“Don’t! Don’t do that! Christ, I’ll…Renny Dominguez is the other big distributor around here. He didn’t want Troy and me cutting into his territory.”
“And?”
“That’s it.”
“No, it’s not.” I moved my hand again. John did a fair imitation of a villain’s leer. Maybe, I thought, he should have taken up acting.
“Okay, all right, it’s not. I’ll tell you, just leave the phone alone. At first, Troy and I tried to work something out with Renny D. Split the territory, cooperate, you know. He wasn’t having any of that. Things’ve been getting pretty intense over the last few months: there was a fire at my store; somebody shot at Troy in front of his house; we both had phone threats.”
“And then?”
“All of a sudden, Renny D decides he want to make nice with us. So we meet with him at this bar where he hangs out in National City, and he proposes we work together, kick the business into really high gear. But now it’s Troy who isn’t having any of that.”
“Why not?”
“Because Troy’s convinced himself that Renny D is small-time and kind of stupid. He thinks we should kick our business into high gear and take over Renny’s turf. I took him aside, tried to tell him that what he saw as small-time stupidity was only a matter of different styles. I mean just because Renny D doesn’t wear Reeboks or computerize his customer list doesn’t mean he’s an idiot. I tried to tell Troy that those people were dangerous, that you at least had to try to humor them. But did Troy listen? No way. He went back to the table and make Renny look back in front of his compadres, and that’s bad shit, man?”
“So then what happened?”
“More threats. Another drive-by. And that only made Troy more convinced that Renny and his pals were stupid, because they couldn’t pick him off at twenty feet. Well, this kind of stuff goes on until it’s getting ridiculous, and finally Renny issues a challenge: the two of them’ll meet down in TJ near the bullring and settle it one-on-one, like honorable men.”
“And Troy fell for that?”
“Sure. Like I said, he’d convinced himself Renny D was stupid, so he had me set it up with Renny’s number two man, Jimmy. It was supposed to be just the four of us, and only Renny and Troy would fight.”
“You didn’t try to talk him out of it?”
“All the way down there, I did. But Troy—stubborn should’ve been his middle name.”
“And what happened when you got there?”
“It was just the four of us, like Jimmy said. But what he didn’t say was that he and Renny would have knives. The two of them moved damn fast, and before I knew what was happening, they’d stabbed Troy.”
“What did you do?”
Pope looked away. Went to get himself another three fingers of scotch.
“What did you do, Daniel?”
“I froze. And then I ran. Left Troy’s damned car there, ran off, and spent half the night wandering, the other half hiding behind an auto body shop near the port of entry. The next morning, I walked back over the border like any innocent tourist.”
“And now you think Renny and his friends’ll come after you.”
“I was a witness, it’s only a matter of time.”
That was what Troy’s girlfriend had said, too. “Are you willing to tell your story to the police?”
Silence.
“Daniel?”
He ran his tongue over dry lips after a moment he said, “Shit, what’ve I got to lose? Look at me.” He held out a shaky hand. “I’m a wreck, and it’s all Troy’s fault. He had fair warning of what was gonna go down. When I think of the way he ignored it, I want to kill him all over again.”
“What fair warning?”
“Some message Renny D left on his answering machine. Troy thought it was funny. He said it was so melodramatic, it proved Renny was brain-damaged.”
“Did he tell you what the message was?”
Daniel Pope shook his head. “He was gonna play it for me when he got back from TJ. He said you had to hear it to believe it.”
The message was in a weird Spanish accented falsetto, accompanied by cackling laughter: “Knives at midnight, Winslip. Knives at midnight.”
I popped the tape from Troy’s answering machine and turned to John. ‘Why the hell would he go down to TJ after hearing that? Did he think Renny D was joking?”
“Maybe. Or maybe he took along his own knife, but Renny and Jimmy were quicker. Remember, he thought they were stupid.” He shook his head. “Troy was a dumb middle-class kid who got in over his head and let his own high opinion of himself warp his judgment. But he still sure as hell didn’t deserve to die in a parking lot of seventeen stab wounds.”
“No, he didn’t.” I turned the tape over in my hands. “Why do you suppose Renny D left the message? You’d think he’d have wanted the element of surprise on his side.”
John shrugged. “To throw Troy off balance, make him nervous? Some twisted code of drug dealers’ honor? Who knows?”
“This tape isn’t the best of evidence, you know. There’s no proof that it was Renny D who called.”
“Isn’t there?” he motioned at another machine that looked like a small video display terminal.
“What’s that?”
“A little piece of new technology that allows you to see what number an incoming call was dialed from. It has a memory, keeps a record,” he pressed a button, and a listing of numbers, dates, and times appeared. After scrolling through it, he pointed to one with a 295 prefix. “That matches the time and date stamp on the answering machine tape.”
I lifted the receiver and dialed the number. A machine picked up on the third ring: “This is Renny D. Speak.”
I hung up. “Now we’ve got proof.”
“So do we go see Gary Viner?”
“Not just yet. First I think we’d better report to Mari and Bryce, ask them if they really want all of this to come out.”
“I talked with them earlier; they were going to make the funeral arrangements and then have dinner with relatives. Maybe we shouldn’t intrude.”
“Probably no. Besides, there’s something I want to do first.”
“What?”
“Get a good look at this Renny D.”
An old friend named Luis Abrego frequented the Tradewinds tavern in National City, halfway between San Diego and the border. The first time I’d gone there two years before, John had insisted on accompanying me for protection; tonight he insisted again. I didn’t protest, since I knew he and Luis were fond of each other.
Fortunately, business was slow when we got there; only half a dozen Hispanic patrons stopped talking and when they saw two Anglos walk in. Luis hunched in his usual place at the end other bar, nursing a beer and watching a basketball game on the fuzzy TV screen. When I spoke his name, he whirled, jumped off his stool, and took both my hands in his. His dark eyes danced with pleasure.
“Amiga,” he said, “it’s been much too long.”
“Yes, it has, amigo.”
Luis released me and shook John’s hand. He was looking well. His mustache swooped bandit-fashion, and his hair hung free and shiny to his shoulders. From the nearly black shade of his skin, I could tell he’d been working steadily on construction sites these days. Late at night, however, Luis plied a very different and increasingly dangerous trade; “helping my people get where they need to go” was how he described those activities.
We sat down in a booth, and I explained about Renny D and Troy Winslip’s murder. Luis nodded gravely. “The young man was a fool to underestimate Dominguez,” he said. “I don’t know him personally, but I’ve seen him, and I hear he’s one evil hombre.”
“Do you know where he hangs out down here?”
“A bar two block over, called the Gato Gordo. You’re not planning on going up against him, amiga.”
“No, nothing like that. I just want to get a look at him. Obviously, I can’t go there alone. Will you take me?”
Luis frowned down
into his beer. “Why do you feel you have to do this?”
“I like to know who I’m up against. Besides, this is going to be a difficult case to prove; maybe seeing Renny D in the flesh will inspire me to keep at it.”
He looked up at my face, studied it for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, I’ll do it. But he”—he pointed at John—“waits for us here.”
John said, “No way.”
“Yes,” Luis told him firmly. “Here you’re okay; everybody knows you’re my friend. But there, a big Anglo like you, we’d be asking for trouble. On the other hand, me and the chiquita here, we’ll make a damn handsome couple.”
Reynaldo Dominguez was tall and thin, with razor-sharp features that spoke of indio blood. There were tattoos of serpents on his arms and knife scars on his face, and part of one index finger was missing. He sat at corner table in the Gato Gordo, surrounded by admirers. He leaned back indolently in his chair and laughed and joked and told stories. When Luis and I sat down nearby with our drinks, he glanced contemptuously at us; then he focused on Luis’ face and evidently saw something there that warned him off. There was not a lot that Luis Abrego hadn’t come up against in his life, and there was nothing and no one he feared. Renny D, I decided, was a good judge of character.
Luis leaned toward me taking my hand as a lover would and speaking softly. “He is telling them how he single-handedly destroyed the Anglo opposition. He is laughing about the look on Winslip’s face when he died, and at the way the other man ran. He is bragging about the cleverness of meeting in TJ, where he has bribed the authorities and will never be charged with a crime.” He paused, listened some more. “He is telling them how he will enjoy stalking and destroying the other man and Winslip’s woman—bit by bit, before he finally puts the knife in.”
I started to turn to look at Dominguez.
“Don’t.” Luis tightened his grip on my hand.
I looked anyway. My eyes met Renny D’s. His were black, flat, emotionless—devoid of humanity. He stared at me, thin lip curling.
Luis’ fingernails bit into my flesh. “Okay, you’ve had your look at him. Drink up, and we’ll go.”
I could feel those soulless eyes on my back. I tried to finish my drink, but hatred for the creature behind me welled up and threatened to make me choke. Troy Winslip had in many respects been a useless person, but he’d also been young and naïve and hadn’t deserved to die. Nor did Daniel Pope or Troy’s woman deserve to live, and perhaps die, in terror.
Luis said softly, “Now he is bragging again. He is telling them he is above the law. No one can touch him, he says. Renny D is invincible.”
“Maybe not.”
“Let’s go now, amiga.”
As we stood, I looked at Dominguez once more. This time, when our eyes met a shadow passed over his. What was that about? I wondered. Not suspicion. Not fear. What?
Of course—Renny D was puzzled. Puzzled because I didn’t shy away from his stare. Puzzled and somewhat uneasy.
Well, good.
I said to Luis, “We’ll see who’s invincible.”
I’d expected the Winslips to pose an obstacle to bringing Renny D to justice, but they proved to be made of very strong stuff. The important thing, they said, was not to cover up their son’s misdeeds but to ensure that a vicious murderer didn’t go free to repeat his crime. So, with their blessing, I took my evidence downtown to Gary Viner.
And Gary told me what I’d been fearing all along: “We don’t have a case.”
“Gary, there’s the tape. Dominguez as good as told Winslip he was going to stab him. There’s the record of where the call originated. There’s the eyewitness testimony of Daniel Pope—”
“There’s the fact that the actual crime occurred on Mexican soil. And that Dominguez has the police down there in his hip pocket. No case, McCone.”
“So what’re you going to do—sit back and wait till he kills Pope and Winslip’s woman, or somebody else?”
“We’ll keep an eye on Dominguez. That’s all I can promise you. Otherwise, my hands’re tied.”
“Maybe your hands are tied.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? What’re you going to do? Don’t give me any trouble, McCone—please.”
“Don’t worry. I’m going to go off and think about this, that’s all. When I do give you something, I guarantee it won’t be trouble.”
When I’m upset or need to concentrate, I often head for water, so I drove north to Torrey Pines State Beach and walked by the surf for an hour. Something was nagging at the back of my mind, but I couldn’t bring it forward. Something I’d read or heard somewhere. Something…
Knives at midnight, Winslip. Knives at midnight.
Renny D’s high-pitched, cackling voice in the answering machine tape kept playing and replaying for me.
After a while, I decided to do some research and drove to Adams Avenue to find a used bookshop with a large legal section.
Crimes against the person: homicide. Express and implied malice…burden of proving mitigation—no.
Second degree…penalty for person previously convicted—no.
Manslaughter committed during operation of a vessel—certainly not.
Death of victim within three years and a day—forget it.
What the hell was I combing the penal code for, anyway?
Mayhem? Hardly. Kidnapping? No. Troy went willingly, even eagerly. Conspiracy? Maybe. No, the situation’s too vague. Nothing there for me.
Knives at midnight, Winslip. Knives at midnight.
Can’t get it out of my head. Keep trying to connect it with something. Melodramatic words, as Troy told Pope. A little old-fashioned, as if Dominguez was challenging him to a—
That’s it!
Duels. Duels and challenges. Penal code, 225.
Defined. Combat with deadly weapons, fought between two or more persons, by previous agreement…
Punishment when death ensues: state prison for two, three, or four years.
Not much, but better than nothing.
I remember reading this now, one time when I was browsing through statutes that had been on the books for a long time. It’s as enforceable today as it was then in 1872. Especially sections 231; that’s got the part I really like.
Gotcha, Renny D.
“I’ll read it to you again.” I said to Gary Viner. He was leaning toward me across his desk, trying to absorb the impact of the dry, formal text from 1872.
“ ’Dueling beyond State. Every person who leaves this State with intent to evade any provisions of this chapter, and to commit any act out of the State as is prohibited by this chapter, and who does any act, although out of this State, which would be punishable by such provisions if committed within this State, is punishable in the same manner as he would have been in case such act had been committed within this State.’
“And there you have it.” I closed the heavy tomb with an emphatic thump.
Gary nodded. “And there we have it.”
I began ticking off items on my fingers.”A taped challenge to a duel at knifepoint. A probable voiceprint match with the suspect. A record of where the call was made. An eyewitness who, in order to save his own sorry hide, will swear that it actually was a duel. And, finally, a death that resulted from it. Renny D goes away for two, three, or four years in state prison.”
“It’s not much time. I’m not sure the DA’ll think it’s worth the trouble of prosecuting him.”
“I remember the DA from high school. He’ll be happy with anything that’ll get a slimeball off the streets for a while. Besides, maybe we’ll get lucky and somebody’ll challenge Renny D to a duel in prison.”
Gary nodded thoughtfully, “I remember our DA from high school, too. Successfully prosecuting a high-profile case like this would provide the kind of limelight’s he likes—and it’s an election year.”
By the time my return flight to San Francisco left on Saturday, the DA had embarked on the 1872 statute on duels and challenges with a missi
onary-like zeal and planned to take the Winslip case to the grand jury. Daniel Pope would be on hand to give convincing testimony about traveling to Tijuana primed for hand-to-hand combat with Dominguez and his cohort. Renny D was as yet unsuspecting but would soon be behind bars.
And at a Friday-night dinner party, the other half of the “detecting duo” had regaled the San Diego branch of the McCone family with his highly colored version of our exploits.
I accepted a cup of coffee from the flight attendant and settled back in the seat with my beat-up copy of Standard California Codes. I had a more current one on the shelf in my office, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to part with this one. Besides, I needed something to read on the hour-and-a-half flight.
Disguised Firearms or Other Deadly Weapons. Interesting.
Lipstick Case Knife. Oh, them deadly dames, as they used to say.
Shobi-zue: a staff, crutch, rod, or pole with a knife enclosed. Well, if I ever break a leg…
Writing Pen Knife. That’s a good one. Proves the pen can be mightier that the sword.
But wait now, here’s one that’s really fascinating…
THE WALL
(Rae Kelleher)
I’d been on the Conway case for close to twenty-four hours before I started paying serious attention to Adrian’s bedroom wall. A big oversight, considering it was dark purple and covered with a collage of clippings and photographs and junk that looked like it had been dug out of a garbage can. But then I’ve never been too quick on the uptake on Monday mornings, which was the only other time I’d seen it.
The wall, the missing girl’s mother had explained, was a form of therapy, and even though its creation had more or less trashed the room, she—the mother, Donna Conway—considered it well worth the cost. After all, a sixteen-year-old whose father had run off a year and a half ago with a woman of twenty whom she—the daughter, Adrian Conway—insisted on calling “Dad’s bimbo” needed something, didn’t she? And it was cheaper than paying for a shrink.
McCone and Friends Page 10
