Down Solo (13 page)

“One of Luke’s bullets killed Jason’s dad. One of mine hit Jason in the shoulder.”

“So then Jason’s freaking out and talking all kinds of crazy stuff.”

“Yeah, like what?”

“He would quote the Bible a lot, but I think he messed up the quotes. He called the cave in Mexico the eye of the needle. He’d say stuff like, ‘Can the Ethiopian change his spots? I think not.’ Then he talked about how he was just trying to fix everything for his dad, but that his Uncle Alan messed everything up.”

“What did he mean by that?”

“I don’t know, I think he was on speed. He talked so much I stopped listening. We made a quick stop at his place and swapped the Mustang for a van and drove to the mine.”

“And when you got there?”

“As soon as we got past that gate someone started shooting at us. Luke shot back and I guess he got two of them. Another one drove away in that Ford truck. That’s when we went to the cave.”

We’re pulling into the Rosarito Beach area. I park in front of one of the smaller hotels and we get out. Mindy says, “So whose car is this, anyway?”

We walk up to the desk in the lobby and I ask for a room. The clerk is a middle-aged Mexican woman with hair pulled back so tight it’s pulling at the corners of her eyes. She checks us out and then looks at me like I’m a dirtbag and it’s probably not because we look like we’ve been camping. I hand over eighty bucks of Jason Hamel’s money and we navigate a dank concrete hallway until we get to our room. Everything smells of Pine-Sol and the lighting is dim. There’s a king-size bed, a TV on a stand, a few chairs, and a desk.

Mindy says, “I’m gonna take a bath and wash my clothes. Want me to do yours?” and steps into the bathroom. I strip to my shorts and hand her my clothes and lie down. I pull the bedcover over myself to leave the actual sheets and blanket to Mindy. The sound of water running becomes a consuming roar and then fades.

¤ ¤ ¤

I’m sitting in Father Tomas’s church with a bare light bulb swaying slightly just above my head. Everything is in shades of grey, going pitch dark outside the small perimeter of the bulb’s glow. A man walks up to my pew but I can’t see his face. A sense of dread prevents me from looking at him. I feel heat radiating from him, as if he were on fire. He says, “Who are you trying to kid? You can’t fix dead.”

I try to respond; my mouth moves but only muted gibberish comes out.

The man says, “You know where the money is.”

I shake my head. The floor is strewn with gold: gold coins, gold teeth, rings, little bars stamped “SUISSE, 10 OUNCES FINE GOLD, 99.9.” There’s a slender gold vase with a single red rose in it. I shake my head harder; I put my whole body into it, an emphatic denial; the pieces of gold rattle as the floor starts undulating.

“Dad, wake up! It’s okay, just wake up.” Mindy is pushing my shoulder, shoving me, the bed is moving, and the dread subsides as I look at her, bewildered and relieved.

¤ ¤ ¤

My clothes are almost dry. Good enough for breakfast, anyway. Lobster omelet, of course, is the house special. We pass and order huevos rancheros; last day of vacation, eat like a local.

It’s ten sharp and the morning is hot and moist already. Dave Putnam pulls up in an unmarked charcoal Dodge Charger. He rolls down his window and says, “Taxi?”

I already prepped Mindy on what to say: Some freak kidnapped her and took her to Mexico and her dad came down and got her back. Period. “My dad’ll fill you in. Hey, I hear you write books. You must have all kinds of interesting stories.” Dave’s a smart guy and a pro at interrogation, but if she can hold out until we get across the border, I’ll handle him from there.

I introduce Mindy to Dave; they shake hands through his window. Dave looks at me skeptically and says, “So what’s the plan?”

I want to laugh and tell him:
Plan? What plan? There are only threads that are people following their own motives, creating a picture they can’t comprehend. How can we even dream of a plan?
Instead, I say, “Meet me at the Denny’s on the right just across the border. After that, we’ll meet up in LA later today and I’ll lay it all out for you.”

He shakes his head and reaches across to open the Dodge’s passenger door. Mindy gives me a peck on the cheek and gets in the car.

It is eighteen miles to the US. I follow Dave’s car into Tijuana through the maze of twists and turns that lead to the border. A sign says
LINEA SENTRI
and the traffic gets worse. We’re bumper to bumper, inching forward past giant billboards advertising beer and booze and politicians. We pass a structure that looks like a mescaline-induced cubist totem pole. A one-legged vendor thrusts a churro at my window. I shake my head and he hobbles on to feed the cars behind me. Women dressed as nurses hold out cans for donations; old men offer plaster Tweety Birds, sunglasses, cactuses in pots, monkey puppets on strings attached to the ends of sticks, and a plaster Mary with a halo of concentric shiny wire rings.

Concrete dividers force the traffic into separate lanes. A VW bus with surfboards on top is stalled in the lane next to me. The driver of the truck behind him leans on his horn. His bumper sticker says IF YOU CAN’T FEED ’EM, DON’T BREED ’EM. I follow Dave past them and we’re within sight of the customs stations.

I pull out my wallet and the passport Herbie made for me. They look pretty shabby after getting soaked in Ratboy’s sacred stream. I pull out my real driver’s license and hide it in my sock. If I had a plan, I would have told Dave we needed a Plan B in case Paul Cleary didn’t make it across the border.

Dave shows his wallet; the sun flashes off his gold shield and the border guard waves him through. I pull up and say, “Good morning,” and hand him my license and passport.

“Got anything to declare?”

“Nope.”

“Stay right there.” He goes into a little booth and confers with a man in a white shirt and tie. The man shakes his head. The border guard comes back and holds up my passport.

“This looks pretty bad.”

“Got wet. What can I say?”

He hands it back to me. “You’ll probably want to replace it. Especially if you’re planning on going overseas.”

“You bet.”

“New one’s a hundred and forty bucks. Sorry about that.” And he waves me through.

¤ ¤ ¤

Dave gets out of his car and looks at his watch. “Two hours. Not bad.”

“I owe you. You won’t be disappointed.”

“So what’s next?”

“It’s noon. Two hours at least to get to LA, and I’ve got stops to make. I’ll try for five.”

“Where?”

“Santa Monica somewhere. We can sort that out by phone later. You okay with that?”

“I’m not okay with this whole thing, but hey . . .” He gives a dismissive wave, “Whatever. If I don’t hear from you, I’m gonna hunt you down.”

“Got it.”

“And you’re gonna tell me what happened in Mexico.”

Mindy’s out of the car now. She looks at me and shrugs. Dave says, “Some freak kidnapped her and took her to Mexico and you went down and got her back. Cute.”

Mindy puts out her hand and says, “Bye. And thanks for the cool stories.”

Dave glares at me and gets back in the Charger.

¤ ¤ ¤

We drive in silence. It’s okay. I’m whole, the world is alive, the freeway and landscape and sky are sparkling with color. Mindy is safe, and I have, if not a plan, at least a few ideas about where to go. We stop for coffee in Carlsbad and get back on the 5.

Mindy bites into a scone and says, “He comes on like he’s mean, but he’s really a nice guy.”

“I know. We go back a ways.”

“He told me some hysterical stories about people he’s busted. Criminals are really dumb.”

“Yep. Most of them.” I wonder about that, though, because somebody’s got eight mil of Tanya’s husband’s money, and right now they’re looking pretty clever.

Going through Torrance, I see a Wal-Mart right by an off-ramp. There are a few things we should get, so we pull off the freeway and into the parking lot.

Mindy pushes a cart while I grab what we need: jeans and tee shirts for both of us, cheap shoes and socks, underwear, deodorant, toothbrushes, and a car charger for all three phones. I pay with just about the last of Jason’s money.

Mindy says, “Okay, we’re stylin’ now.”

I turn onto the Marina Freeway and we cruise toward the beach. My phone is the first to charge.

“This is for emergency only. Please don’t call your friends and chat. You’ve got one day’s charge and I want to be able to reach you on the first ring.”

“What do you mean, reach me? Where are you taking me and where are you going?”

“I’m taking you to Ratboy’s.”

“Whose?”

“Jason Junior’s. I think of him as Ratboy. Like in the movie.”

“Guess I missed that one, Dad. What am I supposed to do there?”

“Lie low until I come back. Remember what you told me, Jason kidnapped you on someone else’s instruction?”

“Yeah . . .”

“Well, that someone is still out there.”

“Some guy kept calling him while we were driving to Mexico. Jason told him stuff like, ‘No, the plan’s changed,’ and, ‘No, not gonna do that.’”

“Do you know who it was?”

“Yeah, because every time it would end up with Jason hanging up all flipped out and screaming about his fucking Uncle Alan.”

“Did fucking Uncle Alan know you were going to Mexico?”

“Definitely. And he knew there was a mine down there.” A tumbler clicks into place in my brain and another memory is unlocked: Tanya, her lizard-skin cowboy boots up on my desk, telling me that she had been referred to me by Alan Hunter.

A right on Lincoln Boulevard takes us north into Venice. Ratboy’s might be safe; if Uncle Alan thinks Ratboy is still in Mexico and has a reason to check the apartment, he’s probably already been there. And why would he go there in the first place?

I cruise by the Flora, checking for warning signs, cops, Crips, vehicles that don’t look right. It’s two in the afternoon and hot, and the street is quiet. A right at the corner and another into an alley take me to the back of the apartment building where the parking stalls are. A silver Mustang is parked next to an empty spot; both spots have the number “11” stenciled on them. I pull into the empty space and turn off the ignition. I look at Mindy and say, “Well, last chance. Got any better ideas?”

“Nope. Anyway, this makes sense. He took your home from us, so we should get his for a while.”

The back stairs go right up to number 11. No one seems to be watching, or no one cares. Ratboy’s key lets us in. It’s dreary and fairly disgusting, but it’s home for now. We head to Ratboy’s room. Its fastidious neatness and the sun coming in through the lightly curtained window convey the feel of a well-behaved teenager’s room, Ratboy’s way of putting a gloss on his pathology.

I had a fascinating conversation before I left the apartment. After programming Jason Hamel’s cell number into my phone for Mindy, I found Alan Hunter’s number in his directory. I dialed it and got a response on the first ring.

“Who is this?” It wasn’t a question, but a demand.

“Charlie Miner. Got time for a chat?”

“You’re a very clever fellow for a washed-up junky PI.”

“Right. Is that why you recommended me to Tanya?”

“She needed an expendable middleman who wouldn’t get too nosy. My bad.”

“Are you at your office?”

“Yes. We should have a face-to-face. Where are you?”

I told him I was in the Valley and listened while he gave me his office address.

Lincoln to the 10 to the 405 to Santa Monica Boulevard takes me to his law firm’s Century City penthouse. I park the Mustang and ride up the elevator in my new Wal-Mart jeans and tee shirt. I’m still contemplating the word “expendable” when a secretary ushers me into Hunter’s office.

Alan Hunter remains seated but gestures toward a chair facing his desk, which is a rich, deep brown with a hint of red, polished to a shine. He probably has matching tasseled loafers. The desk is a mile wide and has nothing on it but Hunter’s elbows. His fingers are steepled, his fingertips resting against his lips. He doesn’t seem interested in shaking my hand.

I decide to kick it off. “Thanks for the referral, but so far it’s been a clusterfuck.”

Hunter looks like a movie star in the traditional mold: tanned, aristocratic, slightly graying at the temples, and poised. Only his eyes give him away as a street fighter, a predator’s patient calculating of odds and possibilities hidden in his unblinking gaze.

He decides to smile and unleashes a dazzling display of perfect teeth and human warmth as he puts his hands on the desk and says, “I was rude to you on the phone, Mr. Miner. I believe we can help each other, and I apologize for my behavior.”

I’m not buying it, but I pretend to. “No problem. Call me Charlie. How can I help you?” I know he’s not giving up anything that won’t help him, and he’ll deliver that in his own time, but I’m curious what he thinks I can do for him.

“Well, I’m missing four million dollars of my own money in this clusterfuck, as you call it. I think you might be able to help me find it.” A scene from a dream flits through my mind: A man I can’t look at says,
You know where my money is
.

“Maybe it’s where my house is.”

Hunter lifts his eyebrows. “You think I’m responsible for that?”

“Somebody set me up, shot at me, set my house on fire, and kidnapped my daughter. I’m just following my instincts.”

He pounces. “Do you know where they took your daughter?”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“He, she, how should I know? Is your daughter safe?”

“How should I know?” It’s tempting to smirk, but the man behind the squeaky-clean desk is a no-bullshit guy and I’m not ready to test his limit.

He tilts his head and looks at me like he’s considering a new tack, then nods. “I’ll tell you what. I’m a father myself and I don’t like what’s happening here. You deserve to know what has happened to you, and I can fill you in on a rough outline of it.”

“Okay. I’m listening.”

“First, I want to know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Why do you have Jason Hamel’s phone?”

It might have been sloppy of me to call him from Jason’s cell. On the other hand, what does it matter?

“I took it from him after he got shot.”

“You mean you didn’t shoot him?

“Now why would I do that? No, I didn’t shoot him. The same guys that shot at me before tried again but hit him instead.”

“And who might they be?” The man plays dumb with considerable confidence.

“A skinny kid with a face like a rat and his linebacker sidekick.”

Alan Hunter shakes his head slowly, as if something he had long expected finally came about, some irrevocable act that finally reveals itself as having always been inevitable. He almost looks sad.

“Do you know where they went after this happened?”

“I have no idea. But my neighbor saw them leaving my house with my daughter just before it burned down.” I can play dumb with confidence too.

We stare at each other across the giant desk. He says he’s got four million bucks on the line, and for some reason he thinks I’m the key to retrieving it. He sighs and shrugs and says, “I’m the kid’s godfather. He calls me Uncle Alan. Jason Hamel and Mickey Peterson—that’s Tanya’s husband—and I went to college together. He calls Mickey Uncle Mick. We’ve known him ever since Jason and Julia adopted him over twenty years ago.”

I’d like to correct him to the past tense on Ratboy, but why give my hand away? I just say, “Okay,” and wait for him to go on.

“He’s always been a problem, developmentally challenged, ADHD, impulsive behavior, drugs. But he’s not the real problem here.”

“Somebody set him in motion.”

“Exactly. But he’s a loose cannon, there’s no controlling him, and he’s cunning but not very bright.”

“What do you want to tell me?”

Hunter stares at me again, unblinking as a snake, taking his time, unconcerned with the weirdness he’s generating. A minute goes by. I check my watch and tell him, “Well, it’s been fascinating, but . . .” and I start to get up.

He interrupts with his palm thrust out at me, ordering me to stop. He says, “Let me be frank. You’re bumbling through a minefield without a map of the terrain. You’ve been used and useless and your life is in danger. So is your daughter’s. What you don’t realize is that I’m on your side.”

“How’s that, Alan?”

“Who do you think got you out of jail?”

“I haven’t given it much thought. It’s been a busy few days.”

“And aren’t you curious why there were no charges? You weren’t given a date for a court appearance. Do you think that all happened by magic?”

I remember thinking it was strange that Tanya knew just when to show up when I got processed out of County, but it didn’t seem critical at the time and then I just forgot about it.

Alan Hunter reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a checkbook. He opens it, looks up at me, and says, “Three thousand, right?”

“That was before my house burned down, my car got stolen, and my daughter got kidnapped.” And a bullet bored through my brain.

“This is about keeping agreements. Tanya’s agreement was for three thousand dollars.” He writes the figure on the check and signs it with a flourish. He rolls his chair slightly back and opens the top drawer of his desk and pulls out a gun, puts it on the desk with his hand over it, and says, “Let me tell you a story.”