by Don Winslow
She’s not only gorgeous and smart, she’s tough and hardworking and ambitious and she gets it. Like, they’re necking on his couch in the trailer when the scanner squawks about a fire on a houseboat, and after a minute Letty sighs Go ahead because she knows Jack has never done a boat fire before. Letty’s so cool she’s even there when he gets back and she lets him tell her all about it.
Some of their dates, they go to the shooting range together where Letty invariably beats him and then busts his balls about it all through dinner, telling him that because he lost and she won he has to do anything she says when they get home.
“Anything,” she says, touching his dick with her toe. Then she starts murmuring en español what she wants him to do to her, and when he asks her what it all means she says, “You just start doing. I’ll let you know when you get it.”
She’s so cool she goes down to Mexico with him and sleeps in the back of the truck he borrows from his dad, and when they get back she says, Sweetie, that was wonderful. Next time, a hotel.
Pretty soon they’re spending all of their off time together. They go to the beach, to movies, they go out to clubs and dance. They make love and talk about cases. They talk about marriage and kids.
“I want two kids,” she says.
“Just two?”
“What? I’m Mexican, I’m supposed to want ten?” she says. “I’m one of those modern Mexican women. I read Cosmo, I read Ms., I give head. Two kids, you can help me make them.”
“No, I’m one of those old-fashioned Anglo men,” Jack says. “You have to marry me first.”
“Maybe,” she says. “But if you want to propose to me, I want the dinner, the flowers …”
Jack starts saving for a ring.
So he has a place, a car, a woman.
And a job he loves.
Wakes up and goes to sleep to the sound of the ocean, sometimes sweetened by the sound of Letty’s breathing.
Then Kazzy Azmekian’s carpet warehouse burns down.
It’s a big freaking fire, so they put two guys on it.
Jack and a more experienced guy.
Brian Bentley.
26
The Atlas Warehouse fire is an arson.
Jack’s in there doing his inspection and what he sees are a bunch of cleaning rags left by a baseboard heater, but he’s also smelling enough gas fumes to get you through New Jersey on Empty.
The night watchman, some poor old semiretired guy from a second-rate rent-a-cop company, doesn’t get out. Probably asleep in there or something, and of course the smoke detectors have been disabled, so the guy dies from smoke inhalation.
So you got an arson and a murder, maybe second-degree but still a murder, and so Jack wants the arsonist bad.
Jack and Bentley are in the burned-out building doing their inspection when an old Mexican gentleman walks up to them and says that he heard that a man had died, and he wants to do the right thing.
Jack’s bowled over.
Like, here they are standing in the black hole of this used-to-be-a-building and this man walks up like a ghost. White suit, white shirt and carefully knotted tie—Jack figures the man must have dressed up to come talk to the police because he thinks it’s an important thing to do. The man just walks up and introduces himself.
“I’m Porfirio Guzman,” he says. “I saw what happened.”
Mr. Guzman lives in the apartment building across the street, hears a noise about three in the morning, looks out his window and sees a man come out of the warehouse, throw gasoline cans into his trunk and drive off.
“Can you describe the man?” Jack asks him.
Guzman got a good look at him. And the car. And the license plate.
“I see him toss the cans into his trunk,” he says. “A few moments later I see the flames.”
Jack learns that Mr. Guzman is sixty-six years old. Takes tickets at a local movie theater, pays his rent. Quiet voice, distinguished-looking, a real gentleman.
“Are you willing to testify to this?” Jack asks.
Guzman looks at him like he’s crazy.
“Sí,” he says. “Of course.”
He’ll make a hell of a witness.
Except the guy he fingers is Teddy Kuhl.
Jack and Bentley bring Mr. Guzman in to look at pictures and he picks out Teddy Kuhl. Teddy’s the leader of a crew of white biker trash that does odd jobs for the so-called businessmen who own shit like the Atlas Warehouse. Teddy and his crew do the odd collections, extortions, vandalism, protection, arson and murder.
The second Jack sees Mr. Guzman point at Teddy’s picture and nod his head, Jack knows that Kazzy Azmekian had his own place burned down. He also knows he has a problem, because if Guzman makes a statement or takes the stand he’s going to get killed.
A dead-solid lock.
“We can’t let him testify,” Jack says to Bentley.
“He don’t, we have no case.”
They have an arson but no arsonist.
“He does testify,” Jack says, “he’s dead.”
Bentley shrugs.
Jack’s brooding on this all the time they’re going out to pick up Teddy. This is not a difficult thing to do. If Teddy’s not out actually committing some hideous form of nastiness, he’s on the third stool from the door at Cook’s Corner in Modjeska Canyon, either planning some hideous form of nastiness he’s about to commit or celebrating some hideous form of nastiness he just did. Anyway, Jack’s working on the situation as they go over there, jerk Teddy off his stool, cuff him and take him back to the station. By the time they have Teddy in the interview room Jack knows what he needs to do.
Get a confession.
Jack grabs a cup of coffee and then goes into the room to work him.
Teddy’s a real asshole. He even looks like a real asshole. Long blond hair thinning in front. A purple sleeveless T-shirt to show off his arm muscles. Couple of tattoos, one of which appears to be an anatomically correct teddy bear in a state of arousal. He’s even got jailhouse tattoos on his fingers, which when interlocked together spell out L-E-T-S-L-O-V-E.
Jack turns on the tape recorder and asks, “Is it Kuhl like in ‘cool’ or like in ‘mule’?”
“Teddy Cool.”
Jack says, “A warehouse burned down last night, Teddy Cool.”
Teddy shrugs. Says, “That’s a real bish, man.”
Jack asks, “What did you say?”
“That’s a real bish.”
“Bish?” Bentley asks. “You mean bitch? You got a speech impediment there, Teddy?”
“Yeah,” Teddy says. “Maybe I do, you fat son of a bish.”
Jack asks, “Where were you last night?”
“What time?”
“About 3 a.m.”
“Fucking your mother.”
“You were at the Atlas Warehouse.”
Jack watches Teddy thinking. Mulling over that if they have him at the scene, it’s either a snitch or a witness. If it’s a snitch, he’s one of the crew. If it’s a witness …
“Your mom’s a drag in the sack, man,” Teddy says. “Gives lousy head. But I guess you’d know that.”
“You were at the warehouse.”
“Your sister, on the other hand …”
“You left a gas can behind,” Jack says. “Got your prints on it.”
He’d told this lie once to a young amateur who had blurted out, “Bullshit, I was wearing gloves!”
Teddy doesn’t go for it, though.
“Wasn’t me,” he says.
“Don’t be a dumb shit,” Jack says. “We got you. Why take a hit for Kazzy Azmekian? He wouldn’t take one for you. Give us Azmekian, we’ll get you some credit with the DA.”
Bentley chimes in, “Theodore, you have priors. Unless you do something to help yourself, you could be looking at double-digit time here. You could be dating Rosie for ten, twelve years.”
“Or you could write us a statement,” Jack says. “Like, now.”
Teddy lifts his middle fi
nger, sticks it in his mouth and sucks it, then points it at Jack.
Out in the hallway, Jack says to Bentley, “We gotta get a statement. We can’t let Guzman testify.”
“Man knew what he was getting into,” Bentley says.
“Teddy’ll have him banged out.”
“I’m not losing an arson-murder,” Bentley says.
Jack shakes his head. “Either we get Teddy’s statement or we just say fuck it.”
Bentley looks at the floor for a long time. Finally says, “You do what you think you have to do.”
The selective use of the second person doesn’t elude Jack.
He asks, “We’re together on this?”
They look at each other while Bentley thinks it over. Then he says, “Yeah.”
They go into the room. Bentley leans against the wall in the corner as Jack sits down across the table from Teddy. Jack turns on the tape recorder, says, “You don’t know how to write, you can give it to us on tape.”
Teddy leans over the desk, gets into Jack’s face.
“You don’t got no fuckin’ gas can, you don’t got no fuckin’ prints,” he says. “What you got is a fuckin’ witness, and by the time this thing gets to trial … well, don’t you just hate it when bad things happen to good people? Ain’t it a real bish?”
Jack turns off the tape recorder. Takes off his jacket and lays it on the back of the chair.
Jack’s a big guy. Six-four and muscled. He comes around behind Teddy, says, “Teddy Coooool.” Then cups his palms and slams them against Teddy’s ears.
Teddy screams and slumps down in the chair, holding his hands over his ears and shaking his head. Jack picks him up and tosses him against the wall. Catches him on the rebound and bounces him off the other wall. Does this three or four times before he lets Teddy fall to the floor.
“You set the fire, Teddy.”
“No.”
Jack picks Teddy halfway up, then drives his knee into Teddy’s chest. The air comes out of Teddy’s lungs with a grunt that makes Jack sick. But it’s like, Do the job and do it right, so he knees Teddy two more times then shoves him down so that his head bounces off the concrete floor.
He backs off and Teddy goes fetal.
“Don’t you just hate it,” Jack says, “when bad things happen to good people?”
“You’re crazy, man,” Teddy moans.
“That would be a good thing for you to keep in mind, Teddy,” Jack says. “Now, are you going to give it up or do we start again?”
“I want a lawyer.”
Jack knows he has to move him, and quick. Teddy gets a lawyer, he’ll find out there’s a murder rap hanging out, and then it’s over.
“Did you say something?” Jack asks. “Because you’re really tripping, man. Bouncing off the walls. PCP, Teddy? Or did you get hold of some skanky meth?”
Jack stomps on him, four times, hard.
Teddy balls up.
“C’mon,” Jack says. “It’s an arson. You’ll get eight, serve what, three? You can do three.”
Teddy’s lying on the floor sucking for breath.
Bentley’s turned away, his face into the corner.
“Or do you want to start again, Teddy?” Jack asks. “Because this time I’m really going to hurt you. I go about two twenty, so if I jump and land on your back …”
“Maybe I did the fire.”
“Maybe?”
“I did the fire,” Teddy says. “But Azmekian hired me to do it and I’ll say that in court.”
Jack feels the weight of the world go off his shoulders. He’s been carrying Guzman’s life and he didn’t want to drop it.
About ten seconds later Teddy’s in the chair, writing like mad. Gives it up totally. When he’s done, Bentley says to him, “Asshole, a guy died in the fire. You just wrote yourself a murder beef.”
Which just cracks Bentley up.
Jack’s down the hall, he can hear Bentley laughing and Teddy screaming, You motherfuckers! You lying asshole motherfuckers!
Gets over that, though, and really starts laying it on Azmekian, giving up other fires, all kinds of shit. Teddy’s digging like a fucking gopher, man, trying to tunnel away from that body in the warehouse.
Jack, he’s in the can puking.
He never lit a guy up before.
End of the workday, he goes and finds his dad and they surf until it’s black out. Tells Letty he doesn’t want company that night.
27
The story on Jack Wade, Part Three.
Jack’s on the stand in Azmekian’s criminal trial.
Jack listens to the DA’s question, turns to the jury and says, “The modus operandi of the fire matched that of several known arsonists, including Mr. Kuhl. We brought Mr. Kuhl in for questioning, confronted him with the evidence against him, and he wrote a statement confessing to setting the fire and implicating Mr. Azmekian.”
“What sort of evidence?”
Jack nods. “Mr. Kuhl left behind one of the gasoline cans at the scene, and we found fingerprints that matched Mr. Kuhl’s.”
Jury’s eating him up.
“Was Mr. Kuhl under any duress to sign the statement?”
Jack smiles. “None.”
The DA calls Kuhl, who looks properly criminal-like in jailhouse Day-Glo orange. Kuhl’s in County awaiting his own trial, so he has a lot riding on his testimony. He doesn’t get the job done on Azmekian, he gets to carry the dead night watchman. They get through the preliminaries and then the DA throws the big fat pitch across the plate.
“Did you set the fire at the Atlas Warehouse?”
“No.”
Goddamn Billy’s in the gallery and he about swallows his teeth because Cal Fire has denied Azmekian’s fire claim based on Teddy Kuhl’s statement. Azmekian filed a lawsuit, of course, and they’re three months from the civil trial. Which will be a slam dunk if Azmekian has to shuffle to the stand in ankle bracelets.
The DA isn’t all that thrilled, either. He gulps and asks a question that provides commuter entertainment in the Greater Orange County legal community for weeks to come.
He asks, “You didn’t?”
“Nope.”
The DA goes back to his table and starts scrambling through his papers. Comes up with Kuhl’s statement, and starts reading it out loud. Then asks, “Didn’t you write this statement and testify to its truth under oath?”
“Yeah,” Kuhl says, and pauses with a jailhouse joker’s perfect timing. “But I lied.”
Jack gets this sinking feeling.
His career, going right through the floor and into the shitter.
As the DA croaks, “No further questions.”
Azmekian’s lawyer has a few, though.
“You said you lied in that statement, Mr. Kuhl.”
“Yeah.”
“Why did you lie?”
Kuhl grins at Jack, then says, “Because Deputy Wade there was beating the crap out of me.”
He goes on with great glee to say that Wade threatened to really hurt him if he didn’t give up Azmekian. How he would have said anything to stop the beating. How he doesn’t even know Azmekian. No, sir, never set eyes on him before today.
Jack’s sitting there watching this performance and wondering who got to Kuhl. Who was so scary that Teddy would trash his deal and risk a murder conviction?
Then he hears the lawyer ask, “Do you recognize Deputy Wade in this courtroom?”
“Sure,” Kuhl says. “The cocksucker’s sitting right there.”
The predictable hell breaks loose.
The judge bangs his gavel, the defense attorney moves for dismissal, the DA demands that Kuhl be arrested for perjury on the spot, the defense attorney demands that Jack be arrested for perjury on the spot, the bailiff whispers to Teddy he better not fucking say cocksucker on the stand ever again or he’ll whale the living shit out of him in the van, the defense attorney moves for a mistrial, the DA moves for a mistrial, the judge says there’s not going to be any mistrial, not on his d
amn calendar, anyway, and the next thing Jack knows the judge has sent the jury off and is holding an evidentiary hearing where Jack is the star witness.
Superior Court Justice Dennis Mallon is one pissed-off judge.
He has the dark suspicion that someone is jerking his leash here and he thinks that person might be Deputy Wade. So he gets Jack in front of him, reminds him that he’s still under oath and asks in no friendly tone of voice, “Deputy, did you coerce this statement from this witness?”
Jack’s problem—well, one of Jack’s many problems—is that he doesn’t have time to think this through. If Jack were more experienced he would have taken the Fifth, which would have tubed the prosecution but probably saved his own ass. Jack’s not thinking that way, though. What he’s thinking is that he has to protect his witness. He’s also thinking that it’s Career Felon and All-World Scumbucket Teddy Kuhl’s word against his and Bentley’s—like, they’re up against a guy who’s got a teddy bear with a hard-on on his arm—so Jack decides to gut it out.
“No, Your Honor.”
“Is there any truth to what this man Kuhl is saying?”
“None, Your Honor.”
Me and him, we’re lying motherfuckers, Your Honor.
Judge Mallon scowls and then the defense attorney asks permission to approach the bench. He and the DA and the judge all whisper and hiss stuff that Jack can’t hear and when the huddle breaks, it’s the defense attorney asking Jack the questions.
“Deputy Wade, how did you come to suspect my client of this arson?”
“His modus operandi matched that of the fire.”
“That’s not true, is it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“You said you had a gas can with my client’s prints on it, is that your testimony?”
