Fangs Out

by David Freed

  “I have no idea what you just said, but I do have a suggestion.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I think we should just sleep together. See how those coping mechanisms work.”

  “I’m dealing with someone who’s still clearly in junior high.”

  “Ah, yes, the old junior high scenario. OK,” I said, “you be the viceprincipal and I’ll play the unruly student who gets sent to your office in need of some serious discipline. It could be wildly entertaining.”

  I waited for her to laugh. I might’ve even settled on a polite chuckle, but there was only silence.

  “I just need a little time to synthesize things in my head, that’s all,” she said after a long moment.

  At that moment, part of me wanted to fire a Sidewinder missile into whatever remained salvageable between us, to say something irretrievably hurtful and blow up the whole ugly mess, so that we would both have reason to walk away for good. The other part, arguably the better part, realized that when it came to my ex-wife, I was incapable of pulling that emotional pin, and probably always would be.

  “If you want to retreat to neutral corners,” I said, “so be it.”

  “I’ll call you, Logan.”

  “You do that, Savannah.”

  Click.

  Something churned up bitter and hot from under my sternum and burned the back of my throat. I swallowed it down and started through the backyard, toward my truck, which was parked out on the street.

  “Bubeleh!”

  Mrs. Schmulowitz was sitting at her kitchen table, wearing her big round Liza Minnelli reading glasses, motioning me excitedly through the window to join her.

  “I have something unbelievably exciting to tell you,” she said as I walked in.

  “You found Kiddiot?”

  “Not yet.”

  I didn’t mask my worry well.

  “He’ll turn up. You’ll see. I’ll make a nice brisket. That always gets him.”

  “It always gets me.”

  “So tell me something I don’t know.”

  Her table was littered with color brochures from various cosmetic surgeons featuring photos of their handiwork—smiling young women in bikinis with radiant faces and flawless bodies. Rancho Bonita was loaded with them.

  “So what’s the exciting thing you had to tell me, Mrs. Schmulowitz?”

  She beamed. “I’m getting a tummy tuck!”

  “Women your age don’t get their tummies tucked, Mrs. Schmulowitz. They get hip replacements and the senior discount at Denny’s.”

  “Is that so? Well, how many women my age can do this?” She pushed back from the table, bent down with her palms planted on the floor and proceeded to do a handstand.

  “I might get a little Botox while I’m at it, too, maybe a boob lift, the whole schmear,” Mrs. Schmulowitz said, the blood draining to her head, her spine crackling like a bowl of Rice Krispies. “Not many eligible bachelors left out there in my demographic. You can’t be too competitive these days, you know.”

  “You don’t need cosmetic surgery, Mrs. Schmulowitz. You’re perfect just the way you are.”

  She blew me a kiss standing upside down, then suggested delicately—to the extent that Mrs. Schmulowitz was capable of doing anything delicately—that I might want to think about having a bit of work done on my own increasingly furrowed features.

  “Don’t get me wrong, Bubelah, you’re a total hotsy totsy,” she said, “but, let’s face it, none of us is getting any younger, with the possible exception of Joan Rivers. Now, you get a little filler, that schnoz of yours straightened out, oy gevalt, we’re talking total chick magnet.”

  I might’ve taken her advice seriously, especially when it came to my sneezer which, no thanks to football and the occasional fist, resembled not so much a nose anymore as it did a geometry equation. But the dents and wrinkles one collects along the way chronicle a record of service and sacrifice, in my opinion, like ribbons earned in battle, each to be worn with pride. The last thing I wanted was a nose job.

  “I appreciate the suggestion, Mrs. Schmulowitz, but I can barely afford cat food, let alone a new face.”

  I helped her to her feet and departed through the back door. I whistled for Kiddiot but got no response. Not that he ever responded to me anyway. Stupid cat.

  I was halfway to my truck when I realized I’d forgotten my duffel bag. Back in my garage apartment, I thought I heard him under the bed, but when I got down on the concrete floor and looked, it was only a blue belly lizard, the kind Kiddiot liked to bring inside to play with until he grew bored with them, then forgot. The little reptile skittered away, past my two-inch, .357 Colt Python, which I kept under the bed, within easy reach. Force of habit told me to take the snub-nose with me to San Diego, but for what purpose? Self defense? My days of bad guys were long behind me. If anything, my mission to America’s self-proclaimed “Finest City”—validating the innocence of a man falsely accused by a convicted murderer—sounded to me like a paid vacation. To vacation while armed, that was the question.

  The Buddha saw no viable purpose in lethal weapons. Which explains why he was the Buddha. I see firearms as tools, as practical as any saw or drill; they can come in quite handy when bad people need killing. This difference of opinion served to underscore how many of the Buddha’s precepts, in my flirtation with them, did not come naturally to my Western military mind. How does a man prone to violence by nature and training embrace a religion that preaches peace above all else?

  Kneeling there on the floor, my surgically reconstructed knee aching, I debated before forcing the Buddha’s teachings down like medicine, the taste of which you hopefully get used to. I stuffed the revolver between my mattress and box spring, then drove to the airport.

  The Buddha, in this instance, had no idea what he was talking about.

  Four

  Air Traffic Control directed me southbound at 9,000 feet across downtown Los Angeles, en route to the Seal Beach VOR. There were planes big and small all over the sky, whose altitudes and headings all seemed to converge with mine. On my GPS, the Ruptured Duck’s ground track looked less like the crow flies than a game of Pac-Man.

  “Cessna Four Charlie Lima, turn right 20 degrees, vectors for traffic, a 7-6-7 at 11 moving to your 10 o’clock position, same altitude.”

  “Cessna Four Charlie Lima, turn left 10 degrees for a King Air, 12 o’clock, four miles northbound, 500 feet above you. Report him in sight.”

  “Cessna Four Charlie Lima, descend and maintain 7,000 feet. I’ve got a Baron at your 6 o’clock, five miles in trail, same altitude. He’s showing 40 knots faster.”

  The air over the City of Angels was hazy brown with smog that reduced visibility to a couple of miles at best. And did I mention the turbulence? By the time I climbed, dove, and zigzagged my way down the coast to land nearly two hours later at Montgomery Field on the northern fringes of San Diego, my left hand was cramped so badly (all pilots learn to fly using their left hand only, leaving the other free for important activities like adjusting throttles and picking noses) that I nearly had to pry my sweaty fingers from the yoke.

  I taxied in and parked on the ramp in front of ritzy Champion Jet Center where a stringy brunette was working the front desk. The gold name tag pinned to her navy blue blazer identified her as “Kimberly.”

  As I walked in, she gestured out the window in the direction of my forty-year-old Cessna and smirked as if to amuse. “That,” she said, “is one homely beast.”

  Kimberly was a fine one to talk. To be sure, her skin was not trimmed in oxidized orange and yellow paint, or peeling in spots like a molting snake, as was my airplane’s. But with her overbite, limp pageboy haircut, and a pointy snout that would have looked right at home on an Irish wolfhound, homely was as homely said. Was I put off by her making fun of the Ruptured Duck? Does it rain in Oregon? Nobody insults a pilot’s personal plane, even if that plane does happen to resemble a homeless person with wings. I was about to verbally lay her out,
but I didn’t. I decided I would take the moral high ground, turn the other cheek instead. I was proud of myself. Maybe this Buddhism thing is working after all.

  “I’d like both tanks topped off, please, 100 low lead,” I said with saccharine sweetness. “And I’ll need to rent a car for a few days, if you’d be kind enough to make the arrangements.”

  “Certainly. I’ll be pleased to help you with that, sir. I assume you’ll be requiring an economy car during your visit?”

  “What would make you assume that, Kimberly?”

  My accusatory tone caught her off-guard. “Well, I mean . . .” She glanced toward the Duck, dwarfed among sleek, multimillion-dollar private jets, then back at me, as if to say, any nitwit could plainly see that I would be needing an economy car given the pile of junk I flew in on.

  I planted my forearms on the glossy mahogany counter and leaned deliberately, threateningly, into Kimberly’s personal space.

  “I’ll be requiring a Cadillac Escalade . . . Kimberly.”

  Her tongue darted nervously over her thin lips and she hunched her shoulders—sure signs of fright, which was exactly my intent.

  “My pleasure, sir.” Kimberly snatched up the phone and called Enterprise, if only to escape my steely gaze.

  No one requires a three-ton sport utility vehicle whose gas mileage can be measured in negative integers. I had impulsively demanded an Escalade only because I didn’t want some washed-out counter clerk who normally catered to zillionaires thinking I was one step removed from personal bankruptcy, even if in truth I was.

  THE ESCALADE was a black gunboat with chrome rims, heated steering wheel, refrigerated cup holders, burled walnut trim, in-dash satellite navigation system, and an imposing rearview mirror presence that screamed, “Get the bleep out of my way.” I felt every inch the stylin’ pimp daddy as I cruised westbound along Interstate 8 through San Diego’s Mission Valley. I had to admit: it was a darned comfortable ride.

  I stopped off for a late lunch at El Indio, a hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint where I’d eaten frequently when I was still with Alpha, conducting joint training ops with the SEAL teams out on Coronado. We shared with the Navy guys some of our tactics—wearing ballet slippers, for example, instead of standard-issue combat boots, when sneaking up on enemy outposts. They, in turn, introduced us to their favorite watering holes, and to El Indio. I sat outside under a hazy sun and inhaled four Baja-style fish tacos. Each was as exquisito as I remembered. After I’d had my fill, I called and left another message for federal prosecutor Stephen Tassio. But not before I belched. Then I headed downtown.

  Charles Dowd practiced law in a twenty-three-story bank tower adjacent to Horton Plaza, which had once served as San Diego’s bum central before the strip clubs and dive bars all gave way to swanky eateries and a gentrified shopping mall. I forked over ten dollars and my car keys to an indifferent Salvadoran parking attendant in the basement and rode the elevator to the ninth floor.

  Dowd’s office was located among a warren of suites with a communal conference room and a shared receptionist—a cost-conscious arrangement intended by independent practitioners like Dowd to convey the scope and power of being associated with a swanky major law firm without actually working for one.

  The receptionist was bosomy and sharp featured. She put down her copy of Entertainment Weekly, pushing a strand of shoulder-length chestnut hair behind one ear and touching the side of her neck with her head slightly cocked.

  “May I help you?”

  Her gestures conveyed sexual interest. I once might’ve followed up on them, before Savannah became a constant on my mind.

  “Cordell Logan to see Charles Dowd.”

  “Is Mr. Dowd expecting you?”

  “He is.”

  She picked up her telephone, tapped a couple of buttons with the eraser end of a pencil, keeping one eye on me, and let Dowd know I was in the lobby.

  “Down the hall. Last door on your right.”

  “’Preciate it.”

  “Anytime,” she said with the hint of a smile.

  Definitely interested.

  Dowd was waiting for me outside his office in his shirt-sleeves, red suspenders, and a bright paisley tie, hanging loose. The fingers of his right hand clutched a fat, unlit cigar. He was paunchy, on the north end of sixty, and wore what remained of his hair in a ragged gray Afro that brought to mind an aging, black Bozo. Nobody, however, would’ve characterized his temperament or intellect as clown-like.

  “I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”

  “As I indicated,” he said without shaking my hand, “you’ve got ten minutes.”

  His rumpled appearance matched the decor of his office. Case files and law books were strewn about. His desktop looked like the aftermath of a tsunami. The walls were naked but for a battery-operated clock and a framed law degree. The timepiece was hammered copper and shaped like the continent of Africa. The sheepskin was from Yale.

  “I’ve been trying capital cases for thirty-five years,” he said as he parked himself behind his desk in a well-worn leather executive chair. “Dorian Munz was as guilty as they get. That doesn’t mean the government had the right to do him like it did. No man’s got that right.”

  I sat down in a folding chair opposite his desk. “You said on the phone you’d let me have a look at Mr. Munz’s closing remarks.”

  “You a PI?”

  “Flight instructor.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s a long story and you’ve got ten minutes. If I could just see the videotape . . .”

  He eyed me sideways, firing up his cigar with a lighter shaped like a gavel. “I still don’t get what you’re trying to get at, Mr. Logan.”

  “Just trying to bring a little closure to a father who lost his child.”

  “Closure’s vastly overrated.”

  Dowd dug a laptop out from under a pile of legal briefs on his desk, typed in a few commands, swiveled the computer screen in my direction, checked his watch, then sat back with his feet up, smoking and gazing out at the sailboats plying San Diego Bay.

  The videotape was black and white and less than a minute long. It offered few insights beyond what Hub Walker had already shared with me: Munz lay lashed to a gurney, gazing into a camera mounted on the ceiling above him. Through tears, he alleged that Ruth Walker had stumbled upon a billing scam in which Castle Robotics had ripped off Uncle Sam to the tune of nearly $10 million for work that was never performed. Ruth, he said, intended to go to the authorities with what she knew before she was killed. But that wasn’t the only reason, he said, why Greg Castle wanted her dead.

  “Ruth had a baby, Castle’s baby,” Munz said into the camera. “He wanted her to get an abortion and she said no, so he killed her—or had somebody do it for him.”

  Munz acknowledged that his relationship with Ruth had turned bitter but insisted he was no murderer. “I loved that girl,” he declared. “I’ll always love her.”

  The tape ended.

  “What proof did Ruth Walker have that Castle’s company was ripping off the Defense Department?”

  “Mr. Munz received an anonymous letter about a month after he was convicted,” Dowd said, flicking the ashes from his cigar into a cut crystal bowl on his desk. “All the letter said was that Castle was dirty, that Ruth Walker knew it, and that’s why she died.”

  “Any idea who sent the letter?”

  “Not a clue.”

  Whoever mailed it, Dowd said, also sent copies anonymously to various local news media outlets. The story dominated San Diego’s newspaper and TV stations for several days before the press lost interest. Beyond that anonymous letter, Dowd said, his client had no real evidence tying Greg Castle to Ruth Walker’s murder, nor for his assertion that Castle had fathered Ruth’s baby. The condemned man was merely grasping at straws, hoping to forestall his execution.

  “I petitioned for a retrial,” Dowd said. “I argued that the letter introduced sufficient reasonable doubt. My motion, however,
was denied. The Ninth Circuit held that the evidence presented by the prosecution was, and I quote, ‘Overwhelming and irrefutable.’ ”

  “Sounds like you weren’t able to mount much of a defense.”

  Dowd’s mood turned on a dime. “I’m a damn fine lawyer, Mr. Logan. Or perhaps you think people of color got no business in a court of law except wearing ’cuffs and a jumpsuit.”

  “I don’t see color, Mr. Dowd. I only see good or bad. I meant no offense.”

  “Well, I am offended. I’ve been practicing law in this city for more than twenty-five years, and I don’t much appreciate some flight instructor coming in here, questioning my legal skills.” He snuffed out his cigar on the sole of his scuffed black wing tip. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting upcoming with my investigator on another matter.”

  I stood. “What was the evidence against Dorian Munz that was so ‘overwhelming and irrefutable’?”

  “You’ll find the entire case file over at the clerk of the court. You can read to your heart’s content.” Dowd picked up his phone and waited for me to leave. “I’m sure you can find your way out. Fly safe, Mr. Logan.”

  What can I say? Some of us have a knack for offending others without even trying. Call it a gift. I thanked the attorney for his time and turned to go.

  Standing in the doorway, blocking my way, was a towering, well-built man with mocha-colored skin. Except for his ears, which were abnormally large for his head, he reminded me of a Doberman pinscher. Same sinewy frame. Same darkly menacing features. His untucked, green silk camp shirt bulged subtly at the right hip of his baggy jean, where his concealed pistol rode in a pancake holster. I made him for Dowd’s aforesaid investigator.

  “Who’s this?” he asked Dowd while gazing at me hard.

  “This is Mr. Logan. He’s looking into the Munz case ex post facto.”