by Billy Kring
“I did.”
I said to David and Eugene, “Are you going to press charges?”
David thought a moment, “No, it wouldn’t do anyone any good.”
I gave Farlow a twenty and one of our business cards, “Get something to eat, and come by tomorrow, I want to introduce you to our Agent.”
He took the card and money like it was gold. “Thank you. I will.”
When Farlow left the office, I said to David, “What is this about changing our scenes? We’ve been slaving over the script, working to nail down our lines and memorizing them for hours on end.” Hondo rolled his eyes at me but I pushed on, “And now you’re changing our scenes?”
David said, “We’re adding more to highlight you. It would require additional days of shooting, so I checked with your Agent to be sure you would be available for the additional times.”
“Oh, well okay then. I’m glad we got that settled.” We talked a little more and David and Eugene thanked Hondo probably a hundred times before we got out of the office. As we drove away, I said, “What did I tell you? Stick with me. I just got you a bigger role.”
Hondo said, “Remind me never to take you around any abandoned puppies. We’d have an office full of them.”
“Did you notice his tats?”
“Biker tats, slogans, women, daggers and gang stuff. Why?”
“They were fake. He drew them on himself.”
“Huh.”
“I thought Archie might get him a little work, get Farlow back on his feet and off the street.”
“Archie started in biker movies. I could see Farlow painting up actors for those. Become a makeup assistant or something.”
“Exactamundo.”
As we moved into the heavy traffic again and slowed to a crawl, Hondo said, “We need to find those two black guys, and this Kiowa person. I’m worried the women are running out of time.”
Hondo always brought us back on point. I said, “You have any ideas?”
“Same as always, ask questions, look around, follow anything that looks promising.”
“You’re awesome.”
“No, you are.”
We finally reached the office after what seemed like two years in bumper-to-bumper traffic. We stepped inside, to Archie and big Derek Pozza discussing fight scenes in movies. Archie motioned for us to sit, then continued their conversation. “Bill Smith and Rod Taylor.”
Derek said, “Darker Than Amber. I think that might be number one.”
Archie laughed and said, “Those two guys, who were friends, really went at each other. They were breaking real furniture and knocking the crap out of each other.”
Derek said, “And never came out of character. They were professionals.”
Archie said, “I talked to Bill about a month after they filmed, and he said there were some broken ribs and fingers and noses in that one.”
Derek said, “Definitely real blood.”
I wasn’t that up on a lot of old movies, though I knew who Bill Smith, was because of seeing him in a lot of old 80’s movies like Conan and Red Dawn. I said, “I’d like to see that one.”
Derek said, “The fight scene’s on YouTube. That’s what you want to watch.”
Archie said, “A great original story of John D. MacDonald’s, but the movie, other than that fight, didn’t hold up as well.”
Hondo said. “Anything going on, Derek?”
Derek said, “The two black men and the Kiowa? I may have a lead. We were waiting for you to get here.”
I heard the toilet flush, then water running. Troy came out of the bathroom, “We’re ready to get those perps and rescue our girl.” He wore a lightweight dark blue jacket and powder blue shirt with no tie, tan chinos, and black Reebok shoes with the pump button by the heel.
Hondo said, “You carrying?”
Troy said, “I have a nine millimeter I borrowed from the studio. It shoots blanks but sounds authentic.” He pulled it out of a shoulder holster and showed us. “Looks real, too.”
Hondo said, “Leave it here. Ronny and I will be armed, and that might keep you out of legal trouble later on.”
Troy sighed, then left the pistol, an older model Beretta, on the desk.
I said, “Derek, fill us in.”
He said, “Troy’s the one who came up with the info. He should tell you.”
Troy said, “I visited with some contacts and got the lowdown on what’s happening on the street. Seems these lowlifes are pimping out girls all over the area to groups of undocumented aliens because the money is all in cash, and the aliens aren’t going to rat on them if things go bad. Rumor is that they’ve killed a couple of people and hid bodies in the desert.”
Hondo said, “Where are they?”
“I don’t have the exact spot, because they move every few days to a different camp, keeping the girls busy and the money flowing. These brothers are so bad, they’re straight outta Compton.”
I sighed at his use of movie titles and said, “Which one is the most recent?”
“What, which one they murdered?”
“No, which camp. The location.”
“Oh. They were in Hesperia a few days ago. That’s the most recent I have, and that’s where my contact is, so the info’s accurate, or was, since they might have moved again.”
I stood, “Let’s go.”
Derek stood, “We can take my Navigator. It’s roomy and has four-wheel drive if we need it.”
Archie said, “I have my phone handy. Call if there’s anything on this end I can do.”
Hesperia is forty miles or so from Los Angeles, north of San Bernardino and through Cajon Pass on Interstate 15 between the San Bernardino and San Gabriel Mountains to the Mojave Desert beyond.
Troy seemed nervous as we approached the dusty town. “These guys are big-time bad, you know. Could be a handful.”
I said, “From what you said, they might not even be around.”
Hondo said, “Who we want to talk to is the person that gave you the information.”
Troy said, “Hey, I have to guard my sources. You understand how it is.”
I was through playing. “Troy, take us to him.”
“TJ’s not a man.”
“Then to her.”
“My source isn’t a female.”
“Okay, Troy, throw me a frickin’ bone here.”
“TJ is a trans.”
I said, “Okay, take us to TJ.”
“TJ’s at work.”
My jaws ached from dealing with him. “Where?”
“A bar that caters to undocumented workers. Called La Noventa.”
“Show us.”
“But the owner–.”
I said, “Right now, Troy. I mean it.” I thought about pulling him from the car and shaking it out of him. Hondo felt the same way, and for that matter I think Derek did, too.
At the dusty, worn building called La Noventa, I counted nine older model cars and pickups, and one Prius. As we exited the SUV, Troy stayed in his seat. I said, “Come on, you have to show us who TJ is.”
He seemed nervous. “Probably better if I stay here. I don’t want to get in trouble if the owner sees me.”
“Who’s the owner?” I asked.
“A local gang member.”
“Tell you what, if the owner’s here, we’ll leave and catch TJ after work. But if the owner’s not here, we talk to TJ.”
Troy rubbed his chin, “I don’t know. He may show up any time.”
Hondo opened the passenger door and grabbed Troy by his arm, “Let’s go, amigo.” Troy came out so he could save his extremity.
The building looked like some others I’d seen that had been constructed in the forties: a long, shotgun affair with asbestos shingles on the outside walls. Spanish music played inside, some catchy song with a good beat. Derek opened the door and ducked to go inside, and the rest of us followed into the dim interior.
Someone said to Derek, “Well, hello there, you tall drink of water.” My eyes
adjusted to the darkness after coming in from bright sun and I saw the person talking.
Standing eye to eye with six-foot-eight Derek was an African American platinum blonde. The short hair on the side of TJ’s head glowed a rich burgundy, and a platinum, three-inch high Mohawk on top of TJ’s head tapered down the back of the head to join a three-foot long braid of silver hair reaching to the belt line. A black silk shirt opened three buttons down the front revealed cleavage that would make Dolly Parton envious. Tight Levi jeans showed a large bulge in the crotch, and pink flats finished the ensemble.
Troy stepped forward and said, “Hi, TJ.”
TJ gave him a big, pumping handshake, “Troy, how you doing, and what brings you out here in the middle of the week?”
“I, uh, we wanted to talk to you if possible. Is the owner around?”
TJ said, “Miguel’s in Sinaloa, doing what he does. So baby, I’m in charge.”
I looked over the patrons. At least twenty people were there; men and women, and all appeared to be Hispanic. Some were shorter, darker, with eyes as black as oil, while others had lighter complexions, and the eyes ran mostly brown, with a couple of women having eyes the color of jade. They watched us and talked quietly among themselves. A couple of the men closest to us didn’t look too friendly. I used the vision from the corner of my eyes to pick out things on them, like a neck tattoo on one that showed C del N. The other had a pistol in his belt, too, under his baggy shirt.
I heard TJ say, “Come into the office.” I followed the group into the small, air conditioner-equipped office. The window unit was old and had a faint mold smell, but put out frigid air. It had leaked on the wall below the unit at one time, leaving a brown stain shaped like the bottom third of Texas. TJ said, “The three men you want usually go from here to Barstow, then make a slow loop from town to town for two weeks before they wind up here again.”
I said, “You know where they might be tomorrow?”
TJ said, “You’re Baca?” I nodded. TJ said, “You might try Mojave first, and if they aren’t there, then Bakersfield.”
“Do they take the women with them?”
“Yes, they caravan in several vehicles.”
“Where’s the crib in Mojave?”
TJ gave me a half grin, “That, I do not know.”
“Is there someone who might?”
“Someone in Mojave. Your guess is a good as mine.”
I took out my phone and showed TJ images of Bodhi and Amber. “Are these women with them?”
TJ looked at the images a long moment. “I can’t be sure…”
“Anything you can remember would be a huge help. We’re worried about their safety.”
TJ said, “It was late, and I heard some yelling outside after we closed. I looked through the window and saw the three men roughing up two girls. It might have been these two. I can’t swear to it because it was dark that night, more than usual because of the clouds. But it could have been them, especially this one,” TJ touched Amber’s image, “That one fought hard, and they made her pay for it.”
I felt the blood pulsing in my temples, “What did they do with her, with them?”
“Knocked that one out, and kicked her a bit, then put them both in one of those small vans you see around. Then they drove off.”
I said, “Did you call the police?”
TJ gave me a look, “We only call if there’s a dead body. People settle things themselves here.”
“Was this recent?”
“Yesterday.”
I felt anger and frustration growing in me. We were close. “What color is the van?”
“I think it was a light blue or light green, something like that.”
“Did you get the license plate?”
“I try not to notice things like that. I’m taking a chance telling you this as it is.”
Hondo said, “Why are you talking to us?”
TJ said, “Couple reasons. I like Troy here, and if you can take those three creeps out of the picture, I won’t have to do something to them myself. They mess with my customers one more time and there will be a reckoning.”
I said, “One more question. Those two customers closest to us out there, what do you know about them?”
“Cartel Del Norte, you don’t want to mess with them. If you leave them alone, they won’t bother you.”
Derek said, “I haven’t heard of that one.”
TJ said, “That’s what Los Zetas call themselves now when they’re working in the states. The Cartel of the North.
I said, “We want the women back, that’s all. We aren’t looking for trouble.”
“I wish you luck.”
As we left, I noticed the two bad boys still in the bar. That made me feel better for some reason. I guess I was getting jumpy. Walking to the Navigator, Derek said to Troy, “Does Sylvia know about TJ?”
Troy stopped. “If you think I’m running around on my fiancé, I’m not. TJ’s father helped me out of a bad spot a long time ago. When he died, TJ started managing the bar. Been here ever since. I stop by occasionally to check and see how things are going.”
“Okay.” Derek said.
I said, “I have to ask, does TJ identify as a man or woman?”
“TJ’s happy with the way things are right now and doesn’t see any need to go to one side or the other.”
Hondo said, “As long as it makes TJ happy, that’s all that matters.”
I said, “Either way, TJ’s date is gonna need to carry a ladder around for them to kiss.”
We drove on to Mojave, passing through Barstow and turning left onto State Route 58. Fifty miles later we stopped at a McDonald’s in Mojave and grabbed some fast food. I wasn’t hungry, thinking about Amber, but I got a salad and water. We ate out of earshot of other customers so we could talk.
I asked Troy, “How well do you know this area?”
“Pretty well. I don’t come up here as much anymore.”
“Where do you think they might be holding Bodhi?”
“Where they’re doing business, I guess, so they can watch her.”
“Where do you think that might be?”
“In the poorer side of town, where the illegals are living.”
“Good enough,” I said.
We drove the town’s streets and it didn’t take long before Derek spotted a group of men gathered together at the corner of a vacant lot. He said, “These may be undocumented, and here looking for work. The contractors come by and hire them for the fields.” He exited the car and walked to the group. They seemed reticent at first. Derek turned on the charm and before long they talked all at once as Derek smiled and sat on the curb with them.
Five minutes later, he returned to the Navigator and slid behind the wheel, saying, “The one who spoke the best English said the caravan of women was here until yesterday.”
Troy said, “Did they see Bodhi?”
“He said they kept one van away from the others, and they kept one of the black men at the door the entire time. But to answer your question, he said no, they saw no white women.”
I said, “What color was the van?”
“Light blue.”
“I don’t guess he knew where they were going next, did he?”
Derek nodded, “Bakersfield.” He started the engine and we left Mojave with Hondo and I watching for the two cartel members as we passed the city limits sign.
Chapter 5
The drive was uneventful, and as we passed through the mountains and out into the Central Valley, the agricultural fields surrounding Bakersfield glowed in various shades of green, with each field showing a specific color within its brown, dusty road borders.
Derek said, “This is a huge area to check. Any ideas?”
I said, “Drive through the fields, find any likely people and ask them. Only thing I can think of at this stage.”
No one else said anything, so that’s what we did. We got sullen looks and silent people, then a few friendly people willing to talk but
knowing nothing, a foremen who wanted us out of their work area, and a couple of undocumented men who asked us to take them to Los Angeles, saying they would make it worth our while.
Later, at another field, we stopped near three older Hispanic women beside a small fire covered with a metal grate propped up on bricks. Meat roasted on it, along with peppers, onions, and a pot of homemade tomato salsa. They sold small, delicious tacos. Two women patted out the corn tortillas as we watched and the third woman put them on a flat sheet of tin on one side of the fire to cook. They didn’t know anything either, but we all bought tacos and relished every bite as we continued searching. I ate five. Hondo called me a glutton, but I didn’t care, they tasted that good.
When the sun’s edge dropped behind the western mountains, Derek said, “We can’t do any good in the dark. I’ll get us rooms for the night and we can start again in the morning.”
Troy said, “The Padre Hotel is a good place to stay.”
We made it to the hotel just as the sun disappeared and city lights glowed. Troy made a grand gesture at the front desk, saying to the woman behind it, “I’ll pay for it all. You boys don’t have to want for anything while you’re with me.”
I thought about his cut in allowance and said, “Cristal Champagne for each, please. Have them send it up.” Troy paled a little. I made a fist and bopped him on the shoulder, “It’s a joke, Troy Boy, I’m yanking your chain.”
He didn’t look too sure, but said, “Hah, that was a funny one, Ronny.” The others grinned. We agreed to meet a half hour later and find somewhere to eat, and after that, a place where we could talk about what we needed to do next.
We wound up eating at the hotel, in the Belvedere Room, which had excellent food. I ordered the Tiger Prawns and slapped Hondo’s hand for trying to pilfer one off my plate. After eating, we went to Troy’s room to talk, something called The Oil Baron room, and space enough for all of us to be comfortable. It even had a wet bar, which Troy evidently enjoyed upon check in as I spotted four tiny vodka bottles lying on their sides, all of them empty.
We were all tired. For several minutes we sat in silence, drinking whatever concoction Troy put in front of us. Mine was something in a clear, beer-like bottle called a Lime-a-Rita. It tasted okay, but not something I’d order on my own.
