The Long-Lost Love Letters of Doc Holliday

by David Corbett

  Complaint for Injunctive Relief to Protect and Preserve Historic Writings; Conversion of Irreplaceable Historic Letters and Demand for Constructive Trust; Request for Damages for Personal Injury as a Result of Wrongful Assault, Battery and False Imprisonment; Request for Punitive Damages based on Malice, Oppression, and Fraud.

  On top of her request for a TRO and an ex parte hearing for the next day to place the letters into an escrow account pending trial, she’d added a motion and proposed order that the proceedings be sealed, more as a gesture than a tactic. She didn’t want to come off like a shakedown artist, using publicity as a pressure move. Besides, Tuck had specifically wanted the matter kept as private as possible.

  The Latina failed to glance up again, except to negotiate the time of the emergency hearing—tomorrow morning eleven a.m.—and to hand back file-stamped copies of Lisa’s documents. Her gaze held as she added, “You need to take the TRO and the ex parte application up to the judge.” A matter-of-fact voice, muddied by the thick glass wall. “If she approves it, make sure you serve it on the defendants no less than twenty-five hours before the hearing. That only gives you,” a glance at the wall clock, “a little over two hours.”

  ***

  Lisa never got to meet the judge. Her clerk, a sprightly sixtyish dynamo in a well-worn cardigan, accepted the documents, asked for a brief rundown of the case, then disappeared with a promise to be back shortly, only to honor that promise with an alacrity that Lisa, given prior experience with the courts, considered almost spooky, like magic.

  Maybe there’s a little wind at my back after all, she thought, checking to make sure the TRO and ex parte order were both, indeed, signed.

  Next stop, process server. She’d found him online—an outfit called Serving by Irving, first-rate testimonials from area lawyers despite the goofy name—and a man had phoned back that morning while she was in the shower, leaving a message that they could meet at the courthouse. He’d been called to testify about a witness dodging a subpoena, and would be waiting outside the courtroom.

  True to his word, he stood there in the hallway, looking nothing like what she’d expected—tall, buff, bull-necked, with arms heftier than her thighs.

  She stuck out her hand. “Hey. I’m Lisa Balamaro. You must be…Irving?”

  His hand swallowed hers. “Mr. Subotnick retired. Bought the business from him two years ago.” An affable shrug. “Name’s too catchy not to keep. I’m Eric Boone. Call me Boonie. Got something for me?”

  She dug the documents out of her briefcase and handed them over. He scanned the caption but, unlike the Latina clerk, offered no response, except to say, “Last known addresses in here?”

  “At the back.”

  He thumbed through, found them, nodded. “Looks like we’re set.”

  “I’m filing for emergency injunctive relief, so the hearing comes up quick. Late tomorrow morning, in fact. Time’s tight. Do your best. If you can’t get them served inside the deadline, I may need you to testify. I’m sorry.”

  “Not a problem.” He spread his arms, as though to remind her why he was there. “There a local number in case I can’t reach your cell?”

  She dug a business card out of her wallet, wrote down the hotel info. He took the card, read it. “No offense, but you don’t sound like someone from San Francisco.”

  “I grew up back east, Philadelphia.” Interesting—she seldom got called on her accent. Unless she was talking too fast. Like now. “Only came out west a few years ago.”

  “You think San Francisco’s the West?”

  Yeah, she thought. Definitely not an Irving. “Well, it’s west of the New Jersey Turnpike, how’s that?”

  That earned her a smile. “Got me there, Ms.…”

  “Balamaro.” Sparing him the agony of struggling through it. “Lisa’s fine. And easier.”

  “Okay then.” Once again, his hand devoured hers. “Take care of this for you pronto, Ms. Lisa.”

  ***

  The elevator hummed like a walk-in freezer as she rode it back down to the first floor. Making way across the cavernous lobby, she spotted the Latina clerk from earlier waiting along the wall outside the court clerk’s office.

  Their eyes met. The woman gestured with a sideways nod toward the entrance, then eased away from the wall and sauntered outside, heading for the far end of the courtyard.

  Lisa followed, glancing around to see if anyone might be watching or loitering a bit too intently. Satisfied they were alone and unobserved, she came up slowly beside the Latina, noticing the tightly crossed arms, the lowered chin.

  “There are some things you need to know,” she said, “about the men you named in your lawsuit.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Offering no further explanation except to introduce herself—her name, she said, was Asunción Ortiz—the woman walked briskly to a bus shelter up the block and on the opposite side of Congress Street. They sat side by side on the bench. The brittle fronds of a giant windmill palm chattered overhead in the breeze. Lisa felt grateful for its shade.

  “The men you are suing,” Asunción said. “One man in particular, Littmann. Be very careful.”

  A bus roared around the uphill corner and pulled to the shelter, stopped. A woman wearing a rumpled suit and a pained expression disembarked, turning instantly toward the courthouse. Lisa waved the driver on. The folding doors squealed shut, and the bus thundered off in a choking black plume.

  Lisa said, “I’m not surprised by what you just told me,” waving away the exhaust. “They’ve already—”

  “They are killers,” Asunción said. “They are animals.” Her hands sat clasped tight in her lap. Her eyes glistened.

  “This Littmann, this man who calls himself a judge but has no use for justice. He is the head of a group that patrols the border, hunting for people coming across. When they find them, they do not turn them over to La Migra, no. No. That would be too kind. Too…just.”

  Her chest began rising, falling with the effort of containing herself. The tears she could no longer blink away began winnowing down her cheeks.

  Lisa said, “And…what?”

  “They tie their hands and feet,” Asunción said, wiping her face, “then hang them from gallows put up in the mountains. They loop signs around the necks of the bodies that read No pasaran. Do you know what this means?”

  “Yes,” Lisa said, registering the irony.

  She’d had a special devotion for Latin American history as an undergrad at Georgetown. The phrase—it meant “They Shall Not Pass”—first became famous among the anti-fascist Republicans in the rebellion against Franco, then reappeared in Nicaragua in the war against Reagan’s Contras. How perfectly broad-minded of an anti-immigrant lynch mob to bend the phrase to its anti-Hispanic purpose.

  “Perhaps I’m mistaken,” she said, “but I get the sense this is personal for you.”

  An absent nod. Thousand-yard-stare. “My sister.” A ragged sigh. “My niece.”

  She dug into the pocket of her slacks, removed a folded slip of paper. “You should call this man. He can tell you more. Tell him I gave you his name.”

  ***

  The name was Elan Wingfield, and he worked at the Public Defender’s Office—at least, that’s whose receptionist picked up the phone when Lisa called the number.

  A brief hold and then he came on the line, and she explained herself, what she was doing, how she got his name, where she was calling from. The recitation earned her a painful silence, charged with apprehension she’d just blundered into a reckless mistake.

  “Mister Wingfield?”

  “Walk up Congress two blocks,” he said finally, his voice lilting and deep and calm, an accent she couldn’t place. “Cross over to Veinte de Agosto Park. Wait for me near the statue of Poncho Villa.”

  A public spot, Lisa thought. That bodes well. “How will I know you?” Another interminable silence.

  “I will give you the secret sign of my ancient people.” An acid chuckle, rumbling up fr
om smoke-scarred lungs. “My office is nearby,” he added. “I will not be long.”

  ***

  Lisa walked up the four-lane boulevard to a small municipal park, surrounded by the county government complex, a shimmering office tower, a Catholic church.

  Finding a shaded bench, she made herself comfortable, settling in for her wait. After a moment she lifted her eyes to the large bronze sculpture of the merry, murderous generalissimo, Poncho Villa, atop his steed. She wondered what Tuck would make of it.

  That promptly brought to mind the worrisome four marines: Rags, Chalky, Wander, Black Buddha Killer—and what the hell was that about?

  She gnawed at her lip. Moral support, yeah, right. Fire support, more likely. Please, dear God, please don’t let them be stupid.

  ***

  Rags watched from the passenger seat of the rental van as the one called Giordano left his office—nothing but a sign in a window otherwise sheeted by blinds, single unit in a Sierra Vista strip mall.

  The man headed for a sandwich shop three doors down, went in.

  Sitting at the wheel, Wander said, “Consultant, my ass.” A throaty hiss—Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry. “If that ain’t a front, I’ll eat my fingers.”

  Wander had earned good money in Helmand, typically over cards, taking side bets from fellow jarheads that he could impersonate any entertainer, politician, or talking head they could name.

  “Go ahead,” Rags said. “Pull across the road, park as close as you can.”

  As Wander waited for traffic to clear, Rags turned around in his seat to face the van’s windowless storage bay—no seats, just space, and thick with heat.

  He said, “You sure you’re up for this?”

  Rayella, sitting Indian-style on a flannel mat, dabbing away sweat, replied with a bloodshot smile. Behind her, Chalky and BBK—one lean and long with opalescent skin, the other massive and solid, arms like mahogany—sat with their backs against the van’s walls, knees up, feet flat, like paratroopers waiting out the drop. They’d stacked their duffels like cordwood against the windowless rear door, along with the weapons.

  Wander pulled the van into the parking area and hitched to a stop near an exit, easy access back onto the street, twenty yards from the sandwich shop. He kept the motor idling as everyone but him and BBK got out.

  “Bring me back a pickle,” Wander said. Mel Gibson impression this time, vintage Lethal Weapon, that Aussie-inflected Angeleno thing. Again, pitch perfect. “Something crunchy.”

  Rags pulled a map from his back pocket. Once he got near the shop, he spread it out across the hood of a car, as though to study it. Chalky eased up alongside.

  Rayella, meanwhile, headed in.

  ***

  The place was called The Rye Smile—low ceilings and brash light, a sign in the window reading: Life, Liberty, and the Prosciutto of Happiness.

  Inside it smelled like fresh bread, pickle brine, and something else, something vaguely foul, like one of the sandwich jockeys had dried his wet sneakers in the oven.

  It being just a little past ten o’clock, there were only two customers, three if you counted Giordano. He had his back to the door, jingling change in a loose fist as he studied the breakfast sandwich menu, written in chalk on a wall-mounted blackboard, then leaned in to place his order with the counter girl.

  Rayella waited near the door, trembling as she studied the back of the stocky man’s neck. What I wouldn’t give, she thought, to get him alone. Five minutes. Just that. Not ungrateful for Rags and the others, their gung-ho chivalry, their methodical devotion to making things right. Hardly. But remembering the punch to her face, the rest of the rough stuff, then the stench of his breath, feeling it on her skin, warm and wet as he whispered his filthy little monologue. Was it really only a couple of days ago that life had been okay?

  Giordano’s order came. He collected the small brown bag, turned to leave. After a few head-down steps, he finally glanced up. Stopped in his tracks.

  Rayella traded stares with him. Gradually, he broke into a yellowish smile. A second check of the other customers to see if anyone got up or even paid him any mind—no one did. He turned back, eased toward her.

  “Looky, looky.”

  “Can we talk?” She half-turned toward the door.

  “What’s wrong with right here.” Not a question.

  “Nothing. I just thought you’d want—”

  He leaned in to whisper. “Trust me. You have no goddamn clue what I want.” She could count the pores on his nose. He straightened back up, once again scanned the room. “What’s there to talk about?”

  “Look, I don’t want trouble. I just want the letters back.”

  “Yeah? Good luck with that.”

  “Whatever’s going on between Tuck Mercer and you people has nothing to do with me. My grandmother gave me those letters. They’re a gift.”

  “Your lawyer know what you’re doing here?” He checked out her blouse, as though looking for odd lumps, a wire.

  “This doesn’t concern my lawyer.”

  “Bet she sees it different. Let me see your hands.”

  Despite herself, Rayella shuddered. “Why?”

  “Just show me.”

  She held up her hands, steadied them just above waist-level, as though preparing to conjure the dead.

  Giordano’s eyes never left hers. “You know, in ancient Egypt, when someone got caught at forgery, they cut off both their hands.”

  Rayella swallowed. “I haven’t forged anything.”

  “You really don’t know what’s going on here, do you? Or who you’re dealing with.” He nudged her aside, pushed open the door, and left.

  ***

  As he headed down the sidewalk, Giordano noticed a tall guy, thin but strong, almost albino except his hair was black. The man stood up from where he’d been leaning over a car, poring over a map with his buddy.

  “Excuse me.” Desert rat accent. Eyes like ice picks. “Could you show us the quickest route to Benson?”

  Giordano never got an answer out. The second of the two men—face a blur, just a flash of something rippled and red, a blotch, a birthmark, a burn—rose and spun and delivered a crippling kidney punch.

  Just as Giordano’s knees turned to muck, a van throttled up, screeched to a stop, the side door slid open fast. They bundled him in—the girl, Rayella, followed. The door slid shut. The van sped off.

  ***

  They bound and gagged him with duct tape, working fast, then covered him with the flannel mat.

  Rags watched from the passenger seat. Once they had Giordano securely bundled, BBK glanced toward the front, waiting for the go-ahead.

  Rags nodded.

  BBK lifted his thick dark arm, fist clenched, then brought it down so hard and fast Rayella cringed, even before impact.

  From beneath the flannel mat, behind his duct tape gag, Giordano screamed as something, probably a bone, snapped dully.

  BBK glanced up again. Rags waited, met Rayella’s eyes.

  Another nod. Another hammering blow. More muffled screams.

  Break his ribs, Rayella thought, one by one. Not all of them, though. We need him to live. We need him to talk.

  The beating went on as they drove up Highway 90 toward Huachuca City, where there was an abandoned house way out on Babacomari Road. Tuck had found it. He was waiting for them there.

  Meanwhile, up front, Wander sang:

  “‘You can run on for a long time

  Run on for a long time

  Run on for a long time

  Sooner or later God’ll cut you down

  Sooner or later God’ll cut you down.’”

  Like Johnny Cash was right there in the van.

  CHAPTER 22

  “Miss Balamaro?”

  She hadn’t noticed him approaching. True to his word, he’d gotten there quick. “I am Elan Wingfield.”

  He stood with the sun behind him, and she had to shade her eyes to make him out. A tall man, bit of a mid-life paunch,
dressed like a hip professor: rumpled denim shirt beneath a tweed jacket, blue jeans with a hand-made silver buckle, scuffed boots. His black hair, parted in the middle and shoulder-length, worn loose, bore threads of gray, and she was wondering at his age—same as Tuck, perhaps, or a few years older—when his face at last came into focus, haloed by sunlight. It was broad and smooth, the color of mesquite, younger than his body. The nose of a Roman senator and the full lips of a matinee idol. A gentle courage warmed the eyes.

  “Nice little park,” she said, thinking: Was that lame enough?

  “Last summer, it’s wall-to-wall squatters, till the city kicks them out.” He sat down heavily at the bench’s far end. “Been a homeless camp for five years. Some still trickle back, time to time, sleep on the sidewalks, others have tents they call ‘Dream Pods.’”

  A smoky chuckle, like the one she’d heard over the phone.

  She wondered at his using the present tense even to discuss the past. Maybe that’s an Indian thing, she thought. Speaking of lame. Thank God you didn’t say that out loud.

  “Admiring our prize abomination, I see.” He waved a listless hand at the statue of Poncho Villa.

  “I have a friend named Tuck Mercer with, shall we say, a unique understanding of Western art. I was trying to imagine what he would think of it.” She cocked her head, as though a different angle might improve the appraisal. “It’s kind of Remington-esque,” she said, “only not as, well, good.” She turned back toward him quickly. “Oh God, I’m sorry if that seems—”

  “I’m no judge of art.” The man shrugged. “But I know the name Remington. He drew a sketch of the Skeleton Canyon Massacre for, you know, some magazine back east. Sixty of my people, the Yavapai, wiped out. But he didn’t draw that part. Just showed the soldiers firing from behind rocks at, you know, the enemy. The savages.” He turned back toward her. “You have any idea what I’m talking about?”