Down Solo (8 page)

“Help me, for God’s sake.”

I kneel down and pull his arm to his side and roll him over. His lips are drawn tight over clenched teeth but he says, “I want to sit up. Get me sitting up,” so I maneuver him into a sitting position against the wall. I pull out my cell and start dialing for help.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling 911.”

“There’s no point. I’m not going to survive this. And I’m ready to meet my Lord.” He gestures with one hand for me to put away my cell. “Funny, about your name. It’s quite an irony.”

“What about my name?”

“Miner. Charlie Miner. I’ve been in the business half my life. Always worked with miners. And here you are, a Miner to watch me die.”

I shrug and say, “Irony, destiny, who knows?”

He reaches for the floor next to him and almost topples over. I help him back up and retrieve his glasses from the rug. He wipes them carefully on his ruined cardigan and puts them on. “Do you believe in destiny, Mr. Miner?”

“It seems all my beliefs are subject to review at the moment. Are you sure you don’t want help?” Ambulance, police, interrogation: all would put time between me and finding Mindy. I’ll call when I’m in the car.

He gives another little wave of dismissal and says, “I’m in His hands now. I believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, sent by our Father to absolve us of our sins.”

“Will he absolve you of the murders of the Caffey brothers?”

“You think I did that? Why on Earth would you say that?” He’s clutching his abdomen now, there’s blood leaking between his fingers.

“It seems that accidental falling and suicide weren’t very credible versions of their deaths. And, their dying was pretty convenient for your scheme. So come on, repentance is good for the soul, isn’t that what they say?”

Hamel grimaces in pain. His dogs are on either side of him, their paws on his legs, whimpering. One takes a tentative lick at his hand. Hamel looks down for a moment, then looks back at me. He moves a hand to adjust his glasses, leaving a smear of blood on the lens. Finally he says, “They mocked the Lord, but they didn’t deserve to die.” He shakes his head, his face a mask of pain and regret.

“So how did they die?”

“I never imagined . . . Jason overheard me talking on the phone. I was angry with the Caffeys. They had signed off on a report that I didn’t agree with.”

“You mean about the gold?”

“Yes, the gold. There’s a huge deposit there. I’m convinced of it. I saw it in a vision. It was going to fund my ministry, and they were going to ruin it.”

“So you had them killed and created a fake document.”

“No, no, no.” He’s getting pale now. His pants are soaked in blood and his voice is weakening. “Jason told me later that evening that I should stop worrying, that the Lord would find a way to make everything right and that he would be the arm of the Lord. He was fresh out of rehab and carrying on about how he was right with Jesus. Then James died and it seemed like a crazy accident. And Mark, committing suicide. I should have seen it back then, but I was in complete denial.”

“But you went ahead and dummied up a false report.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A tear drops to his cheek on the bloody-lens side. “I just wanted the report before the investors saw it. The Caffey brothers were mistaken. I was trying to salvage a dream.”

We sit for a moment. The one dog’s tongue takes another furtive lick, this time landing in the liquid redness seeping through.

It’s almost time to go. I’ve got two more questions.

“Tell me about Tanya’s money. Where is it now?”

“Tanya doesn’t have any money. Her husband is a hopeless gambler and a drunk, but he was smart enough to have a pre-nup with her. The investment in Santa Clarita was his last chance at digging himself out of a deep hole. She was blackmailing me for the cash, and then I was supposed to show him the report so he would think his money was gone.”

“What happened to it?”

“It’s all in the ground, out . . .” He looks down at his hands, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. I feel bad, he’s done me no direct harm, but now he’s just a source and I need to squeeze him before he dies on me.

“So where would your psychopath son take my daughter?”

“He likes to camp at the project. He wanted to marry her there. He thinks it’s a sacred place. He gets these ideas—sudden obsessions.”

“The project?”

“The mine. Santa Clarita. I took him there once to help him detox. I baptized him in the stream. He said he found Jesus. Later I found out he was high on the local peyote.” He’s breathing through his mouth now, staring at me, his eyes wide. He says, “Thank you for staying with me.” His stare loses focus. Both dogs give a startled jump and begin to whimper.

The average police response time in this city is about nine minutes. Add a few for neighbors to scratch their heads and wonder if they should make the call. I’m probably out of time.

I reach for Hamel’s wallet and a cocker snaps at my wrist. There are a few hundreds and some smaller bills, so I leave fifteen bucks and put the wallet back. There’s a Blackberry in his pocket. Dog teeth break skin this time, but I’m betting it’s worth it. As my former neighbor would say, intel.

I’m just turning onto West Channel Road when the black-and-whites fly past me, lights flashing and sirens blaring. The shotgun cop in the third car whips his head around and checks me out, but I’m moving west, turning south on the Coast Highway, and there’s nobody behind me.

So, Ratboy’s got Mindy and wants to marry her. I should be enraged, clenching my teeth and ready to swing an axe, but it seems that my condition has put a damper on how I feel about things. That’s a good thing, because my temper has led to a lot of bad decisions in the past. Focus on the mission, that’s my mantra now.

There’s a vibration in my pocket, followed by a Hammond organ playing “Rock of Ages.” I fish out Hamel’s Blackberry and check the Caller ID. It says, “J Jr,” which I presume to be Ratboy. On a hunch, I pull into the Santa Monica Pier parking lot and turn off the engine.

Bad luck would be that Ratboy’s calling from a cell phone. Good luck and he’s calling from a listed land line. I pull up an online reverse lookup directory and enter the number. And there’s young Jason, right down the street in Venice.

Oakwood’s a part of Venice I generally avoid. First they gentrified Ocean Park and pushed the poor people farther into Venice. Then they yuppified Venice and left Oakwood to the black and Hispanic communities, along with the gangs. Now rising property values are pushing these folks out toward Inglewood, but I’ll bet there are still some Shoreline Crips and Venice 13s left.

I pull up in front of a crappy little apartment building named The Flora. There’s a hydrant, but what’s a parking ticket in my situation? I tuck Mo’s gun in my belt and cover it with my jacket. The crappy little apartment building has its own crappy little lawn, with a fence separating it from the sidewalk. The gate is halfway off its hinge. Dogs bark in stereo as I walk through and scan the mailboxes. Sounds like a beast on the right side, a big angry howl punctuated by snarling and a rattling of the apartment door.

Every box has a name except number 11, so I’m guessing that’s my man. I start up the stairway to the second floor but have to back down because a huge black woman is descending. She would be unpassable even if she turned sideways. Especially if she turned sideways. She’s wearing purple tights and some kind of sequined poncho. She squints down at me and says, “He gone.”

I say, “Who gone?”

She says, “Funny lookin’ white boy, look like a rat, and his go-rillafren’ and the trashy little white girl. They left ’bout ten minutes ago.”

I back down to the landing and let her pass. I get back in the Z. It’s getting dark out and I have no idea where to go. Mo’s gun is pushing into my thigh so I dislodge it from my belt but keep it under my jacket. I close my eyes.

Now I’m looking back at myself sitting in the Z. I guess I went into roam mode on autopilot. I float up the stairs and through the door to number 11.

The place looks like an animal’s cave. There’s laundry all over the floor and the kitchen area is a mess. The sink is full of dishes and greasy water. There’s a futon mat on the living room floor, but no pillow or blankets. I navigate to the bedroom and find a completely different world: everything in its place, miniature cars lined up in precision on a bookshelf; magazines on a table perfectly aligned with the corners; photographs of Jason Hamel Sr. and his son framed and hanging in perfect symmetry above a dresser topped with meticulously placed knickknacks and, as their centerpiece, a framed shot of the two Jasons and a woman, all smiling, Jason Junior’s braces catching the light, his face pathetically happy and eager to please. Another shot shows Ratboy and his giant friend standing in front of a Chevy van, flashing gang signs. The big guy looks like he’s been hit in the face with a brick, or perhaps his features never fully formed. And another of the woman, Ratboy’s dead mother, with her thin, delicate face; her cheekbones, full lips, and unruly hair an unmistakable resemblance, at least in type, to my Mindy.

There’s a desk in the corner, with a computer monitor. Google Earth is showing me a map of the Santa Clara Mountains, somewhere south of and inland from Ensenada. There’s an image of a pushpin stuck next to a town called San Vicente and another one farther east. I feel a sudden weird panic and decide it’s time to get back to my body, quickly.

¤ ¤ ¤

From the sidewalk I see a big guy wearing a bandana with his hand inside an oversize jacket, which is wrong already because it’s a warm summer night. Another guy is leaning in my driver’s side window.

I re-enter the body. The kid already has Jason’s Blackberry, and now he’s reaching around me to get at my wallet. All the while he’s chattering away about dumb-ass white junkies and how they’re messin’ up the hood. I grab his shirt with my left hand and pull.

“Whoa, fuckin’ let go a’ me, Pops, or I’ll fuck you up!” This is the second time I’ve heard this today, and I’m not very impressed.

“I think you’re wearing your do-rag too tight, son.” He tries to jerk away but I’ve got a solid grip on him. I see his friend move closer to the windshield and start to pull his hand out of his jacket.

“DeShaun,” the kid yells. “Shoot the motherfucker!”

I’ve been holding on to Mo’s gun the whole time; now I jam the barrel hard into the kid’s head. “Tell DeShaun to give me his gun.”

DeShaun is looking confused; he checks up and down the block, whether for cops or backup I don’t know. The kid barks at him to give up the piece. When he gets to the window I tell him to reach in past his pal and drop it. DeShaun is about six four and has a big round face like a baby’s. I tell him to cross the street, which he does, walking backward. When he’s gone, I tell the kid to drop Jason’s phone and get out of my car.

I’ve got Mo’s gun in my left hand now, pointing out the window, and I start the Z and put it in gear. The kid’s already talking trash, but I’m heading for the border.

Jason’s Blackberry rings. It’s Ratboy. I let it go to voicemail and I text him: cant talk

A minute later I get back: why not?

I’m heading east on the Marina Freeway, toward the 5 South. I text back: in bedroom—have a gun and im going to shoot the man

The Blackberry chirps twice and I read: fire the whole clip into his heart

Another two chirps and: then come to the mine and marry us

I recall that Jason’s web site mentioned that he was an ordained minister. I fire back: ill call when its over

I hate texting. I really hate people who text while driving. Now I am one. As an afterthought I type: keep her pure

And I get back: till my wedding night
,
with a smiley face.

I’ll show you a smiley face.

¤ ¤ ¤

I’ve never liked Mexico, but then there are a lot of things I don’t like. The 5 freeway ends at the border about two or three hours away, depending on traffic. Then there’s Tijuana to get through.

Every Southern California junkie knows Tijuana. Like Daniel said, doing H is like having sex with a gorilla. You’re not done till the gorilla’s done. Junkies and pillheads cross the border daily for the cheap fix. Walk across and turn right at the taxi stand and you’ll find a row of tourist shops with the lamest inventories of dust-covered unsellable crap—plaster statues of Jesus, wood carvings of dolphins, unplayable ukuleles, goofy sombreros with four-foot brims—and a skinny dark guy with a gold tooth and matching cross behind the register. He’s like the guy at a fancy uptown club: get past him and you can get to where the action is.

A nod by skinny-gold-tooth-guy will get you a pass to the shooting gallery in the next room, where you can order up any combination of goodies at cartel retail. Credit is a very bad idea, unless you want to leave some fingers behind.

I didn’t start out a junkie. Most of them start out as kids partying on booze and weed. Then they get bored and experiment with more exotic stuff. Acid, Ecstasy, DMT, you name it. Then coke and speed, which means downers for the end of the ride: Xanax and Oxy. When the balancing act gets too tricky, the first snort of heroin solves the whole riddle of how to get right. It’s no longer a question of how to get high, it’s a matter of simply trying to feel human again. Heroin can do that. Until you run out.

I came at it from another angle. I was a straight arrow in school. I drank a little in college, smoked some pot, so what. It didn’t really ring my bell. But after I broke my back in a diving accident and the pain never went away, I discovered Vicodin. And when ten of them a day couldn’t dull the knife jabbing in my spine and I was juggling three doctors to keep my prescriptions going, who just happened to show up at my physical therapy session? Jimmy Ortiz.

¤ ¤ ¤

My phone is barking at me. It’s actually Vincent, the Lab from the TV show
Lost
. The display says my ex is calling.

What the hell. I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.

“Hello Allison.” On my right, the lovely sight of the Long Beach refinery.

“Charlie . . .” She’s crying. This is the sweet, remorseful Allison. She’s going to try to reel me in. “I’m not your enemy.”

“I know that, Allison. We’ve got to be on the same side . . .”

“And do what’s best for Mindy,” she sobs.

“Right. What’s best for Mindy.”

“I worry about her all the time.” Her voice is low and husky. My guess is that she passed out in the late afternoon and is now on her third drink after waking up. She’s in the sweet spot—the eight minutes where it’s working for her. The rest is all about chasing the eight minutes.

“Have you heard from her yet?”

“No, I was hoping you had.”

“She texted me a while back. I think she has a new boyfriend.” I’m improvising, but the seeds that get planted now will surely bloom when Allison gets to crazyville.

“Really, have you met him?” I can hear the tinkle of ice on glass. She likes flavored vodka on the rocks.

“As a matter of fact, I have.” This could get tricky.

“Really? What’s he like?”

“Well, he seems to really like her.”

“Why that little bitch.” But this is purred, not hissed. “Tell her to call her mother, would you?” Her eight minutes are nearly over, and I have a chance to duck out before I have to duck for cover.

“I’ll definitely do that, Alli. Listen, I’m driving and don’t want to get a ticket. I’ll have her call you soon.”

“You do that, Charlie. Hey, are you anywhere nearby?” Oh boy. I’ve actually fallen for this one before. Lots of times. It’s at least as dangerous as hooking up with Tanya.

“No, Alli, I’m actually down near Palos Verdes right now. I’m on a case.” Finally, a true statement.

“Okay, that’s too baa-ad,” she says in a singsong voice. Accompanied by more tinkling of ice. Time to go.

“Bye Alli.” I toss the phone on the seat next to me.

¤ ¤ ¤

A new vision unfolds. The memory doors seem to pop open at random. This is fifteen years ago and Mindy’s a baby. Allison and I are on the couch in the living room of our starter condo in Culver City. Mindy’s asleep and we’re exhausted. Alli’s leaning against me; I’ve got my arm around her, and all is right in a peaceful, quiet world. Then, like scene selections on a DVD, I’m getting images. No random selection, but a greatest-hits collection of every petty argument and cop-out and bullshit story that led to the war that our marriage became. And always the attempts to put it back together.

We hit rock bottom when Mindy was twelve. A marriage counselor suggested we take a trip. We left Mindy with Allison’s sister in Sherman Oaks and found a bed-and-breakfast in La Jolla. The place was charming and the wine at dinner just right, and somehow Alli was able to let go enough to let me back in. We talked over dessert like we were on our third date. We reminisced and flirted and held hands and her toes crawled up my leg under the table. We made love that night and again in the morning.

That next day we planned a beach trip. We found an upscale market and bought French bread, soft cheese, smoked ham, black olives, and two bottles of wine, then drove to the beach. We ate and drank and baked in the sand. We held hands when we waded into the warm Pacific, then splashed each other and laughed till we fell down in the shallow surf. When we got back to our towels, we opened the second bottle of wine.

Somehow we wound up in the car, sandy and itchy from dried salt, our bathing suits still wet. We were arguing about something—how to get back to the bed-and-breakfast, I think—when we got to the cliffs. We were both more than half in the bag, but Allison seemed to have more tolerance for it than I did. The next thing I remember is standing with a bunch of teenagers and looking thirty feet down at the ocean. The kids jumped. Allison said, “Don’t,” and I dove, flying toward crystal clear blue-green water.

And that was the beginning of the nightmare. Ambulance, hospital, neck brace, doctor visits, pain meds, physical therapy, and, finally, Jimmy Ortiz and heroin.

¤ ¤ ¤

Time passes and I don’t know where it goes. I check my phone and it tells me that I talked to Allison at 8:42. It’s 10:15 now; I’m driving past the San Onofre power plant and have no recollection of the last hour and a half. I remember remembering something—diving off a cliff and hurting my neck—but something about it doesn’t feel right. I call Allison. I know the timing is bad, but I’ve got to check on something.

“Taking me up on my offer? You’re too late and a dollar short, you bastard . . .” Slurring and sloppy, spoiling for a fight, and I’m dumb enough to make myself a target.

“Alli, listen, I’ve got a question.”

“Yeah, well the answer is fuck you. Ha! Yeah, fuck you, you sad little junkie loser.”

It seems hopeless to expect her vodka-soaked brain to dredge up what I need, but I press on. “You’re right,” I tell her, “I’m a pathetic strung-out loser. You’ve always been right. About everything. Now, what happened when we went to La Jolla?”

“What happened? You mean how did you fuck up a perfectly nice holiday?”

“Sure, how did I fuck up our perfectly nice holiday?”

“You got drunk and jumped off a goddamn cliff. That’s how you fucked up our holiday.”

“Then what happened?”

“Jesus, you are pathetic. You got a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar fine for ignoring the sign that said no diving. All those kids that dove in scattered, but the lifeguards caught you. Then we got a sixty-dollar parking ticket and you puked in the car. Any other questions?” She laughs into the phone and something falls with a loud thump in the background.

“Yeah, my back. How did I hurt it?”

“Boy, you really are an idiot. You flew headfirst over the handlebars of your bike. Do you remember your own name? Do you remember how much money you owe me?” Her voice is rising in volume and pitch now. “DO YOU REMEMBER WHAT YOU PUT ME THROUGH?”

I click the phone shut. My suspicion was correct and I’m in trouble. If I can’t trust my memory, what can I trust?

At least I got the flying part right.

¤ ¤ ¤

I fly through Oceanside, Carlsbad, Encinitas, Del Mar. If my brain’s a computer, it’s in crash mode and needs to boot up from a new disk. Trouble is, I don’t have a new disk. I’m stuck in a loop: morgue, Daniel, Jimmy’s, Tanya, Ratboy, Mindy, jail, Jason. A gold mine and a silver Mustang. Did I make any of them up? And how do they all tie together?

I’m waiting in line at the border and my phone barks. Tanya asks me if I saw Jason. I tell her, “Yeah, we had a nice long talk.”

“Well, did he tell you where my money is?”

“Yeah, he told me it’s in the ground.”
He was about to tell me more, but I was desperate to find Mindy, and Jason was dying.
For some reason, I withhold this information.

Tanya says, “That’s just geo-speak for unmined gold—money in the ground. It’s bullshit, as you know by now if you’ve read the report.”

I’ve read two reports and they say opposite things, and I have no idea which one is correct, but why mention it?

“So where are you now, Charlie? Why don’t you come back to the Oceana and we’ll figure out what to do next?” It’s the nice Tanya that’s come out to play, which is about as reliable as the nice Allison.

“I don’t think so, Tanya. I’m more concerned about finding my daughter than I am about your money.” I click off just as a border guard waves me through. A chime tells me I have a new text message. It’s from Allison, saying she still loves me.