Angle of Attack

by Lee Baldwin

  Wolfe ignores my questions and goes on. “While I have you on the phone, I’d like to see you and Agent Harrison in my office Monday. We need to clarify your whereabouts on the night of the murder.”

  I say something like oh sure anything to oblige, and hang up. Damn! Just like Montana to push me deeper in the guano. Why did she have to lie? What’s she covering by saying she was in San Jose? And this supposed witness Wolfe found, how accurate is that evidence? Did they see the cars, or just hear them pass the house? The Monday thing scares me spitless. I can get a violation for lying to the cops and right back in jail, no discussion.

  I call the gliderport and cancel my lesson for that day. Turns out one of the other instructors can take it so no harm done there. I get a shower and check myself in the mirror. My eyes are red-rimmed, strange. My head feels thick, stupid. In the kitchen there is coffee on, I hope. I need to start thinking.

  Chapter 5

  Totally In Charge

  THE SUN IS WARM on Montana’s front porch so I’m sipping coffee and collecting my wits. And doing my daily gratitude meditation. Today that means going over how many times I could have perished in the last two days. I’m astonished to be here.

  In the bathroom mirror a minute ago my eyes were pits. I feel stupefied. Glad no one at the gliderport gets to look at me today. Or worse, Probation. A urine test, gawd. What the bleep is wrong with me? It’s not the flu.

  I’m thinking everyone has left the house, but wait, noises in the kitchen and a minute later Montana’s daughter steps out onto the porch. She smiles, holding an iPad and a coffee mug with a picture of Garfield on it. We do the usual, like good morning sleep okay, blah-blah.

  She’s not into conversation, doing things with her iPad. Playing or working, how can one know the diff anymore? She grins a time or two and I figure she’s catching up with friends. Well, full disclosure, while enjoying the morning light I am going through my phone looking at email and texts. There is one I don’t recognize, from someone calling themselves enforcer88, so that hits the trash.

  Our eyes meet as we sip coffee so just for conversation I remark, “Guess we’re both on pixel crack this morning.”

  “Busted,” she laughs.

  “I felt way strange last night,” I tell her.

  “Did you have anything... recreational?” she asks. The way her mouth turns up, just on one corner.

  “Nope.”

  We’re quiet a minute. “Not that I wasn’t offered plenty of other, um, things,” I add.

  Tharcia’s brow wrinkles for a sec and her eyes narrow. “Twy’s a bit of a klepto. Also a snoop. Need to watch her. Her career goal is webcam ho.”

  I make a mental note to catch up on my street slang. I can see Twyla being a kleptomaniac by the way she copped a free feel.

  “What was the screaming and giggling last night?”

  She chuckles. “Waxing is such torture.”

  My instant vision of three coeds bikini-waxing together tells me to change the subject, fast. “What year are you at SJSU? Is it cool?” Hoping I don’t come off like some out-of-it dad at the dinner table.

  “Great, actually. Awesome.” Her face is animated. “My profs and classes are good, better than first semester. It’s interesting.”

  “You after a degree?”

  Her laugh is musical on the morning air. “Well I am only a frosh, but if I keep feelin’ it, I’ll probably work in journalism. Do in-depth stories on interesting people. Political blogs, you know? I like to figure out how stuff happens.”

  “So, writing for newspapers?”

  “Journalism is not only writing for print. It’s video, photos, graphics, and audio. Social media like Twitter and Facebook, Technorati and Digg and so on. It covers a lot.”

  I am watching this chica. She either got over her resentment of me yesterday or Montana told her some half-truth. Ordered her to cut it out. I wonder how Tharcia goes along with Montana’s ‘orders.’ She seems soft, easy-going, but I bet with her mother she can be steel against steel.

  Warm day, she’s wearing black shorts, long legs bare in the morning light, a man’s blue work shirt that brings out her eyes, sleeves rolled to the elbow. She comes across as a fully formed human being, not self-conscious, serene as a mermaid.

  Looking down at her iPad, tangled white-blonde hair hoods her face. And I suddenly get it I am jealous of this kid. Young, hellacious hot, mind of her own, gets to pursue her interests instead of being cast in the role of family breadwinner at 18. I have to give props to Montana for that, she’s providing her girl’s education. You bet I’m jealous. Me and my Grade 12 diploma don’t know half what she’s talking about.

  “Nice. Be great if it stays interesting. Will you go somewhere for that?”

  “Besides debtor’s prison?”

  “Ah, student loans.”

  “Actually Mom is all pay as you go. Also I got scholarships. It’s like, when I grad, will I ever get a job in this busted economy?”

  “How about other parts of the country?”

  “I’d relish an adventure! Anywhere in the world will do. But this is my home, I was born in this area. Well L.A. really but we always lived in San Jose. Been in this house nine years.”

  “So call me a snoop, but was your mom ever married?”

  She scowls, thinking. The look reminds me of Montana at that age. “Mom still has her maiden name. There was a guy lived with us when I was small. Called him daddy for years, then we left and Mom said no he’s not.” Tharcia makes a guarded face, as though recalling something unpleasant.

  “Hey, it was so lame showing up at your house like that. The other morning.”

  She grins. “It’s OK. Twy needed something for her Facebook page.”

  I feel my cheeks go warm. “I do hope you are joking. My agent will want an advance for that.”

  “Ah. So you are a paid professional?”

  “I don’t yet have my cabaret license, it’s still an internship.”

  “Ah, building up your hours with private demos in suburban living rooms, I see.” Her smile is unwavering so I soldier on.

  “Truth is, there was a crime at my place night before. Cops told me I should stay away until they sort it out.”

  She looks at me with a penetrating gaze. Way she listens, the silence is deafening. “What kind of crime?”

  “Someone tried to kill me.”

  “Kill you? Whoa cowboy, what’s with that?”

  So I spin her the yarn about Roswell jumping out of the glider. She’s watching me, thoughtful.

  “So the glider is spinning down and you are holding onto a strap?”

  “Yeh. That’s about it.”

  “Retarded! You barely made it.”

  “Most scared I’ve ever been. But there’s more.”

  “OMG what?” She is sitting forward in her chair focused on me with those intense blues.

  “When I got home there was someone dead on my porch. And get this. It was the guy who jumped.”

  She blinks. I watch her face as she sorts it out. What surprises me is her next question. It’s not about what happened.

  “So, how are you holding up after all that?”

  I grin at her like I just found a friend. “Feeling flat-out grateful to be here.”

  “I guess,” she says. “Is that why Mom brought you home?”

  “Actually, it is. We’d just run into each other by chance that same day.”

  She sits back, looking at me thoughtfully. “Nothing personal, but I’d like to know less about my mom’s social life.”

  “I get that.” Tell your mom to keep her moans down is what I’m thinking.

  “A lot less.”

  I nod. “Have you guys lived in San Jose all your life?”

  “Mom and I lived with my aunt in L.A. for a year after I was hatched. Mom got her GED and started community college in law enforcement there. We moved back up here and she took a four-year degree program at State, while working as a clerk for the probation department.
They liked her so she stayed.”

  “She’s done well.” Back of my mind is wondering how Montana could afford four years of college while toting a kid around. Her folks didn’t have money and besides they split up. She has two cars and a mortgage, plus Tharcia’s tuition, which in California goes up 15% every year.

  I shake my head to clear it. I still feel poleaxed from the night before. “Not to pry, but were your friends jacked last night?”

  She thinks a second. “Weed I think. Course you never know about Twy. She is such a doper. She’s going through a rough patch.”

  “How come?”

  Now it’s her turn to look uncomfortable. “We broke up.”

  Comes the dawn. Montana’s little girl is lez. Wonder if that’s the reason for all the back room lectures.

  I nod in sympathy. “Love pangs are hell at that age. You okay?”

  Her head tilts to one side looking at me. She’s just revealed her sexual identity to a complete stranger. She smiles with her lights on. “I’m okay. Thank you for asking.”

  “You were ready to move on?”

  “Huh? Oh. Learned not to trust her.”

  “That’s harsh.”

  Tharcia shakes her head ruefully. “Twy wants to be just like Mom. In every way.”

  I nod. Teen angst. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say someone gave me something.”

  Her look tells me nothing. Guilt free, she only shrugs. Then she says, with an easy laugh, “Oh you mean like... lemmee see your eyes.”

  I lean forward and so does she. I watch her face as she gets close. Perfect skin, shining eyes. She sits back.

  “You do look a little tweaked. What did you take?”

  “Nothing, s’far as I know. Beer.”

  Fooling with her iPad again. After a bit she looks up. “How well ya know my mom?” She says it soft and casual but I see there’s some heat on it.

  “Okay. We were at the same middle school then high school. Senior year we hung out a lot. Her mom was pretty liberal.”

  “Grandma Marcia. She’s cool.”

  I nod. “We played Truth or Dare all the time.” I smile, thinking back. “Nobody could keep up. Friends thought we were over the top.”

  She thinks a minute. Face lights up like she discovered a new planet. “You’re Stuka!”

  Holy hell, the last person said that name around me was Montana. I was interested in World War II warbirds, still am. The Stuka’s a German dive bomber.

  “Wow,” I grin. “What a shock to hear anyone call me that.”

  “She told me stories about Stuka, but never about Clay. What else did people call you?”

  “The mechanic.”

  “You fix things?”

  “Mostly I used to build model cars.”

  “So how did you run into my mom?”

  Now here’s a question I am uncomfortable with. Nothing to lose, I suppose. And hey, she was up front about who she is. “Truth is, your mom is my Parole Agent.” I wait to let that sink in. “I’m on pro.”

  Tharcia tilts her head to one side, tasting the idea. “Okay, so what did you do?”

  “There was a little dope deal. I was the driver. Purely. Transporting the cash.”

  “And you got caught.”

  “Not really, no. I got away.”

  “So. You confessed out of remorse?” She’s got this infectious little grin. Chica is being light about it.

  “Oh yes I felt just terrible. Heartsick really, wanted to come clean. Actually, someone helped with that.”

  “Turned you in?”

  I nod, feeling the anger surface again. My plan was so tight!

  “You got away and somebody ratted you out?”

  “That’s about it. The charges they brought weren’t true.”

  “Harsh. Well, my mom will take care of you if she thinks you’re for real.”

  “I think she transferred my case when she saw my name on a list.”

  She just nods. My coffee is gone, I’m getting antsy, thinking about getting home to see what hell the cops left behind. Need to check out the swimming pool and talk to the twins. I tell Tharcia I’m heading out. She asks will I be back, I say no, and thanks for the hospitality.

  She surprises me by holding out her phone. “Dial your number?”

  I do what she asks, thinking why does this babe want my number? Not that I mind her knowing how to reach me. I hand her phone back.

  “See ya,” she says, looking down at her iPad.

  I get out of there without seeing any of the friends, klepto or regular. Stop at the market in Felton and pick up some basics, drive to my place and park. Lots of tire tracks in the dirt around my porch. Steps where I found Roswell have been cleaned professionally, but my mind still conjures images of dark blood soaking into the wood. It is either wet there now, or permanently stained. I don’t touch it.

  I’m all prepared to fix the mess the cops left, but once I get inside it’s not too bad. They put stuff back in drawers, but not the way I had it, just piled in. Kitchen cupboards are open and empty, dishes stacked on the counter top. I go upstairs for the first time in months. Cops were up here too, most of this isn’t my stuff, old furniture and boxes of curtains, dishes, things piled all over, I don’t pay much attention. The bathroom up here is practically empty.

  Telltale lights in the holiday decor tell me the twins are working in the pool. Need to talk to them. So I’m putting things back in their rightful order and starting to miss a few items but nothing important yet, maybe misplaced. I start a list to ask Wolfe about. My phone whistles, new text.

  From someone named 269Twy. The avatar pic, close-up of a laughing face, has to be Tharcia’s friend. What the hell? Message says, Bummed you left call me stud muffin, a phone number. Like hell chica I am thinking, you are dangerous. Flip her to blacklist and delete delete.

  I don’t need to go back there anymore. I mean seeing Montana was great and her daughter is a sweetheart, but girls like that Twyla I can definitely lose.

  Then I am asking myself hey wait how did Twyla get my number? Tharcia wouldn’t have given it to her. She called Twyla a klepto, I say she’s mental. Did Twyla peek my phone? Two to one she laced my beer.

  So I’m throwing out all the stuff that’s questionable in the fridge because cops unplugged it half way across the kitchen. Least they could have done is sweep back there. Making a grocery list for a trip down the hill later.

  Chimes from the decorations, We wish you a merry Christmas. The orange light among the others is now green. Car-Dar have closed up the pool, and are heading for their pickup, where they’ll wait a bit in case I want to talk. And I do. A conversation with actual friends about ordinary stuff will be a relief after this wretched week. I text Carla saying come for a beer, get a smiley face back.

  All this extra scrutiny thanks to Roswell is whirling around my brain, telling me I am more than ready to leave right now. I have all my new-life ID. Even though it cost a ton, I’ll be scared spitless using it. But since Wade went stealth ten years back, the idea has gone from curiosity to hobby, headed for obsession. In prison it became my focus, to drop the damaged life I made and become nobody. No past. Start over new. Wade will help, wants me to. When I cross over, we’ll be brothers again.

  Mentally I savor a victory I’ll never actually see: all the cops, hacks, jailers, parole agents, cons and gangstas who think I am all predictable and known, suddenly getting it that I can’t be found. I proved it that time on Mt. Baldy. It’s only because of Mick I was caught. I am sure he’s behind the pack of blow that showed up in my evidence file. I need to work out a payment plan for him.

  There is one solitary if. If I had the cash, I’d hire a cutthroat lawyer and fight to get my case reopened, clean it up. And with luck, take Mick down in the process. If I could do that, I’d clean up the grow operation and become a law-abiding citizen again. Until then, my life will be a child of necessity.

  Outside, tires crunch on gravel. Stepping out onto the porch, I sni
ff the forest air, the fresh earth scents. Doors slam and here they come, Carla, dragging on her cigarette, Darla, a nonsmoker, walking upwind of her, both wearing wide smiles. Don’t twins do everything the same? Well, they are fraternal but that is only part of their captivating story. We three were big friends in school, I was in love with Darla for a time. I blow across the beer bottle mouth, a resonant note that floats through the redwoods.

  “Fleet’s in,” Carla cracks. “Hey, Farmer Clay.”

  I get a hug from each of them, smell their damp hair. The swimming pool routine includes a hot shower-shampoo at the exit. We always wear one-piece disposable paper coveralls in there. It’s hot under the lights so we leave our shoes and clothes outside the grow room. Once out the door, there are no traces of budding hemp to follow anyone through life.

  “Want a beer, something stronger? How was today?”

  “Short,” Carla replies, nodding yes to anything alcoholic. “Tending the nursery, took clones off mom. Thinning the bottom leaves like we did two cycles ago. Checking for mold. Spider mites. Typical drill. It’s in good shape. We made a nursery supply list for you.”

  “Yah,” adds Darla, popping her chewing gum. “Five more days we change the light timer to start the buds. This one’s going to be good. How’s by you?”

  “I got your last blast. You took care of yourselves, right?”

  While Darla nods yes, Carla says OMG we forgot we’ll take that now. We laugh. Carla’s the trickster.

  I give them an abbreviated account of the last two days, a new glider student who jumps to his fake death. The cops. I don’t mention the DEA talking to me. Too damn close to home.

  “Did he suicide?” Carla asks.

  Darla gets it, “Clay, he could have killed you!”

  “That’s what it felt like.”

  “Why?” In unison.

  “Then that night I come home and guess who is lying on my steps sporting a hole in the noggin?”

  “Was that all the flashlights and cars down here? Who was it?”

  “The same guy.”

  “You’re shitting me. Is that the stain out there?”

  I’m nodding. “Unbefuckinglievable, right? Meanwhile I totally get involved with this old friend, you’re not gonna guess what her job is.”