by Jack Bunker
“My smile?”
“It’s certainly not your dick.” Ouch.
She dumps some canned grounds into her Mr. Coffee, then adds a pinch of cinnamon and a pinch of salt to make a pot of what she calls her “Chief’s Special” coffee. Arguably the worst coffee I’ve ever tasted.
“If you’re right,” she says, “and Ginger was shocked into remembering or moved to reveal what she knows, whatever rattled her cage had to have been a lot heavier than a couple softball questions from you.”
“How about being raped by her therapist,” I say.
FIFTY-NINE
Jack Angel naked is a wondrous thing. Like one of those Greek statues of an Olympic athlete, only black. How does he do it? I’m in pretty good condition, and Angel’s easily got twenty years on me, but in the shower he still makes me look like Will Farrell.
“How do you stay in such great shape?”
“Picking cotton.”
“Is that joke politically correct?”
“Not if you make it,” he says with that thousand-dollar smile. I try to puzzle this out.
We’re trying to cool off in the hot showers after a killer butterfly set. Everyone else is already getting dressed except for the gap-toothed homeless guy sitting on the handicapped shower bench singing “Bad Romance” to himself, as if Lady Gaga didn’t already live in an alternate universe. His legs are swollen like tree trunks—I’m guessing cirrhosis of the liver.
Angel borrows my shampoo without asking.
“You ever know anyone who committed incest?” I ask.
“I represented a victim two months ago.” He lathers his silver head.
“Why did she need a defense attorney?”
“It was a he. Molested by his father. He tried to burn his own house down. With his pregnant wife in it.”
His shower stops and, eyes shut to avoid shampoo, he feels around like a blind man for the timer valve.
“I hate these damned things,” he says as he punches it on with his palm.
“Was the wife okay?”
“She got out in time. I lost the case, but I got him off light.” He rinses off and the lather flows down his body like bird shit on one of those Greek statues. “Incest is a very persuasive mitigating circumstance.”
“I can’t even imagine a father doing that to his own child, no matter what the gender.”
“No comment on the limits of your imagination,” he says.
We head into the locker room to dry off. As usual, we both have trouble seeing our combination locks in the dim light and look like idiots fumbling to get them open.
“Nathaniel Strain molested Lana at thirteen then molested both her daughters when they reached the same age.”
“How could Lana have ever left a girl alone with that man, knowing what he was capable of? Makes you wonder.”
Angel retrieves his hanger from the cage guy. They keep a few extra hangers back there for patrons who need to dress for work, but Angel brings his own. You can’t trust just any hanger to keep your suit crisp. I pull my clothes from the locker where I stuffed them, preferring the convenience of the wrinkled look.
“That client I told you about?” says Angel. “His grandfather molested his father, too. They passed it down from father to son, generation to generation. According to the expert testimony, it’s more common than not.” He pulls on his navy-blue boxers.
I feel a cloudburst of sadness. “Jesus. You’d think for the victim the mere thought of doing it to someone else would be repulsive.”
“The incest did a real job on my client. He couldn’t put two thoughts together. Everything scared him. Everyday life was impossible for him to handle. The smallest little thing overwhelmed him. Waitress says they’re out of rye bread? He loses his appetite and won’t talk unless we leave. Flat tire? He cuts it open to check for a bullet. When unexpected things can assault your peace of mind like that, repetitive behavior becomes very seductive.”
“He have any kids of his own?”
“The wife was pregnant with their first when he started the fire. In fact, I think that’s why he did it. He was afraid of what he’d do to his own kid.”
SIXTY
Sophia’s car is parked in front when I get home, so I expect her to be in. I walk into the house calling her name. No reply. I strain to hear sounds that might explain the lack of response, maybe water running in the shower or a loud radio. Nothing. Maybe she went for a walk.
I drop my swim bag by the door and walk into my office to find her. She’s sitting in the fake Eames chair, wearing a pillowcase over her head secured by a thick collar of duct tape around her neck. Her arms and legs are lashed securely around the chair. Cogswell is standing behind her.
The hair on the back of my neck rises like vestigial hackles. I sense someone behind me, but he grabs my arms before I can turn.
I twist hard, but his hands are like vices tightening down to my bone. From the force of his grip I assume he’s one of the Ugly Twins. The smell of stale smoke confirms it. But the tobacco scent is barely noticeable above the more powerful smell of sweat, the cologne of fear. That must be mine.
“What the fuck!”
Someone reaches out from behind me and puts his hand over my mouth. I manage to sink my teeth into his flesh. One point for the good guys.
I’m jerked off the ground in what seems like an effortless lift. Then Isaak, the bigger one, steps forward, sucking his thumb like a baby. He slaps me with his other hand. Hard. His eyes are wild, reddened, seemingly bloated, as if elevated blood pressure is pumping them up. His eyebrows seem to be bristling with static electricity. Apparently, he’s got a low tolerance for pain, at least for his own.
Cogswell puts his finger to his lips, signaling me to be quiet. He doesn’t want me to say anything that might ID him to Sophia. He must have surprised her from behind and thrown the case over her head before she knew what hit her. Technically, he’s already guilty of kidnapping. That’s three to eight years right there. But if she can’t finger him, he won’t have to kill her. So I keep my trap shut.
On the other hand, it doesn’t bode well that he seems unconcerned about me seeing him.
Cogswell nods toward the door, and they drag me outside to my deck. At least it’s mine until Jerry gets back from Tobago. Cogswell follows us out and closes the sliding glass door behind him.
Isaak takes out a huge buck knife and slices a piece of fabric from one of my deck chairs to wrap his thumb. It’ll cost eighty-five bucks to replace it. Another chore for my list.
“I thought I told you to leave me alone,” says Cogswell. “Instead, you bring me to the attention of the police. Are you averse to verbal communication, Mr. Brown? Because it is not in your best interest to force me to seek alternative modes of communication.”
“What is your problem? I’m just trying to write a story about Lana Strain. Until you started throwing your muscle around, you were barely a footnote.”
He nods to Petya and Isaak. The bigger one hoists me over his shoulder, and before I know it I’m being dangled by my ankles over my deck railing into the darkness. Though my head is only four or five feet from the slope, I’m hanging right in front of a structural post. Chances are, I’ll land headfirst on the corner of a concrete footing and split my skull wide open. I wonder if they planned it this way or just got lucky. I imagine my brain bursting out of my fractured cranium and bouncing down the hill like a loose soccer ball.
“Are you getting the message yet, Mr. Brown?”
“Do you really expect me to carry on a rational conversation like this?” For a beat, all is still. The vehicular river-roar of the Valley sweeps up the hills, giving texture to the silence. An owl hoots nearby. I wonder if Petya and Isaak are just going to drop me and be done with it.
“I’m not a very patient man, Mr. Brown, and right now, you’re making me late for dinner. Jane hates it when I’m late.”
“You’re welcome to leave anytime.” My voice sounds choked from the pressure of the b
lood rushing to my head.
More silence.
“Look, Cogswell. Did it ever occur to you that maybe all of this intimidation is a big fat waste of time?”
“It occurred to me that you’re risking your life to stay on this story,” he replies. “Why would someone who’s barely a writer do that if you haven’t uncovered something explosive enough to make a big sale?”
“Any sale is a big sale for me. I’m in the hole to my ex-wife.” If I weren’t upside down, I would have swallowed my pride instead of choking on it. But I’m guessing a divorce settlement is something a lawyer can identify with.
Bad guess. “Bon voyage, Mr. Brown.”
They let go. As I start to fall, I’m seized by fear. My brain freezes and my elbows lock in an autonomic spasm, some naïve primal attempt to survive the sharp concrete with nothing worse than a couple of broken wrists. Instead of seeing my life flash before my eyes, I see a replay of my brain being jettisoned from my skull.
Then my ankles jerk, and I’m dangling again. I’m suddenly flooded with consciousness. My brain defrosts from the realization that he let me go and caught me again a few inches later. I was in free fall for only a fraction of a second, a fleeting dip of my toe in the icy waters of death. I hear the Slavs chuckle at their little joke. Funny guys.
They haul me back onto the deck and throw me at a chair. I knock it over and feel a pain where my palm breaks my fall. Beats falling on a concrete corner. I right the chair and climb into it. Cogswell puts his foot on my chaise lounge and leans on his knee. He’s trying to look tough, but the Pillsbury Doughboy just can’t pull it off.
“Shall we start over, Mr. Brown?”
Possible replies are bouncing around like pachinko balls in my head as I search for the most likely to get me out of this alive. Finally, I decide to just lay it on the table.
“I’ve got to wonder why you want me off the story so badly. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think you had Ginger killed.”
“We don’t kill nobody,” says Petya.
I can’t figure what I know that he’s so desperate to hide. He’s taking a huge gamble tonight. Kidnapping and assault are not lightweight charges.
“So what are you so afraid of?”
Cogswell nods to Petya who gives me a slap on the ear, snapping my head to the side like a rubber ball on an elastic paddle string. The pain is excruciating. My ear rings, and I feel so dizzy I have to close my eyes. I try to turn my head to look around, but my neck won’t move. Serious whiplash. It takes a minute for the vertigo to subside.
“Mr. Cogswell’s not afraid of nothing,” says Isaak.
I open my eyes to find the barrel of an automatic about an inch from my right eyeball. I don’t know what make or model it is, but I recognize the thick barrel of a silencer when I see one.
Then, as if we’re not all tense enough, Sophia walks out of the house.
Cogswell looks up, as surprised as I am. The duct tape collar is still around her neck, but she has managed to free herself from the chair and rip the pillowcase apart at the seams to hang down over her chest and back.
“Leave him alone, Gary. Just go.”
I see the barrel lift away from me to point at her, and I react without thinking, leaping up and tackling Cogswell head on. I hear a thud and realize the silenced gun has gone off. I pray the bullet didn’t hit Sophia.
I have a vague sense of two enormous bodies rushing toward us, but our forward momentum carries us through the fire-weakened railing, sending us hurtling into the darkness. I see the gun glint in the moonlight as it flies into the bushes and hear something that sounds like an explosive wheeze as I land on Cogswell and knock the wind out of him. From the loud thuds behind me I know that his thugs have jumped down from the deck, but the sound of crackling brush tells me neither one of them landed on his feet.
I push off Cogswell’s gasping chest and cry out for Sophia to run. Then I tear down the hill as fast as I can, thrashing my way through the thick brush. I hear the distinctive clack of an automatic being chambered and a rasping “No!” from Cogswell. I guess his boys don’t have suppressors on their guns, and he doesn’t want to attract attention. After all, he knows as well as I do that this won’t be his last chance.
SIXTY-ONE
I stumble onto the street with no plan. Small lacerations from blind bushwhacking bleed down my face. I taste it trickling into my mouth, the flavor of desperation. I don’t hear anyone behind me, so I’m assuming they decided to call it a night. They’ll surely retrieve the silenced gun before they leave, because it’s got Cogswell’s prints on it. That could take a few minutes. But after that they’ll be heading out, so I’ve got to get off the street.
My neighbor Teri lives a half block away. With three Rottweilers to manage security, she doesn’t bother locking her wooden gate. I make a beeline for her house and slip quietly into her front yard. As the gate latches behind me, I hear growls grow into vicious barking. Four hundred pounds of dogs barrel toward me, fangs gleaming in the dark, reflecting the moonlight. I cower with my back to the gate and brace myself for the impact. By the time they recognize my smell, it’s too late to stop. They slam me against the fence then trample me as they jockey for position to lick my face. I’m the guy who feeds them when Teri goes out of town. I quiet them down as quickly as I can, knowing that Cogswell’s gang has heard the noise but from the street above will have no idea where it’s coming from.
I position myself in front of a gap in the redwood to watch the street for Cogswell’s car. The Rottweilers lose interest in me and play-fight with each other for a minute before lying down to pant out their adrenaline. I try to wrangle my jangled thoughts.
I hope Sophia escaped unscathed. After I went over the rail with Cogswell I heard his two goons jump down from the deck, so she should have had time to get away. Unless she was frozen by fear. Or tried to hide in the house. Assuming she ran, where would she go? How will we reconnect?
And what will Cogswell do next? He’s been bruised, humiliated, and infuriated. He also committed some serious felonies and left behind two witnesses who are motivated to get even. He can’t let this slide, and neither can Vlad the Impaler. A heavy gloom washes through me as I contemplate just how deep is the shit I’m in.
“Move and I’ll blow your head off.”
I freeze. The dogs stir.
“Teri, it’s me.”
“Nob?”
I turn to see her framed in the kitchen doorway, her diaphanous nightie backlit to reveal every nuance of her two-hundred-pound frame. She’s holding a pistol that I recognize as one of her ten-year-old’s toys. Chrome-painted plastic.
“Go back in the house,” I whisper. “I’ll explain in a few minutes.”
“But—”
I shush her and turn back to my crack in the fence. She does as I say. A moment later, the house goes dark.
About ten minutes later, I see Cogswell’s Beemer come down the hill. There’s not enough light to see the passengers clearly, but from the density of the shadows in the car, it looks like Petya and Isaak are with him. I have no way of knowing whether Sophia is there, too.
I head into Teri’s house to find her sitting in the dark. She has pulled a dining room chair up to the front window to watch through a crack in the curtain, hoping to see whatever it was that I was looking for.
“Were they in that car?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Who are they? What’s going on?”
“They’re involved in a story I’m writing. Things got out of hand.”
“They came to your house?” By which she means to ask, You brought bad men to our neighborhood?
“Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t think they’d come. I’m still not sure why they did.”
“Should I call the police?”
“I’ll take care of it. Thanks for your help. I’ve got to go.”
I’m antsy to get out of here. I have to find Sophia.
SIXTY-TWO
I figure
it’s safe to go home, but not to stay there too long. I hope to find Sophia waiting. Her car is still parked in front. I walk into my house calling her name. No answer. Déjà vu.
I search the house. No Sophia. Her purse is still in her room.
I try calling her cell phone. It rings in the house. I follow the sound into the guest bath. It’s plugged into a charger on the counter next to her hair dryer.
I go outside and call her name, hoping she’s hiding out somewhere within earshot. No answer. I walk the street for a block in each direction calling her name. No answer. I try neighboring streets. No answer. I pass a woman with a basset hound wearing socks on its ears to protect them from dragging on the ground. She asks if I’ve lost my dog.
By the time I get back to the house I’m close to panic. All I can think about is saving Sophia. In fact, that’s pretty much all I’ve thought about since I met her. I hope that’s not what attracts me to her, but I fear it may be.
Lacking any leads to follow, I call Billy. He hasn’t heard from Sophia but will tell her to call me if he does. I don’t tell him she’s in danger, but I mention that Cogswell’s looking for her, too, and she doesn’t want him to find her, so don’t help him out.
I call Claudine. She hasn’t heard from Sophia in years, but she has a number for the studio where Sophia makes her marionettes. I call it and get voice mail.
I put up a pot of coffee then go to the hall closet and pull out the terra-cotta drainpipe I use for an umbrella stand. Beneath it is a five-inch-square patch I cut out of the oak flooring. I push on one side of the patch and the opposite edge levers up a quarter of an inch, just enough to get a grip. I pull out the square, reach into my hidey-hole, and pull out my Chief’s Special. I’m not big on guns, but sometimes you just can’t settle your nerves without a snub-nose .38 in your waistband.