The earth is gashed by a series of stone quarries and heavy equipment lines both sides of the highway. Huge power poles stand guard over the terrain, with random billboards advertising graveyards and cancer cures. In the distance, the stone mountains shimmer.
We rolled east onto the old Route 66 and after another few miles, turned north on a soothingly deserted Route 39. This is the only access road leading to Morris Reservoir and a couple of miles further on, our destination, the San Gabriel Reservoir. As we climbed into the foothills, the smoke seemed to have dissipated, and the snow shimmered on the distant mountains. It was nearly 5:00 and the quarry was completely deserted when we pulled off the road. We parked in front of the locked chain link gate and got out of the Yukon, stashed our guns, and clambered over the gate. The smell of oil lingered in the air as we passed a bulldozer and stacks of sawhorses.
“My old man used to be into these machines,” said Bobby, pointing at the bulldozer. “Big gravel indust
ry outside of Mobile.”
“I never knew that.”
“I never told you.”
We worked our way around the perimeter, taking a trail that overlooked the deepest part of the reservoir. When we reached the top, half-shielded from the road by scrub oak, we stood gazing down into the water, a good 200 feet below. I opened the shoebox and we each grabbed pieces of the dismantled guns and threw them are far we could, watching as they hit the surface before sinking to the bottom.
Back on the road, on the way to the pig farm, we were both silent. The traffic was light to non-existent and we made good time, finally pulling onto a hidden driveway that led to Bobby’s friend’s spread. We stopped in front of the main house, a run-down affair made of quarry stone. The stench from the pigs was overpowering, but not as bad as their constant squealing.
Bobby was scanning the area. “Stay in the car ‘til I’ve spoken to Porky.”
“Porky?”
Bobby looked at me. “What?”
“That’s his name?”
“Yeah.”
“And he runs a pig farm.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Nada. Just kind’a weird, that’s all.”
Bobby shrugged. “Okay and, like I said, stay in the car ‘til I give you the word. Porky gets real touchy about strangers.”
I nodded and he got out. As he headed for the main house, a huge mountain man, complete with a shock of red hair and ZZ Top beard, wearing bib-and-brace overalls and carrying a 12 gauge pump, exited the front door. Bobby stopped and waited for Porky, who was now accompanied by three pissed off looking dogs of indeterminate breed and lineage. They greeted each other like long lost comrades and walked over to the Yukon.
“Nick, this is Porky.”
His huge shovel of a hand wrapped itself around mine and felt like a steel press as he squeezed the blood out of it.
“Wha’sup, bro?” asked Porky, all smiles, not many teeth, more or less Bobby’s age.
“I’ve been better.”
“Heard that.”
He released my hand and I rubbed it, waiting for the feeling to return. As I climbed out of the truck and joined them, the dogs eyed me suspiciously, but refrained from ripping my throat out.
“You want the bags in the pen?” asked Bobby.
“Yeah.”
I unlocked the back of the Yukon and we grabbed the body bags and carried them over to the nearest pigpen. Inside, the smell was even more rancid and the pigs, perhaps sensing that it might be feeding time, squealed eagerly.
“Here’s good,” smiled Porky.
We dropped the bags, opened them and his smile evaporated.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He ignored me and turned to Bobby. “You didn’t tell me they was Los Muertos.”
“So what if they are?”
“It’s a problem.”
“Why?”
“If they ever find out I disposed of some of their crew, they’ll feed me to my own hogs.”
“But how would they know?” I asked.
“‘Cause I did some work for ‘em yesterday.”
Bobby shrugged. “So what?”
“So they could show up anytime with more business for me.”
“Then you best get to it, bro.”
“I can’t, man, too risky.”
Bobby frowned, his growing irritation clear to anyone who wasn’t blind. I wondered how well this hog farmer knew him.
“I’ll double your normal price.” Porky looked at me, clearly swayed. “How much?”
“Twenty.”
“Done.”
Bobby was now glaring at him, his muscles coiled and ready.
“You have it with you?”
“I’ve gotta go to the bank, so tomorrow.”
“Then bring the garbage when you come back.”
“But we can’t drive around with that in the truck.”
“Not my problem.”
Bobby bit the inside of his cheek, and spat out blood. “Nick, wait in the car.”
I knew that look and the tone in his voice all too well. I headed for the door.
Suddenly Porky looked scared. “Relax, bro, I’ll do it.”
“You sure?” growled Bobby quietly, looking like a mountain lion, ready to pounce and rip him to shreds.
“Yeah. Did you remove the teeth?”
“For twenty large, you fuckin’ do it.”
“Okay, yeah, sure. No problem.”
Bobby stomped past me and got in the truck. I gave Porky a small wave without really looking at him and got in next to him. We drove off in silence.
Chapter V – Jailhouse Rock
One block from Bobby’s house, four black-and-whites closed in from all directions.
“What the hell?” I said as Bobby pulled over and cut the engine.
Officer Jansen climbed out of the cruiser that was across our bow, swaggered over to my side and smirked. “Out.”
All my favorite officers were there: Sanchez, Tomito, Jansen, Detective Karsagian, and a host of others.
I grinned. “Nice to see you all again.”
“You’re an asshole,” said Jansen.
Bobby and I got out and they cuffed and searched us. “I guess you’re not so smart after all,” said Karsagian.
I shrugged. “I have my moments and this ain’t yours.”
The cop searching me found my .45 and looked at it appreciatively. “Dirty Harry, huh?”
I ignored him and said to Karsagian, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You’re under arrest for the murder of Doctor Tarkanian.”
Bobby and I looked at each other and grinned.
“What’s so funny, dick?” hissed Officer Sanchez.
“You gonna read us rights or not?”
“Put ‘em in a car and let’s go,” snarled Karsagian.
This time there was no unnecessary roughness, as they ushered us to the back seats of two separate cruisers.
Once again I had Officer Sanchez riding beside me. “You look like shit, Crane.”
“Everybody’s a comedian.”
“Only you won’t be laughing very much longer.”
I ignored him and addressed Karsagian who was riding shotgun. “When was he killed?”
“Late Friday night.”
“Wasn’t me.”
“Got an alibi, I suppose?”
“Ironclad.”
He frowned and I knew it was pointless to tell him I was in San Francisco. He was intent on seeing this through and I had no choice but to let him make his pitch. My time would come.
“How’d he die?”
“Don’t play games with me.”
“Indulge me, please.”
“You don’t remember burning his face off with a blowtorch?”
I clammed up as we were transported to the Parker Center at 1st and Los Angeles Street, just around the corner from the Roybal Federal Courthouse. The Center is a nine story glass-and-concrete structure built in the nondescript style of the 50’s. It appeared frequently on the late ‘60’s version of Dragnet, and is where they house the newly arrested until they’re either released, or arraigned and transferred to L.A. Men’s Central.
In this case, however, they didn’t take us inside immediately. Instead, I was escorted to the car holding Bobby. Officer Sanchez shoved me inside and we were left alone. It was after six with just a hint of lingering smoke in the dusty air.
This is an old police trick, leaving two suspects together in a patrol car with a live microphone in the hope they’ll make incriminating remarks. Bobby and I were hip to their game and sat there in silence. I dozed off, falling into a half-lucid dream state. Bloody limbs, eyeless decapitated heads, smoke and gunfire, cops and hogs side-by-side munching on body parts. I woke up shuddering, drenched in sweat. Bobby was sound asleep.
I tried to slow my breathing. My wife and daughter materialized in my mind’s eye and then they were gone. I missed them terribly and suddenly felt emotio
n sweeping over me. I pushed it to one side and replayed the scene in Dr. Tarkanian’s office. He’d been shifty and thoroughly corrupt. Still, his sins didn’t seem of a magnitude to justify murder. I had the feeling that this time it was purely Tom and Ernie; Arnold had given the order but had not even bothered to attend. This murder had obviously occurred sometime before Gordo and Flaco jacked us at my house. When I’d been questioned downtown on Thursday afternoon, I told Detective Karsagian what I knew about Tom and Ernie. Jade had done the same when she and Bobby had met the cops at the Croatian church in East L.A. At that time, I’d had no more sense of how to find them than the police did. The key thing I’d held back was that Tarkanian had been scheduled to meet with Tom or Ernie at the McDonald’s on 3rd Street, to receive the last $5,000. Since the Egyptian taxi driver had showed up instead, our anticipated straight path to Arnold had gone up in smoke.
Bobby finally woke up, looked at me and blinked rapidly several times.
“Man, I could do with some chow.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Maybe these pigs’ll get us a bacon sandwich?”
“I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
He grinned and made obnoxious oinking sounds.
I knew exactly what he was referring to and shook my head. I was about to respond when Officers Tomito and Sanchez opened the back doors.
“Out,” said the latter.
We climbed out and they started to lead us toward the entrance.
“Any chance of some In-N-Out?”
“Shut up, Crane,” hissed Sanchez.
“What about a Starbucks latte and a blueberry muffin?”
Sanchez stopped, spun around and yanked down hard on my cuffs, causing me intense pain. “Open your fucking mouth again, and I’ll burn your goddamn eyes out,” he snarled, placing his hand on the can of mace on his belt.
We locked eyes. “Take my cuffs off and give it a shot.”
His lips curled back like an angry dog as he pulled out the mace. Officer Tomito got in between us.
“Relax, Sanchez.”
“Get outta the way!”
Detective Karsagian came out of the lobby. “Sanchez!” The cop let me go and turned to the detective. “Escort the prisoners inside. Now!”
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