Cicero's Dead (7 page)

After we were finished, she licked my throat and
whispered in my ear, “There’s one thing you can never forget.”

“What’s that, Baby?”

“My aim is true.” She chuckled, a throaty purr
that reminded me of a sleek jungle feline, eyes on her young, ready to kill at
the slightest sign of danger.

Chapter V – First Blood

In the morning, the northwest
sky was almost black in contrast to the grey and brown to the south and east.
The fires had precedence over all other news, and we sat glued to the TV.
Maleah demanded to be driven to school so that she and her friends could have
breakfast in the cafeteria. When I dropped her off, I gave her an especially
big hug, which she accepted reluctantly. Friendly almost to a fault, she is not
a touchy-feely person and has no use for constant physical contact. Our most
intimate moments generally occur when watching horror flicks and children’s
comedies together. She curls up next to me in the den, and we dwell there
together in an almost perfect world.

Today, as she was about to get out of Cassady’s
gold Altima, she stopped. “Dad, are we in danger from the fires?”

“Not here. Our town’s very protected.”

“That’s what I thought. Okay. Bye, Dad.”

She slung her shoulder bag over one shoulder and
marched toward the cafeteria, not a tomboy, not a girly-girl either, in her
jean jacket and straight-legged jeans. I felt a rush of love and intense
protection, against the Arnold Clippers of the world.

On the way to East L.A., as Brad steered us
through the morning traffic, I was struck by a sudden thought. “I forgot to
tell you guys, but Arnold Clipper wears the most fucked-up, dirty and
disgusting old Reeboks you can imagine.”

“Maybe he’s got a new pair.”

“Sure, maybe so, but people might recognize him
based on the old pair. It was an obvious affectation. Didn’t match his smashing
workout outfit.”

Brad nodded thoughtfully. “Bobby and I talked to a
lot of people yesterday. Although nobody told us much, I had the feeling that a
couple of people knew exactly who Arnold was, and maybe Richie too, for that
matter.”

“How did Bobby do?”

“Fine. He looks like the ultimate rough trade masher.”

“Don’t tell him that. Might hurt his feelings.”

“He’s a good guy. Reminds me of some of the guys I
met in rehab, except he seems more sincere. When I was in recovery, a lot of
guys were still scamming; heavy
persona
,
very little substance. I don’t think that’s the case with him.”

“Correct.”

“He told me something very interesting.”

“Yeah?”

“He said that what puts a guy with PTSD over the
edge, is not getting shot at or living in constant fear, or sleeping in the
jungle in a foxhole with centipedes crawling all over you. It’s not even
necessarily seeing your friends killed.”

“What is it then?”

Brad glanced over at me. “Killing people. We’re
not set up for that. God knows, we’re capable of a lot of raunchy shit, but
killing people and being human don’t go together very well.”

He changed lanes, smoothly pulling in front of a
Kenmore 18-wheeler. I thought about the two guys I’d shot. I was glad they’d
both lived, even though they’d had it coming and the world was better off with
them out of commission.

The first guy was a white meth head in Fontana. It
was back in my early days before I had Audrey to tail the adulterers. I was
sitting in my car. It was about 120 degrees, and I had the windows down. The
husband was in Room 211 at the Easy Rest Motel, on the edge of town, getting
nasty with a peroxide blonde. Suddenly this freak appears at my window,
brandishing a stainless steel hunting knife. Tells me to give him my wallet,
get out of my car and leave the keys in the ignition. I complied with all three
requests and a fourth he hadn’t asked for. As he was getting in, his amped-out
jaw twitching like a jackhammer mashing rivets, I shot him in the back of the
leg with my .38. It was ruled self-defense on my part and the freak, who had a
record, got 10 to 25 for attempted armed robbery, brandishing and
carjacking.
 
I remember my lawyer
telling me that I was very lucky this happened in Fontana and not in a more
liberal community. This was during the late ’80s when victims still had more
rights than perps in some parts of California.

I felt sick for weeks, haunted by the thought that
I didn’t have to shoot him; I could have just clubbed him with the gun. The
people I talked to, though, including Tony, told me I’d done the right thing.
Clubbing a guy is too risky. He might not go down and turn around and stab you.

The second time was one of those occasions you try
to bury so deep you hope it never comes up. I’d been retained by a desperate
mother to find her six-year old son, who had been kidnapped by her psycho ex-husband.
Perp was running on empty, armed and dangerous. The police were in on this one,
too, but I just happened to get there first, tracking him down in an apricot
orchard, north of Corona. When I got there, he had his son tied to a tree with
a gag in his mouth. He was digging a grave for his boy with a short-handled
spade, with the intention of burying him alive, or so he claimed later. Maybe
it was the sixth sense of the insane, but he realized I was coming up on him
from the leeward side, my .45 leading the way. He went for his gun, which
turned out to be a useless .25 piece of junk. I fired first, hit him in the
shoulder and kept on squeezing. They don’t call ‘em semi-automatics for
nothing; by the time I stopped, he was down and nearly out. One of the bullets
had grazed his spine, and he’s now in a wheelchair doing life in Soledad. This
time I was a hero, but the damage was done. For the next several years I
avoided the violent cases, yet here I was seven years later, once again feeding
at the trough of never ending violence.

Brad dropped me off at Leo’s Brake and Paint Shop.
My Camry oozed forest green, and this was not the first time Leo had swapped
colors to help me throw goons off my trail. When
 
I got to Bobby’s, everybody was in the
kitchen. Jade in baggy jeans and an oversized work shirt still looked utterly
desirable. She was spooning pancake batter into an old cast iron frying pan
while Bobby, who looked ten years younger, was pouring coffee. Brad, who is a
good cook, was stirring scrambled eggs. For a split second I thought that maybe
Jade had graced Bobby with the gift of her body. I dismissed the thought. What
Bobby loves more than anything is the chance to be part of a family unit, real
or imagined, and here he was, happy as a clam.

I was eager to get moving, but let them take their
time and enjoy a leisurely breakfast. I sipped coffee and agonized over whether
to send Bobby out in the field. If he stayed here with Jade, she would be
protected but his talents would be otherwise wasted. I also wasn’t too keen on
having Brad work alone. Careful by nature, he was nevertheless green. Bobby’s
forbidding presence tends to protect everyone in his orbit.

Sometimes a coin flip is every bit as valuable as
thinking things through. In the end, it was decided for me.

Bobby cocked a thumb toward Jade. “If I hang here
with Beauty, I’m useless for anything else. I say we go out and Jade stays
here, and keeps her eyes open. Anything looks fishy, she phones us pronto.
We’ll trade phones. I take hers, she keeps mine. No reason to think mine is
being monitored.” It sounded reasonable. For all his eccentricities, Bobby is
one crafty dude. “And, we’ll turn on my electric fence.”

“It’s running?”

“Sure, I just don’t use it that often. I don’t
like to shock people without probable cause.”

“What about the goats?” asked Jade.

“They know the rules. Venture too close to the
perimeter, they get zapped.”

I gave Bobby and Brad each $1,000 and sent another
$1,000 along for Audrey. “Spend it freely.
 
You want to buy people drinks and get them talking.”

After they left, Bobby in his PT Cruiser and Brad
in his Passat, I huddled with Jade. We spoke about how the alleged Fishburne
was not tall and African-American like the real one; rather, he was short, pale
and thin-faced, with slicked-back, straight black hair. The Forest Grove
representative presiding at Cicero’s memorial service, William Jameson, was
spare, elderly and smarmy. He had shaken hands with each guest, and Jade
recalled his solemn diction and clammy palm.

Before leaving, Bobby had shown Jade how to turn
on the electricity which was activated at the breaker box on the back porch.

I showed her my spare gun, a Glock 17. “You know
how to use it?”

She took it from me, expertly ejected the clip,
popped it back in, pulled back the slide ejecting the bullet and caught it with
a smile.

“I’ll take that as ‘yes.’”

“You do that.”

I opened the front door.
 
“Soon as I’m gone, turn on the juice.”

“It’s nice having some men around to take care of
me.”

“No fear.”

As I drove toward Glendale, the smoke from the
northwest seemed blacker and more ominous. A thin sun bled through the darkness
and traffic was snarled. Finally, I turned off I-5 and took the back route past
the warehouses on San Fernando Road.

Dr. Tarkanian’s office was located upstairs in a
nondescript two-story building on Glendale Avenue, near Los Feliz. I drove
around the block a few times and parked a few doors down. The wooden stairs
leading up to his offices creaked, and the air smelled of smoke and the great
unwashed. The waiting room was half-full of elderly Armenian ladies, wearing
the traditional head scarf, and long dark skirts.

The young receptionist was hardly more than a
teenager, but her dark eyes were laced with cunning. I showed her a business
card,
Law Offices of Brian Bellamy,
LLP.
 
Personal Injury and Accident
.

“I would like to see the doctor.”

“Dr. Tarkanian is very busy.”

Blocking her from view of the waiting patients, I
slid a Franklin across the counter. She snaked the hundred dollar bill without
changing expression.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

She disappeared through a doorway behind her,
reappearing seconds later. “The doctor will see you in ten minutes.”

“Excellent.”

I sat down near the ladies, who were watching the
daytime soaps, oblivious to my bribe. Five minutes later there was a newsbreak.
The Malibu fire was threatening palatial hillside homes, and was expected to
only get worse.

The receptionist ushered me into Tarkanian’s
office. Sipping a Starbucks Latte, he had a refined, overly affected appearance.

“Dr. Tarkanian, I’m Brian Bellamy, Attorney at
Law.” I gave him a vigorous handshake, which he met with a limp wrist, wincing
only slightly. “I have a thriving personal injury practice, and used to do a
lot of work with Dr. Rufenkchyan back before, you know---” I let my words trail
off.

“I don’t know Dr. Rufenkchyan.”

“Really?
 
It’s a damned shame what happened. We were settling four or five cases a
month, real cases, and then he had to go and get greedy. There’s nothing more
dangerous than providing unnecessary procedures. I don’t understand it. Why
take the risk when there is so much legitimate work just staring you in the
face?”

“Maybe he had financial problems,” said Dr.
Tarkanian. His voice had that sonorous musical quality that is common among
Armenian-Americans.

“He’s got more than financial problems now. He’s
overseas and the Feds are looking for him. They’re like a contagious disease.
Sooner or later you catch it, or rather in this case, they catch you.”

“Where did you get my name?”

“Joey Abouchian recommended I talk to you.”

He said nothing but his expression told me he was
impressed. Joey is a legend among cappers.

“Joey’s my guy. He’s been working for me for three
years now. Of course, as you know, he works for a lot of other attorneys too.
No one guy can handle all of Joey’s business. So, here’s what I propose. You
charge the standard rates and you don’t have to kick anything back to me, if we
settle at least three cases a month.”

Tarkanian pursed his lips and thought it over. “I
must say, that’s a reasonable offer. Let me sleep on it and talk to a few
people, and I’ll get back to you in a day or two. Did you leave your card with
my receptionist?”

“I did, but I really need an answer now. Joey’s
brought in three new cases already this morning. One severe whiplash over in
Burbank, broken ribs and a cracked fibula up in Pacoima, and a grade two
concussion in North Hollywood. If I can‘t handle these he’ll just take them
elsewhere.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied firmly, “but I don’t make
snap decisions.”

I shrugged, reached into the manila envelope
Halladay had given me, and took out Cicero’s death certificate. I shoved it
across his desk. “Perhaps this will help you make up your mind.”

When he saw the certificate, he blanched. Not just
a nervous start or a look of concern, but rather the paling of a man who‘s just
seen a ghost.

“Just what the fuck is going on, Tarkanian? Level
with me, or I’m gonna arrest you.”

“What?”

“You ever been to Men’s Central? You know what
they do to people like you there? They cut your balls off and stuff them down
your throat till you choke to death.”

He tried to stand, but his legs had turned to
jelly. He collapsed back into his chair. “Show me your badge,” he said weakly,
his breathing suddenly labored.

“I don’t have a badge, but I’ve got a goddamned
license. I’m a private investigator. I carry a pistol, two, actually, and I’m
going to make a citizen’s arrest and haul you down to the station.”

He shook his head and stared down at his lab coat.
“What do you want me to tell you?”

“The truth.”

“All right. But if I do you have to promise to
leave me alone.”

“You don’t get to make demands, but if you level
with me, I’ll get amnesia.”

He nodded and paused to gather himself. “On the
evening of August 16th, I got a call from Mrs. Lamont. She was frantic and
asked me to come over immediately. I’d been caring for her husband for several
years. He’d had four angioplasties, and had serious atherosclerosis. I called
an ambulance and drove over and by the time I got there, he was in cardiac
arrest. Massive myocardial infarction. I couldn’t save him.” He shook his head
sadly.