Angle of Attack

by Lee Baldwin

  “Umm, I say dwarf hooker,” Carla suggests.

  “My shiny new Parole Agent,” I say solemnly.

  They do this Val-Gal gape at each other.

  “This is seriously twisted,” Darla informs me. To her sister she says, “Do we need this bumpkin? He’s creeping me right out.”

  Carla scowls. “You are friends with your probation person. And it’s a she? Ewwww.”

  “Did you bang her?” Darla wants to know with an expectant leer.

  Carla interrupts, both hands over her ears. “No no no, too much information. La-la-la-la-la.”

  “Yah right, it’s sticky weird. You’ll choke when I tell you who it is.”

  “OMG,” Carla says, “who?”

  “Montana.”

  They shriek with surprised laughter.

  “Didn’t she totally break your heart?”

  “I heard some old troll carried her off to his lair.”

  I’m grinning. “I don’t believe me either.”

  “She is your new owner?” Carla says. “Where is she living?”

  “We saw her at the fifteen year reunion,” Darla puts in.

  That missed reunion is a sore spot with me. I was awaiting trial then.

  “But hey look, I might be having more visitors. It might be better to coast a bit. Will the pool hold up for a few days without you guys?”

  “Yeah,” Darla said. “It’s so on autopilot anyway. You check it.”

  “Sunday, then,” I tell them. “I’ll text. Hey we might play some music Saturday night. Come if you can. See if you can find us a bass player.”

  “Sunday.”

  “Saturday.”

  They finish their beer then hugs and they are off. They look closely at the steps. Professionally cleaned or not, that dark stain is still noticeable. They give it a wide circuit.

  “See you in jail don’t call for bail,” Carla cracks as they walk to their truck. Darla playfully slugs her sis in the shoulder.

  “Yeah,” I call after them, “I’m sure the dollhouse biz will take care of you just fine.”

  “Warden,” one of them shouts.

  They’ll be back. We’ve had tricky moments over the last year, setting up the swimming pool grow operation and making sure it’s isolated. But everything spewing off this Roswell biz is weird and dangerous and I have to watch my back. Their pickup eases toward the main road.

  Alone again. But something comes to me. Surprised at my own move, I’m finding Wolfe in my call history, then waiting for him to pick up. I get his voicemail and hang up. Then I decide okay, I will leave a message, and call back.

  “Detective? Clay here. Why did I get assigned to Agent Harrison the same day Roswell attacked me? Everything was fine with my regular parole officer. Yamamoto. It seems more than coincidental. What do you make of it? Didn’t that happen kind of fast?”

  I hang up. I get into a jag of house cleaning. Don’t you make fun of me, I like things tidy. Gives me the willies cops have been through my stuff. I’m pissed at them, at Roswell, Montana, the whole cast of characters. Feels like the gods are taking a dump on me for sport.

  While I’m getting things back in order I’m calling people randomly for a Saturday jam. Lots of folks are busy gigging down in Santa Cruz and Pebble but some of the regulars are around and I have a good place to jam, wood floors, the noise doesn’t bother anyone here in the redwoods and there’s lots of parking.

  But then I have this thought. Wednesday evening I left Montana’s office and Highway 17 was a parking lot. So I stopped for a beer, something I seldom do since I’m on pro. That brew pub could have saved my life! The Santa Clara County medical examiner put Roswell’s time of death at 6:30. I got here an hour later. No wait it was Roswell saved my life! The shooter popped him thinking it was me, then left. So now I’m not quite so mad at Roswell, but would still gleefully strangle the bastard if he wasn’t already extinct.

  So the day becomes a peaceful one here in the redwoods, more like normal life, and for a time I can forget about things, working on my shopping list.

  I haven’t had a decent workout for three days, so I get out with my KHS Tucson twenty-niner, my good trail bike, not the one that bangs around in the El Camino, and hit the trails for a couple hours. Of course in the forest quiet I glide by the swimming pool, check the hidden telltale panel, then accelerate away. Feels good to be out on the hilly twisty trails and not thinking about my life, the instant shitstorm.

  As my mind slows down I remember something from the day Roswell jumped. That P-51 Mustang fighter I saw in the pattern while limping home in the K-21 from Roswell’s murder attempt. A few phone calls to the gliderport to track down the pilot, and I’ve arranged a demo flight for Sunday afternoon. I have a flight simulator on my computer with a P-51 in it and have spent a lot of time with that, but flying in the real thing will be over the top. Never flown a power plane, but maybe the guy will let me feel the controls.

  Checking my phone messages later I get this frantic one from Montana asking did I see her earrings and necklace in her bedroom. She sounds anxious but I have no idea.

  Come Saturday, haven’t heard from Montana or Wolfe again, starting to feel things might return to normal. Spending time with my parts business. UPS had delivered several boxes of items, which the cops helpfully opened for me. No thrill there guys, vintage airplane parts that I resell, I can show you my bookkeeping. So my usual drill as a middleman is this: unpack them, repack them in my boxes with my labels, make up invoices on my company forms, stick UPS labels on them, flag UPS for pickup via my online account, and set the stack out on the porch.

  Feeling good, the house is ready, people are coming later on, I’ll be picking up a keg and some ribs for the BBQ. It’s totally pot luck, good live music jam and lots of greasy food and beer.

  So chores all done work’s done swimming pool is OK till at least tomorrow. I’m sitting on the porch with a beer and my phone goes. Dayum! Spoke too soon.

  It’s Wolfe working the weekend shift. My bubble of serenity pops like a teenie’s cherry but I did want to talk to him.

  “Hey, Detective. Get my message?”

  “Yes, Mr. Clay, we did. It is rather peculiar.”

  “Peculiar how?”

  “The probation department has clammed up about that change, moving your case from Officer Yamamoto to Agent Harrison.” He sounds a little peeved. I am thinking wait a minute, this guy’s a seasoned detective, practically FBI level, and the Parole Division under the same County director stonewalls him?

  “How does that work exactly?”

  “The technical term for it Mr. Clay is Red Tape.”

  I think a minute. “Well there’s another layer to this, you prolly don’t know about.”

  “Yes, I’m listening.”

  “Montana, Agent Harrison, is a friend from school.”

  “You mentioned that, Mr. Clay. And which university was that?”

  I twitch slightly at the fact I never attended any classes after high school, unless you count three years of legal studies and online courses at the Country Club.

  “San Jose High School to be perfectly accurate.” I tell him the year we graduated. “Montana, Agent Harrison, left town for a couple years and came back with her baby daughter. Up until yesterday I hadn’t seen her since before grad.”

  While Wolfe is mentally chewing over that, out of the woods comes Bomber, my Maine Coon, sauntering across the clearing. Sniffs at the El Camino’s tire. Walks up to me and butts his head against my hand a few times, then wanders inside to check what’s in his dish. Hope ya like crunchies, Bomber. Easiest cat I ever had, feeds himself mostly. Probably takes himself to the vet too, except for that raccoon bite last year.

  Wolfe’s voice brings me back to reality. “So there is something between the two of you?”

  “Not the point. What could be of interest is, she lived with a fellow named Mick McIntyre, who is now housed at Lancaster.”

  “We are aware of that, Mr. Clay. All th
at information came up in Agent Harrison’s hiring process. He was clean when the two of them separated years ago. Is there some other reason you might be telling me this?”

  As in revenge, is the question in his voice. Well damn, his senses are on target but Mick’s in the slam and I am trying to keep myself out of it so hate me if you have to. But his insinuation pisses me off.

  “Listen Wolfe,” I tell him angrily, “I was not followed from the delivery chase. I was ratted out by the guy hired me, who happens to be McIntyre. So I’m in holding for three weeks on no charges and suddenly there’s a charge of possession with intent against me. Something was not right about that. I think those two are still connected.”

  “Those two?”

  “Mick and Montana. My prison record is spotless, my pro has been squeaky clean. Montana knows it. Yamamoto does. That’s why this whole thing of switching me to a new agent is spooky. And besides that I was innocent. Framed. I didn’t do what I was charged with.”

  I did do some not-so-nice things I have never been charged with and you just keep quiet about that.

  “Okay, so you have an axe to grind against the system. At least, Mr. Clay, I believe you are trying to resolve it in the proper way. However let me point out, I do know that you and Agent Harrison were not together that night until you met in Felton. You were not sitting in your cars in San Jose for 90 minutes before you found Roswell’s body. Would you like to tell me what really happened?”

  I take a deep breath and let it out slow. “The simple truth is, I found Roswell first. I was alone. That was about an hour before Montana called you.”

  “You found Mr. Roswell first.”

  “You can quote me. If the rest of the day hadn’t happened, no problem, I would have called 911. But this was just over the top. Wanted to have someone else there when the cops showed up. But what’s worse is the fact it turned out to be my acro student, whatever his name is, which I didn’t know at first. So you’re saying Montana lied to me about where she was. I asked her to come because I trusted her. I only repeated what she told me. If I had known it was him... shit I don’t know what I would have done then. But either way it looks bad.”

  “So that is your story now?”

  “Story my ass, Wolfe! That is the gospel. You find a corpse on your doorstep sometime, tell me how you handle it.” I punch off the call. I pace my porch a couple times, swearing. I blew it. Always hate when I lose it like that. But the walls are closing in. Now I need to stay away from Montana too. Her story was paper-thin with Wolfe before I punched big holes in it just now. She will be beyond steamed at me. Homicidal, that’s how I’d rate it.

  Anyway I can forget all that for the evening. Friends arrive later on and after dark the party is cooking along the way good parties do, people showing up in twos and threes unloading instruments, blowing joints before they come in the house cuz they know I must not be caught with it in my bloodstream. Everybody knows I’m on pro and can’t be one inch off the yellow line, and they respect my wishes. No weed, no nic in the house either can’t stand the cigarette smell. Got the Bar-B-Q going on the kitchen porch, good load of ribs cooking there.

  It’s all self-propelled now, couple guys volunteer to watch the keg and mind the grill. Perfect, I can mill around, check out who’s playing. Which changes about every 20 minutes. Now there’s a guy pulling out a banjo and as he starts tuning up the mood shifts over from blues to bluegrass. Some young guy there, dude I’ve never seen, is an absolute wizard with electric bass. He knows his way around anything.

  Lots of nice ladies here too. Darla and Carla come in, Carla shrieking at the punch line of some joke Darla told, handing out hugs to all the guys young and old. Special ones for me when they come around, Carla says oh baby I need you so, whiskey and weed on her breath, the three of us laugh and they wander off in search of the keg or anything stronger.

  I hang with a few guys talking about finger-picking styles, walk outside where there’s always two or three people dragging on a joint or a bong, stand upwind from them while we chat. Checking out the chicas here tonight gets me thinking of one in particular I wish would come around. Stacy, for sure. Then I stop myself. She could be a permanent attachment if I weren’t going bye-bye, but as things stand it wouldn’t be fair to her. Gets me down to the fact that what’s missing in my life is letting anyone close. I’ve cut away almost every kind of contact except large groups where everybody’s interchangeable, everyone’s drunk enough I can get out my own guitar and play a little, and don’t have to finish a conversation. Looks normal from outside, but my life is entirely focused on the day I can vanish.

  Phone goes off in my pocket. It’s Montana. Oh, what a treat.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself. What’s all the noise?”

  “Little kegger up here in the woods. Me and the mountain folk.”

  “Sounds like fun. Maybe I’ll come by later.”

  “Mm.”

  “Hey did you do anything with my earrings and necklace the other day? Did you see them in the bedroom?”

  I’d thought about it since her message and recall I saw them on the bedside stand after she left in the morning. “Well yah, they were there when I rolled out.”

  “Did you do anything with them?”

  “Jewelry? I’m not wearing any these days.”

  “It’s not a joking matter you blockhead. My stuff is precious. Anyway I talked to Wolfe. We have to meet him at his office tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow is Sunday.”

  “Oops yah haha having a lil drink here, I mean Monday. We should have coffee.” This is Montana-speak for we better get our stories straight. She turns away from the phone, her hiss-whisper. “No you can’t go out do your homework.”

  Then to me she says, “What are you doing?”

  “Local jam session.”

  “Sounds like live music. Maybe I should come later.”

  I think of inviting her. The part about hitting the sack with her would be great. Then thinking it’s better she doesn’t get into my life. There’s weed here. She could turn all official. Besides, there’s the off chance Stacy might come around.

  “Sorry Montana, tonight’s not a good idea.”

  “So! You’ve had all you want of me already? Now you have some new little bimbo over there. Well fuck you Stuka. Monday three o’clock. Asshole.”

  Jeez Montana, you are so smooth. I listen to the dead air as she punches off and remind myself that Montana could never contain her temper. Even when the chips are down she’s impulsive and jumps ahead without thinking. Damn near got me into a lot of trouble couple of times. I don’t have to think very far back. She already has, with Wolfe.

  I’m leaning in the open doorway watching the scene in the living room. Seated on folding chairs in front of the woodstove is a cluster of five or six guys with guitars, conga drums, one gal named Bonnie who always brings hi-hat and brushes, and the kid with electric bass. Age range in this room is probably 13 to 75. The best fiddle player is the oldest graybeard here.

  Then I notice sitting in my easy chair some dude with dark glasses lighting up a joint. Who is this guy with? He doesn’t know the score. I walk over.

  “Hey friend, house rules say we smoke outside, okay?”

  Guy ignores me. Takes a drag on his roofer and blows it at me. I bend down right in his face.

  “Take it outside now.”

  “Blow me.” Cocky behind his dark glasses.

  Guy’s about my size wearing a leather jacket jeans and boots. Rule I learned in prison is simple: respond to any shit with instant aggression. I grab him by the lapels and jerk him to his feet, spin him around fast like a Tango and back him up through the door. I bounce his head off the door jamb, get him going again and toss him down the steps. At least that was my plan. Way he rewrites things is to grab my shirt so we tumble down together. We’re at the bottom I’m on one knee with a fist cocked back to cool the dude and I notice he’s got a wicked pistol pressed to my cheek.

/>   “Got a message for you asshole. Next time you get a text from enforcer88 you call. You call or you get dusted.”

  “What the hell you want?”

  “Message from management.”

  I’m quickly adding up two and two. For some reason it comes out Mr. Mick McIntyre.

  “You pee wee. I can talk to Mick whenever I want to. I don’t need any chain of command.”

  Which is a lie. I have no idea how to reach Mick. Except Montana would know. For all I know that’s who she talks to every night. We’re slowly standing up, but he still has the heat pressed against my forehead. I notice the music has stopped, there is not a sound from the 30 people in the house.

  “The message is you need to call him.”

  “I might do that,” I say. “Now put down your squirt gun, and leave.”

  Now this enforcer nitwit is looking over my shoulder up the stairs. The pistol lowers. I follow his gaze. Somebody up there is holding a .12 gauge pointing right at us. Who the hell brought the sprayer? Right now I don’t actually care because I think it got this fucked-up dude out of my face. He flicks a card in the dirt. Mick’s current burner is my guess. He walks down the driveway, sticking the gun in the back of his belt.

  Then everybody’s talking at once, lots of questions, lots of who was that guy, lots of are you okay, and so forth. Ladies coming around for hugs, guys come shake my hand, same questions. Same answer.

  “I don’t know. I do not know.” However I have a couple of guesses. Mick. And 25 centavos says Montana’s mixed in it ass deep. Guy with the shotgun shaking my hand.

  “I’m not really a gun person,” I tell him. “Why is that here?”

  “Brought this to show Michael. Sellin’ it. Tain’t loaded. “Scared the bejeezus out of me. Hadda do something. Mexican standoff.”

  “Well, I’m damn glad you did.”

  I hear a V8 fire up near the road, funny whistling sound to that engine. It rushes off with a squall of tires. I wander around the back porch, pump up the keg, trembling now. Glad for the jostling group of folks around me, but really distracted inside myself. Draw off a cup, take a big draft. This week is about the weirdest my life has ever ever ever been. And I know the fates are sitting up there chuckling to each other saying, hold on little man, we got more for you.