Orange County Noir (Akashic Noir)

by Gary Phillips

  "Michele's expecting me," Robbie said, trying to cover his surprise.

  "You Robbie?" the bodybuilder said. When Robbie nodded, the guy took a moment to size him up, then opened the door. "Michele's in the living room."

  Robbie wracked his brain trying to think of a way to ask the guy who the hell he was. As he entered the hall, he gave up and simply muttered, "And who are you?" The guy turned and smiled. "I'm Terry."

  "You work for Michele and Jeff?"

  "Michele."

  Terry stepped aside and Robbie stopped short as his eyes met Michele's. She was sitting next to the wall of windows in the living room. In a wheelchair with a cast on her leg. She smiled.

  "Terry's my physical therapist."

  "What happened?" Robbie couldn't hide his concern. He guessed Michele was probably in her late fifties by now, but she'd always kept herself in shape. She was attractive in her self-assurance, well built, solid, comfortable in her skin.

  "Tennis. Leg one way, knee the other. Cast for another week. I figure three months rehab minimum."

  "Ouch." Robbie felt completely tongue-tied.

  "Want something to drink?"

  "No thanks."

  "Terry, could you give its a few minutes?"

  "Sure. If you need anything, just let me know."

  When Terry was gone, Michele gestured for Robbie to join her by the windows. As he sat down next to her, he suddenly felt like a kid in the principal's office.

  "It's good to see you," she said quietly.

  "You too," he stammered. "How's Jeff?"

  "Jeff's Jeff," she offered flatly. "He's down at the festival. Got juried in again for his watercolors."

  "No kidding," Robbie said, nodding.

  "He's doing the meet-and-greet on the grounds today, always trying to drum up new business."

  There was a pause, then Robbie asked, "You guys are good?" God, that sounded even dumber than he'd feared.

  "Robbie..." She looked at him, sighed, and smiled wanly. "Let's just say we have a very spiritual relationship. Every day we learn to live with less ..."

  He looked at her, confused. "I don't ..."

  "Nevermind." She smiled. "It's Jeff who needs your help. And we both agreed it was a safe way to ease you back into the swing of things."

  "I really appreciate that. I've been goin a bit stir-crazy."

  "Well, that's all behind you now. And the guy you put in the hospital ... well, let's just say he's got other things to worry about these days. Like a company in Chapter 11 and a palace in foreclosure."

  "Look, I ..."

  Michele smiled. "It's okay, Robbie. Everybody gets a mulligan. And I think you've learned your lesson."

  "Yeah ... yeah."

  She picked up a file and handed it to him. Opening it, he looked at a couple of grainy photos of a guy crossing a street. "Who's this?"

  "His name's Madison. He's going after Jeff. Wants to extort two hundred grand to keep quiet."

  "About what? What's he got?"

  "We're not sure. But Jeff's arranged a meet with him. Tonight on the fire road up above the festival. You know where I'm talking about?"

  "That dirt road that goes up behind Tivoli Terrace with the great view of Main Beach and the police shooting range?"

  She smiled. "Nice recall."

  "I used to hike up there to clear my head."

  Michele leaned forward. "They're supposed to meet at midnight at the little turnout overlooking the shooting range. This file has all you'll need to know about Madison to put the fear of God into him. His kids' names and ages, where they go to school, what picture's hanging on the wall in his bedroom. And if that doesn't scare him off, you have my blessing to ruffle his feathers a bit. Just no easily visible bruising."

  "Jeff going to be there?"

  "No. You're going to get there early and surprise this arrogant little asshole. See, Madison's a ceramics exhibitor at the festival. It seems he and Jeff have at least one thing in common. They like to pretend that art can save them from their fundamental boorishness. News flash: it can't."

  Robbie studied the file to cover his nervousness. "So, I guess you and Jeff are-"

  "Robbie ... Jeff's a lawyer; I'm a lawyer; we're partners. If I took him to court, I could wipe him out, but we'd poison the well in the process . . ." She pointed to the file. "You know, there's hardly any moon tonight and that fire road can be a bit treacherous and steep in places. I'd hate to think Madison might fall and hurt himself."

  "Right." Robbie grinned. He was relieved she was changing the subject.

  "Study his file. If you can reason with him, so much the better. If not ..."

  "Midnight," said Robbie, savoring the thought.

  "I recommend you park above the shooting range and cut across. And get there early."

  "Not to worry." Robbie rose, holding the file.

  "Aren't you forgetting something?"

  "What?"

  "Your fee?"

  Robbie almost blushed. "Right, right ... Actually, I could use the cash, but I figure there'll be more where this one came from. So let's just call this one `pro bono.' How's that sound?"

  She smiled. "Come here." Robbie moved to her and bent down. With one hand, she pulled his face to hers and lightly kissed him on the cheek. "It's good to have you back."

  "It's good to be back."

  Terry opened the door for Robbie as he headed to his car.

  Robbie spent the afternoon getting ready for his midnight rendezvous with Madison. At the Ralph's on Glenneyre, he bought a recycled canvas grocery bag, six bars of Zest soap, a Coke Zero, and a deli sandwich.

  Back in town, he turned off Broadway and headed up the steep hill on Acacia, then a hard right on High Drive and another right onto Poplar. He followed it to Harold Drive at the turnaround next to the access road entrance leading down to the LBPD shooting range. Parking on Harold, Robbie walked over to the heavy chain hanging across the access road entrance and read the sign.

  No Trespassing. Authorized Vehicles Only. Unauthorized vehicles and pedestrians subject to prosecution and fine: joggers, hikers, walkers, skateboarders, bicyclists. Laguna Beach Police Department. Do Not Enter.

  He looked across the galley and spotted the fire road and the overlook. Maybe a quarter of a mile down this side past the range and up the other side. Chaparral and scrub brush all around. Not much cover, but all he really needed was the dark later on.

  Surveying the turnaround, he could see maybe a half-dozen houses. No signs of life. He could hear a blues band playing on the festival grounds below. And he knew there'd be another Pageant performance that night. Plenty of distractions. He went back and sat in the Corolla and read through the Madison file. He imagined the look on the guy's face when a stranger wearing a ski mask got the drop on him. Sweet.

  Robbie drank his soda, took a few bites of his sandwich, unwrapped five of the bars of Zest, and tied them into the canvas bag. It had a nice heft. Who needs a sap when you've got soap? You could break a rib and barely leave a bruise.

  It was already starting to get dark. Robbie drove around the neighborhood, then back down to PCH. He was suddenly aware of how pathetic the Toyota looked as he cruised through town. For now, it was all he could afford, but as soon as he was flush again, he'd get something less conspicuous and a whole lot more reliable.

  At a quarter to 9, he pulled back up to the turnaround near the entrance to the shooting range. In the canyon below, the Pageant was underway. The production shops next to the Irvine Bowl blocked his view of the theater, but Robbie could hear the orchestra and the audience applauding the tableaux vivants onstage.

  The curtain fell on Leonardo da Vinci's The Last Supper, the traditional Pageant finale, just before 10:30. Time to go. Grabbing the soap bag, he loped across the turnaround, stepped over the chain across the entrance to the access road, and disappeared. He crossed the dark, empty shooting range five minutes later, reached the bottom of the ravine five minutes after that, and began the slippery ascent up
the shadowy hillside. Footing was surprisingly treacherous, but twenty minutes later, he stepped out onto the fire road. Accustomed to the darkness by now, he located the viewpoint and crouched nearby behind a large chaparral.

  As he sat there, he went over in his mind the notes he'd been studying: Madison's family and the little, intimate details that would let the jerk know just how vulnerable he was. Robbie's adrenaline was pumping. He was out of practice. By now, Laguna Canyon Road was full of cars heading home. The festival was shutting down for the night, and the maintenance crew in the Irvine Bowl was almost through cleaning up after the Pageant.

  Suddenly, Robbie tensed. He'd heard something. But what? He listened again, then laughed to himself at his ner vousness. He checked his watch. Three minutes to midnight. He closed his eyes and strained to hear any activity below.

  Five minutes later, he heard footsteps coming up the rutted dirt road. It had to be Madison ... But wait. Something was wrong. He could make out more than one voice. Madison wasn't alone. Michele hadn't said anything about this. The voices were getting closer. In another minute, two shadowy figures came over the crest and meandered toward the overlook. Robbie adjusted his position to get a better view. They were walking arm in arm, whispering to one another. It was a man and a woman! The man seemed to have a parcel under one arm. As Robbie watched, the man shook the bag and flipped it out. It was a blanket. Spreading it in the darkened clearing, he turned to embrace the woman. Robbie strained to make out their hushed whispers. Could this just be a coincidence? A couple looking for a place to make out at the exact wrong place and time? Robbie cursed his luck. Obviously, they'd scare off Madison. But there was nothing he could do except wait them out.

  As Robbie crouched there, helpless, he heard the couple start to undress one another. In the dark, they giggled at their clumsiness. No foreplay, no chit-chat. In another minute, they were groping each other while trying to find a comfortable position on the hard earth. Soon enough, however, discomfort gave way to passion. Amid sighs and gasps, he heard the woman emit a muted squeal.

  Robbie sat up and peered down at the shadowy figures. Even in the dark, he was sure he recognized the guy. There was no mistaking his clumsy movements and his labored, rheumy breathing. Jeff.

  In that same instant, he felt a cold, metallic object press into the back of his neck. He froze as he realized what it was. The barrel of a handgun. Jeff had always carried one, but Robbie refused to have anything to do with them. He wasn't afraid of them. He just knew there was no hope for a successful negotiation once the guns come out.

  Robbie tried ever so gingerly to turn his head in hopes of glimpsing who was behind him. He winced as the barrel jabbed into the base of his skull. The couple, now fully engaged, were oblivious.

  Responding to the prodding of the barrel, Robbie slowly got to his feet. He felt the figure moving around to stand beside him. Then, in a single motion, the person lifted another pistol in his other hand. Robbie could make out the silhouette of an imposing silencer attached to the barrel of the other weapon. Before Robbie could react, the pistol emitted four dull bursts, and, after two labored gasps, the couple fell silent.

  What the fuck was going on?! Robbie turned to look at the assassin, who now leveled the other pistol directly against his forehead. It was too dark to make out a face.

  "Nice shooting," said a strangely familiar voice. After a second, Robbie realized where he'd heard it before.

  "Terry?" Silence. "What the-?"

  His voice was flat and calm. "You shouldn't have tried to blackmail Jeff about his thing with that cute little jewelry maker. You thought if you caught them in the act, they'd pay up. Too bad Jeff never goes anywhere without his piece." Terry flicked the barrel of the smaller pistol as he centered it on Robbie's chest. "And he managed to shoot you before you finished them off ... Poor Michele."

  "Who the fuck are you?" Robbie could barely hear his voice over the pounding in his chest.

  "I'm the new you, motherfucker ..."

  Robbie started to lean back, then swung the bag of soap bars with all his might toward Terry's gun hand. In the blackness, the tinny explosions, like leftover fireworks-two quick bursts followed after about ten seconds by a third-echoed weakly across the canyon.

  Michele opened the front door for Terry. She was barefoot, wearing a sheer silk nightshirt. In the hallway behind her, the removable cast was leaned up against the wheelchair. "Don't tell me you forgot your key again," she said as the door swung inward. In the next instant, she did her best to mask her surprise.

  Robbie reached out an arm and leaned heavily against the door frame. In his other hand, he held Jeff's pistol. "Terry's not coming home."

  Michele's mind was racing and all she could think to say was, "You're hurt."

  "I'll live." Robbie pointed the gun at her. As she backed away, he stepped through the door, gritting his teeth, willing himself through the pain. Backing her down the hall, Robbie glanced at the boot cast and wheelchair. "Your knee's better."

  "Robbie-"

  "Just shut up, Michele ... I might have expected something like this from Jeff. But I always thought you-"

  "You don't know what it's been like."

  "I guess not."

  "Look, Robbie, we can get through this. We can make this work for both of us. But we've got to get you to-"

  "No, we don't."

  "You've lost a lot of blood." They were in the living room now. Low lights. Through the panoramic windows, the faint glow of the town below. She tried to scan the room for pos sible weapons as Robbie moved closer, the gun still leveled at her.

  "You had it all figured out. Get rid of Jeff and me ... clean slate."

  "Robbie, it's just you and me now. We could be in Mexico before dawn."

  "Right." His attempt at sarcasm hurt like hell.

  "I'm worried about you."

  "Wouldn't want bloodstains on your furniture."

  "Robbie."

  "You taught me that it's never personal. Well ... let me tell you . . ." He lifted his blood-soaked hand from his abdomen and held it out toward her. "This feels personal."

  "Let me get something."

  "No. It ends here. But first I'm gonna need every cent you've got."

  "Of course. It's in the safe." She turned and pointed toward the bedroom hall. When he nodded, she moved in that direction.

  "It's in here," Michele said, indicating a walk-in closet in the master bedroom. Pushing back clothes hanging on a rack, she revealed a wall safe. She flicked on an overhead light and punched at the safe's keypad. "We're going to get through this." She looked back at Robbie, who watched her through heavy-lidded eyes, then opened the safe and reached in. "You won't be sorry."

  Turning, she pulled out a.22 handgun and swung it toward Robbie. But he was ready, firing three quick bursts at pointblank range, hitting Michele twice in the chest and once in the neck. Her pistol fired wildly, the bullet lodging in a chest of drawers to Robbie's right. She fell to the carpet in front of him. Robbie looked down at her for a moment, closed his eyes, and let out a deep sigh. He noticed blood from his abdomen was now staining his pants leg and overflowing from his sock down his shoe and onto the carpet. Turning, he walked slowly from the room.

  At the toll plaza for the 133 North, Robbie turned on the dome light in the Corolla and fumbled in his pocket for the exact change. As he inspected a handful of coins, he looked down at his gut and let out a half-laugh, half-howl. You forget who you are, you forget what you believe in, but you still remember to pay your toll! Reaching up, he flicked off the dome light and sat there, breathing slowly, deliberately, trying to ignore the wet, hot black that used to be his midsection. Rolling down the window, he leaned out and flung the handful of change toward the collection bin. It was an awkward toss. The coins clattered to the pavement and his elbow banged against the windowsill. The effort was too much. Robbie leaned back. He wanted his eyes to work, to keep on working. But they were letting him down. The last thing he remembered was re
aching over to turn off the Corolla's ignition. The old car was grateful for the rest.

  Today, 11:45 a.m.

  he could be anywhere by now. She could be standing at the next bus stop, or long gone out of my life. I

  I should listen to Nana and head back to work. But instead I drive around Santa Ana looking for a little girl in the rain. The few who are out in this weather are huddled under bus stops next to their mothers or grandmothers, looking like pink and purple marshmallows in their puffy rain jackets.

  Go back to work. Even though I'll put another month on these boots, I need every cent of my pathetic paycheck as a news assistant with the Orange County Tribune.

  But I keep driving down East 1st Street toward the freeway as the rain and wind batter my car. Maybe the woman who took Pricila is her aunt and they're on a grand adventure to visit relatives in Mexico. Or Pricila is locked in the cold terror that she'll never see her own nana or mom again.

  A few minutes later, I'm dripping water at the front desk of Santa Ana PD.

  "How may I help you?" a clerk asks without getting up from her desk.

  "I need to report a missing child."

  I'm taken behind the counter with Officer Darrin Kravetz into an interview room. His gray eyes are so kind that I can't picture him cornering a suspect in an alley with his gun drawn.

  We do fine until he asks for my name.

  "Danielle Dawson."

  He looks up. "How are you related to the Pricila Ruiz?"

  "I'm not. I'm a reporter, I mean news assistant, and Pricila and her grandmother-" I stop myself from saying hid with us. Clearing my throat, I say, "They stayed with its last night when ICE raided their home."

  "Why didn't her grandmother come in with you?"

  "She was arrested an hour ago. Pricila's mother is in jail awaiting her arraignment."

  "How do you know Pricila isn't with family or friends?"

  "My na- My grandma saw her leave with a woman who was paid to take her away."

  He puts down his pen and gives me that look like I'm the kind of person who has left a shopping cart full of her worldly belongings out in front of the station.