Orange County Noir (Akashic Noir)

by Gary Phillips

  "What's the matter, my angel? Is something-"

  "Nothing, I'm just weird. Not used to being free yet, I guess. Just ignore it."

  But the way she said it, Fred knew she was frightened. He needed to talk to her about it soon.

  The next weekend, Angel came in while Fred was on the Internet and caught him looking at engagement rings. She just bent over and kissed him, getting into it, and drew him away to bed. He didn't even have time to pop the question. She wanted to get married soon, and to take his name.

  "Speaking of names," he sighed contentedly, remembering the flaw in his happy life, "you've never been married before, right?"

  "Not me. I was waiting for the right one."

  "So how come you're Winkler and he's Bacon?"

  She paused. "That's because he's my stepbrother. We have different fathers."

  "You mean half-brother?"

  "Yeah, that's what I meant."

  "Now that explains why you don't look anything alike, huh."

  If they were getting married, he had to lay down the law about Gordie, their constant guest since his wife Fiona started working nights. Fred hadn't even met her, after a month! Gordie, being drunk most of the time and lazy all of the time, ended up on the couch-a lot-and left in the mornings after Fred went to work. He was a conceited asshole, but worse, a cheapskate who never once brought anything to share until Fred cut back on the Bud supply and ran out of beer twice in a row. Even though Gordie had to walk to the supermarket and pay for more himself, he kept missing the point. Angel and Fred hardly had a minute alone. Gordie was a nuisance.

  On Monday, Fred went to downtown Santa Ana to pick up the form for a marriage license. While he was there, he decided to look up the transcript of those guys' trials. He remembered their first names, Mitch-probably Mitchell-and Dan/Daniel, and he had Angel's full name and inmate number. He gave this information to a nice middle-aged woman with a motherly need to help him, bless her. She ticked away at her keyboard for a while, found the last names, and looked them up.

  "Looks like they pled out after the preliminary hearing."

  "But Miss Winkler told me she testified against these guys."

  "She must have meant the prelim, hon, and that's a good thing. Every prelim has a transcript. Would you like me to get you the file?"

  As he sat and read the transcript, Fred understood why Angel was so frightened, why she changed her looks, why she wanted his name. She'd even hinted about buying a new house, and that fit too. It was her witness self-protection. But why hadn't she told him?

  On the night in question, according to her testimony, Mitchell Hoffman and Danforth Green asked her for a ride but gave no indication that they planned to rob a jewelry store. "At the strip mall," she said, "I saw both of them leave the car carrying guns. I overheard them agree they wouldn't hesitate to shoot-including me, if I got out of line." She'd been terrified, and when she heard shots from inside the store and saw them running out with their guns, she fled for her life. No, she said, "I didn't know an old man was in there that got shot and he would have made it except for the heart attack it gave him."

  No, she didn't know what became of the guns when the men ran from the store and when they were apprehended hiding five blocks east thirty minutes later. Yes, she understood that both claimed-immediately after being taken into custody, in separate interviews where they could not collaborate-that the whole thing was her idea, that she'd put them up to it and given them the guns, and that she'd driven away and left them high and dry. Well, the only explanation she could think of was that those interviews must have come from "them cooking up some story ahead of time to pin it on me if it all went sideways."

  After the prelim, Fred learned, the two men had taken pleas rather than face trial, each getting twenty years for the death of the jeweler, including enhancements for their previous criminal records and for the guns used in commission of a crime.

  Fred let out a low whistle. Sometimes the safest place to be was in prison. Those guys could have friends and family outside settle the score. Even though Angel told the truth, had knowingly done nothing criminal, and had to serve time, she'd made mortal enemies.

  But maybe they didn't know about her early release yet, and there was still time.

  Fred went straight to a sporting goods store to buy ammunition and a cleaning kit for his dad's old revolver.

  As soon as he got home, he told Angel that he had found out what she was scared of.

  She looked at him blankly, guarded and waiting.

  "First, sweetheart, Gordie coming over here all the time is dangerous. He's making a perfect beeline to you. All anyone has to do is follow him. Gordie has to start hanging out at his own place. We need to list the house, and as soon as we're married I need to get some life insurance, that's for damn sure, because I may have to defend you."

  "I can't believe how brave you are." Angel's smile was hard to read.

  Fred went to a shooting range. He hadn't been in a long time. The manager didn't give a shit, just showed him how the targets worked, gave him the earphones, and left him alone.

  Fred started with a bull's-eye target and practiced, aiming carefully before each shot. The first two went wide, one not even hitting the target surface, the other making a neat hole in the upper right corner. Some internal pressure shot up, a kind of embarrassment where he didn't feel like a man should feel when he was learning how to protect his home and wife-to-be. He took a deep breath and started over, adjusting his stance, checking to see if the desk guy was watching, but he was looking at his computer screen.

  Fred shot again, and hit the outermost circle. He shot again without moving, and hit just above the previous shot. He liked the heavy feel of the handgun now. He was learning.

  The manager changed the target to a graphic, a large line drawing like a poster that depicted a bad guy using a terrified, busty hostage as a shield, holding a big butcher knife to her throat.

  Now this was the real deal. Defend and protect. He adjusted and readjusted his aim, finally squeezed one off-and hit the girl's shoulder. Just a graze, but still, what a dumb shot. Fred's knees quivered a little when he got ready again, but something stopped his hand. The week before, he'd been explaining to Angel that the salad/dessert forks and the dinner forks were to be neatly stacked with tines facing the back, in the two adjacent sections of the wooden silverware tray in the drawer by the dishwasher. He pointed out that if she would only load them into the dishwasher in the correct baskets, the rest of the job would be foolproof.

  She'd given him a sharp watchful stare much like he'd seen on Mother's Day, but back then he'd thought it was cute. This time it was anything but-hard, he'd have to call it-like she was thinking, Foolproof? Who are you calling a fool, fool?

  She'd said, "Maybe I know a way that's even better than yours. Maybe you can learn something from me." He'd let that go, just pointing at the drawer again and then leaving for work without kissing her.

  He stood there with the gun in his hand. What about the prelim transcript, when the two guys' stories matched completely? Fred watched those crime shows all the time, and he knew that cops said-Manny had agreed with this view-that it was always easier to tell the truth because you just said what happened. When you lied, you had to make stuff up as you went along, and then you'd forget what you'd put into one version and screw it up the next time. Each version would be different. The truth was always the same.

  He needed to ask her directly why the guys' stories didn't vary, how that could have happened, just to stop this nagging feeling. At last Fred aimed and squeezed, and the bullet flew just over the villain's head, so he immediately lowered the aim a fraction and shot again. He gasped.

  He'd shot her through the heart.

  This terrible doubt was interfering with his concentration. He needed to get home where he could talk it out with her, be sure she wasn't lying about anything, and if she was, find out why, get her to share her fears and let him help.

  As he pul
led up, Fred muttered Son of a bitch when he saw Gordie's truck parked in his driveway. He couldn't even get to his own garage.

  What was that asshole doing here in the late afternoon, anyway? Fred had made it clear to Angel that it was dangerous-and here the truck was, like a big neon sign pointing right at her for anybody with a grudge. In fact, who knew what else might be in there? He could be walking into a firefight. He parked at the curb, got out, retrieved the gun, and stuck it into the back waistband of his khakis. He was supposed to take out the unused rounds but he had been so anxious to get home that he forgot. Or so he told himself.

  Fred turned his house key silently, glad that his maintenance schedule included quarterly lubrication of door hardware and locks. The afternoon sun came from the side of the house, so at least there would be no silhouette or illumination through the glass. He turned the knob and slowly opened the door. The living room and the kitchen-what he could see of them-were empty.

  Then he heard Angel whimper. God, was it possible that Gordie was one of the bad guys? Or that they'd both been taken hostage? Why would Angel let them in? He had to do something. The sound was coming from the end of the hall, where the home office and master bedroom were. He tiptoed soundlessly on the soft carpet. The next thing he heard came from the master, the unmistakable rhythmic thumps, the squeaky bedspring syncopation.

  She spoke tensely. "Did you hear something?"

  "No," said Gordie. "Don't take forever, darlin', or I'll pretend I'm Fat Rick Freddie again."

  Fred didn't move or breathe, though his pulse beat in his ears. The squeaky noises started up again. He crept to the edge of the open door-they hadn't even thought to close it!-and slowly moved far enough over to see. Gordie was on top, and she was kicking her feet and snorting like an animal. On the floor not far from Gordie's reach was a handgun.

  Fred backed up several steps, his legs trembling. What could he do? He reached around to get the weapon. His shaking hand jerked, loosening the waistband, and the revolver fell down his pants leg, making a dull thud on the carpet. Not loud. Almost silent.

  That's when she started to scream.

  Gordie didn't get it, saying, "What is this? I thought you liked this- Hey, what are you-? That hurt, bitch."

  "Help," she shouted, "he's raping me!" And kept screaming as Fred picked up his gun and returned to stand in the doorway.

  Her stricken face peered over Gordie's shoulder. "Oh, thank God! Fred-help me, he's hurting me-"

  Something changed as Fred recognized the first honest emotion he'd ever seen on her face: sheer terror. She'd just noticed the gun in his hand. She dropped flat in a split second, out of the line of fire.

  Gordie started to get off her, but Fred took two quick steps and fired at his naked back. Flipping over, face red from exertion, Gordie stared at the gushing red coming from his welldeveloped right pectoral. He winced as the pain came and said something, although the shot had made Fred temporarily deaf. Then he heard Gordie babble:

  "Don't do it, man. Please. Just don't do it. Ain't what it looks like here-we're just-it don't mean nothing. And this," he clutched his left hand over the blood on his chest, "why, this is just a flesh- Aw, shit!"

  It must hurt pretty bad. Maybe the man had learned his lesson. Fred glanced over where Angel was still hiding under the covers-just like her to do something that immature, like if she closed her eyes, nobody could see her instead of the other way around.

  Except for the noise Gordie was making about his wound, saying "Oh, shit" over and over, it was quiet. The man wasn't even thinking enough to reach for the handgun only inches from his drooping hand-maybe his muscles weren't working right.

  Thank God the situation was contained. Fred grabbed Gordie's gun and put it out of his reach on the dresser.

  Then he followed Gordie's gaze to where Angel lay.

  Fred walked over and pulled back the bedclothes. The bullet must have gone through Gordie and straight into her heart. Almost no blood. She looked scared and beautiful. It couldn't be. Fred couldn't have done this. Not to her.

  Gordie's feverish voice cut in: "Fred? It was an accident, right? Everything will be okay-"

  Everything okay?

  Fred turned and shot him twice in the chest. Gordie hit the headboard and remained sitting until his head slumped onto his hairy chest and he fell to one side.

  For a long time, Fred stood there in a world gone blank. Finally, he felt the gun in his hand. He set it down and walked out of the room, down the hall, out the front door, and across the street. What was he going to tell Manny?

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  BARBARA DEMARCO-BARRETT'S first book, Pen on Fire: A Busy Woman r Guide to Igniting the Writer Within, was a Los Angeles Times best seller and won a 2005 ASJA Outstanding Book Award. Her articles and essays have appeared in many publications, including Orange Coast Magazine, the LosAngeles Times, Westways, and Poets & Writers. She has taught creative writing at UC, Irvine Extension, since 2000, and also produces and hosts a radio show, Writers on Writing, on KUCI-FM.

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  MARY CASTILLO, a former reporter for LosAngeles Times Community News, is the author of three novels and two novellas.

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  DAN DULING is an award-winning playwright, best known for Stranglehold, which won the Oregon Playwrights Award. He is also a former journalist, having written for publications such as the L.A. Weekly, the Los Angeles Times, and the Los Angeles Herald-Examiner. the feature film Last Lives, based on his screenplay, originally premiered on the Sci-Fi Channel and is now available on DVD. Behind the Orange Curtain, Duling is the scriptwriter for the Pageant of the Masters in Laguna Beach.

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  ROBERT S. LEVINSON is the author of the novels The Traitor in Us All, In the Key ofDeath, Where the Lies Begin, and Ask a Dead Man, as well as the Neil Gulliver and Stevie Martinet series of mystery-thrillers, which to date consist of The Elvis and Marilyn Affair The James Dean Affair The John Lennon Affair and Hot Paint: The Andy Warhol Affair. the Derringer Award-winner's short stories appear often in the Ellery Queen and Alfred Hitchcock mystery magazines.

  DICK LOCHTE is the author of ten popular crime novels, including, most recently, Croaked' His novel Sleeping Dog won a Nero Wolfe Award, was nominated for Edgar, Shamus, and Anthony awards, and was named one of the "100 Favorite Mysteries of the Century" by the Independent Booksellers Association. Lochte, who lives in Southern California with his wife and son, is also an award-winning drama critic and has written screenplays for such actors as Jodie Foster, Martin Sheen, and Roger Moore.

  LAWRENCE MADDOX works as a film and television editor, and has written a number of independent features. He lives with his wife in northeast Los Angeles, less than an hour's drive from the badlands beyond the Orange Curtain.

  GORDON MCALPINE is the author of three novels, Joy in Mudville, The Persistence of Memory, and Mystery Box. His short fiction and book reviews have been featured in magazines and journals both in the U.S. and abroad. He lives in Orange County with his wife and three children.

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  PATRICIA MCFALL is a freelance writer and editor. She also teaches fiction and coaches writers privately. She has published one suspense novel, a half-dozen short stories, and many newspaper features. Her work has appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Orange Coast Magazine, and Writer's Digest.

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  T. JEFFERSON PARKER was born in Los Angeles and has lived in Southern California his whole life. He has published seventeen novels, numerous articles and short stories, and is a three-time Edgar Award winner. His most recent novel is Iron River.

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  GARY PHILLIPS writes stories of chicanery and misadventure in various formats, including novels and short stories. He has contributed stories to several volumes in the Akashic Noir Series, including Los Angeles Noir Dublin Noir and Phoenix Noir. He recently published Freedom's Fight, a novel set in World War II.

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  ROB ROBERGE is the author of the story collection Working Backward
s from the Worst Moment in My Life and the novels More Than They Could Chew, and Drive. His stories have been featured in ZYZZYVA, Chelsea, Other Voices, Alaska Quarterly Review, and the Literary Review. His work has also been anthologized in Another City, Its All Good, and SANTI: Lives of the Modern Saints. Roberge plays guitar and sings with the L.A.-area bands the Violet Rays, the Danbury Shakes, and the Urinals.

  MARTIN J. SMITH is currently editor-in-chief of Orange Coast Magazine and formerly senior editor of the Los Angeles Times Magazine. He is also the author of three crime novels, Time Release, Shadow Image, and the Edgar Award-nominated Straw Men, and is coauthor of two nonfiction pop culture histories, Poplorica and Oops.

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  SUSAN STRAIGHT is a native of Riverside, California, just over the Orange County border. She has published six novels, including Highwire Moon, which was a finalist for the National Book Award, and A Million Nightingales, which was a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize. Her new novel, One Candle, will be published in 2010. Her short story "the Golden Gopher," from LosAngeles Noir, won an Edgar Award in 2008.

  NATHAN WALPOW is the author of the Joe Portugal mystery series. His short story "Push Comes to Shove" was reprinted in the Best American Mystery Stories series. He is a past president of the Southern California chapter of Mystery Writers of America.