Baca

by Billy Kring

  “Cheers,” she said. “It’s best to knock it back all at once.” I took the drink from the tray and she smiled again, “That’ll be twenty dollars, or shall I run a tab?”

  “Twenty dollars?”

  “Yes sir. The cost of importing the Tunguska’s secret ingredients are very expensive. They are unique in the world.”

  I paid her and tipped five more for the privilege of watching her walk away again. Oh well. I looked at the drink and it had stopped fizzing. I tossed it back.

  It went down like molten heat and made a silent explosion in my stomach, then spread like the blast of an A-bomb. It was a cold-hot thing, like menthol, but not severe. I felt it running through my veins all the way to my fingers and toes and up to my head.

  Roto-Rooter couldn’t have opened my sinus cavities any wider and it felt like every capillary in my lungs was drawing a super charge of oxygen and shooting it through my system. My eyes watered a little as I breathed. Good grief, this stuff was so good it was probably illegal in seven states. I came back to normal and thought about ordering another one, but decided to pass for now.

  I walked toward Frank but watched Rakes. He appeared to be almost asleep. If you looked a little closer, you could see he was alert, aware of everything around the room, including me as I approached Meadows.

  Carl came off the wall as smooth as magic and stepped in front of me. He said, “Thad is far enough. I help you?”

  He was bigger than I thought, one of those well-proportioned people who look average until you are beside them. This guy was a good five inches taller than me. He had some major halitosis, too. I said, “You bet you can. There’s some mouthwash for sale across the street. You go buy yourself a quart, gargle that around awhile so we can start healing the ozone layer. Hey, better yet buy yourself one of those Tunguska Blasts. That’ll clean your tonsils.”

  Frank and the bodybuilder stopped talking to watch us.

  Frank said, “Can’t. He’s allergic.”

  “Allergic?”

  “He drinks one, his eyes water and he starts coughing, nose stops up, all that stuff.”

  I looked at Rakes and said, “Choke up over your Mother country, huh? Well, that still leaves the mouthwash across the street.”

  Carl said, “You come oudside for me, ve talk inside my breath.” He started to put his hand on me and I slapped it away. He grinned. “Oh, I vill like dis.”

  The back of a black sofa was behind him so I gave him a sharp push -- his body felt hard, like someone made of gristle and bone -- and his legs caught on the edge and he went over, but not like I’d planned.

  In a twisting acrobatic move amazing for someone his size, Carl turned in the air as he was falling and did a somersault, landing on the balls of his feet on the opposite side of the sofa, facing me. “You peckershid, I ged you now,” he said.

  Peckershid? I said, “Russian Ebonics don’t impress me, Igor. I’m here about Bob Landman, and I need to talk to Frank Meadows, not waltz with you in the parking lot.”

  Meadows looked at me, “I know you?”

  “No, you don’t. I’ve been hired to locate Bob Landman, and I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “You private?” I nodded.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ronny Baca.”

  “Baca, huh? You don’t look like a spic.”

  “My parents were from Bolognia. It’s a province in France.”

  Meadows nodded his head like he’d heard of the place, then said to Rakes, “It’s okay.” Carl went back to his place against the wall as if nothing had happened.

  Meadows asked, “So, what’s this about Bob?”

  “He hasn’t been heard from in three days. Some people close to him are worried. I’m trying to locate him.”

  The bodybuilder started to leave and Frank said, “You bulk up a little more, you know what I mean, then we’ll talk about you being the next Scorpion King.” The bodybuilder had biceps over twenty inches. The only thing left for him was steroids or an increase in steroids if he was already on them, which he probably was. “Now go,” Frank said. The bodybuilder left and Frank turned to me, “Okay, some people are worried about Bobby Landman, some people close to him. What do they expect me to do? I’m not his nursemaid. He’s a grown man, rich, he can go anywhere. He’s done this before, leaving for several weeks and coming back to tell everybody how he got in touch with himself. What crap.” Frank motioned for me to sit down and said, “What can I tell you. I haven’t talked to Bobby in about a week, since he came to the office to do his latest pitch. Where he is and what he’s doing, I don’t know.”

  “Do you socialize much with him?”

  “You mean go to parties? Sure, my wife and I have been to lots of parties with Landman. Last one was two, three months ago. Can’t see how that would help you.”

  If this guy knew his wife was fooling around with Robert Landman, well, he could play a great hand of poker. I gave him my card and said, “If you hear from him, would you contact me at that number? I would appreciate it.”

  He smiled at me and tore the card, dropping the pieces on the floor. He said, “You’ve got all the time you’ll ever get with me. Leave, or I’ll let Carl have you.” Carl came off the wall and started toward me. I stood and thought about drawing my magnum, but wasn’t sure six rounds would be enough to stop the advancing Cro-Magnon.

  There was a movement in the darkness behind Carl and I saw Hondo reach him. Carl came to a stop like a charging dog hitting the end of a chain. I couldn’t tell how Hondo was holding him, but Carl only struggled a little before shrugging his shoulders and stopping. Hondo made a quarter turn with Carl so he could see Frank and me. No one in the place was paying any attention.

  Hondo said, “Figured I’d better stop old Too-Tall here before you did him some serious harm.”

  Frank snorted and said, “Let him go. Carl, don’t worry about these two.” Hondo released his grip and Carl turned to look him up and down. He gave Hondo a slight nod and went to his wall. Hondo stood where he was, smiling and looking all mellow.

  I turned my attention to Meadows. “We’re not looking for a pissing contest, Frank,” his eyebrows went up at the use of his first name, “We’re trying to locate someone who should be valuable to you. I’m having a hard time deciding why you don’t want that to happen.”

  “You start messing with me, you’re going to get your balls handed to you on a plate.”

  I rolled my eyes, “Frank, listen to me. I’m not messing with you. I’m going to find Bob Landman. Your cooperation might have made it easier, but we don’t need you to do this.”

  He smiled and exhaled, “Maybe you’re right.” He took a step closer with his hand out as if to shake, but when I relaxed, Frank hopped to within an inch of me and shot his hand to my crotch. He was a powerful man, with forearms like a blacksmith and his grip on me took my breath away. His face was an inch from mine as he said, “Your cojones on a plate, you fuck with me.” He let go and stepped back, watching my reaction. Carl was still against the wall, and Hondo hadn’t moved.

  I didn’t move either, partly because the pain was almost paralyzing me, but also because I was not going to let him see he’d gotten to me.

  I crossed my arms on my chest, cocked one leg, and kept a blank face as I almost screamed like a girl when my scrotum adjusted. “You want to grab men like that, you better go to a gay bar and get a date. It doesn’t impress me.” I turned and walked toward the door. Hondo watched the two of them until I drew even. Carl pointed his hand at us with the thumb cocked and forefinger extended and mouthed “Bang,” as we walked out the door.

  As soon as the door closed behind us, I sucked in a large breath of air, leaned against the wall and fought against throwing up.

  “Good thing that didn’t hurt, huh?” Hondo said.

  I stood up and walked toward my truck, taking small, slow steps that gradually increased in length as the ache left my stomach and settled low in the groin, like my pelvic bone
s were cradling a shovel full of hot coals. Hondo opened the door for me and I took two tries before making it into the seat. I unbuttoned and unzipped my pants before buckling on the seatbelt.

  Hondo said, “Go on home. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  As he turned to leave I asked, “Did you find anything at the house?”

  “Yeah. Landman’s mountain bike was missing. That’s a three thousand dollar bike. You don’t just misplace one of those.”

  I thought about that as I readjusted my position in the seat, all the while using my hands to cradle my swelling gonads. Powder monkey’s didn’t hold jars of nitro with any more care than I was holding my balls.

  Hondo closed the driver’s door for me and said, “I’d put some ice on those tonight or you’re going to have the Lakers wanting to borrow them to shoot hoops.” He left as I started Shamu. My trip home was done at a blazing speed of forty miles an hour, and despite the pain, all I could think of was Bob Landman and his mountain bike.

  **

  The next morning Hondo came by and picked me up. As I walked to the Mercedes and got in he said, “Looks like you’re holding a cheeseburger between your legs when you walk.”

  “Drive,” I said. He grinned and maneuvered us down Mulholland Drive, in and out of traffic as smooth as a skier in deep powder. We turned on Ventura, then took the Pacific Coast Highway all the way into Venice. The day was beautiful, with no haze in the air, everything in crisp focus, and the smell of the sea perfumed the morning.

  We parked in the gym’s lot, which was already three-quarters full and went to the office. We sat in our chairs and talked things through. There was no real indication that Bob Landman had met with foul play, but Frank Meadows didn’t seem to care that Landman wasn’t around. Could be because his wife was playing choo-choo with the actor, but if it was, Frank could keep it hidden on his face. If not, then maybe Meadows was right, and Landman had gone off to find himself.

  That left Bond...and Mickey. Both of them close to the actor, seeing and talking to him every day and suddenly, poof, he’s Twilight Zoned out of here without either one of them having a clue about it. That’s the part that bothered us. Hondo took the paper with Mickey’s number and while he dialed, I went into the storage room where I kept some clothes and changed into looser fitting pants. I left off the Haines, too.

  Hondo hung up the phone as I walked back to my desk. He said, “You borrow those from MC Hammer?”

  I sat down, “These are called relaxed-fit jeans. The latest thing.”

  “Uh-huh,” Hondo grinned, then said, “Mickey said Landman used to ride his bike a lot on the trails into the Santa Monica Mountains. She said there’s one trail several blocks behind his house that was his favorite.”

  “We should head up that way, then. Check it out.”

  “It wouldn’t take much to fall into one of those canyons and not be found for a while. It’s rugged up there in places.”

  “We’d better get some gear, a couple of bikes-”

  Hondo held up his hand, “You don’t have to worry. It’s all taken care of.”

  “When did you do that?”

  “Oh, I didn’t. Mickey did. She got three bikes, said she’d meet us at the start of the trail.”

  Oh great.

  CHAPTER THREE

  We changed into shorts and tee shirts and we both wore our New Balance trail shoes. I left my pistol at the office, but Hondo put his Glock forty-five under the driver’s seat of the Mercedes. The Black Ops knife he put in his short pocket.

  As we rounded the last curve to the trail, we saw the parked BMW and Mickey standing nearby in the shade of a small tree, with three bikes lined up like soldiers beside her. Mickey waved and jumped up and down when she saw us, as excited as a kid. She didn’t have to wave. No one was going to miss her in the hot pink and lime-green spandex biking shorts and matching spandex top she was wearing. She wore a small purple fanny pack, and her hair was a spiky, punked mohawk that had green and pink glitter gelled into it.

  Hondo said, “Man, even her shoes are pink.” He was right. So was her bike, at least I assumed it was hers. She hurried over to the car as we stopped.

  “I am sooo glad to see you two again. It gives me such a sense of security with two big macho guys on the case. I just know we’ll make a great team.” She almost squealed with the last words.

  “Ahh, Mickey --”

  “You’re right Mickey,” Hondo said, “That’s exactly what Ronny told me on the way here.”

  Mickey blushed. I swear. She looked at me and said, “Thank you, Ronny. Most people don’t like me around. They uh, well...I don’t hear very many nice things come my way. It was nice, what you said.”

  I felt like an ass.

  Hondo said, “Which bike is mine?”

  Mickey clapped her hands in delight, then took one of ours in each of hers and led us to them. “Yours, Hondo, is the black one, and Ronny’s is the white one. Mine’s the pink one.” Thank goodness. They were Colnagos, expensive bikes.

  “Where’d you get these?”

  “The dealer keeps them at his shop. They’re Bob’s.”

  “How many does he have?”

  “Twelve, well thirteen counting mine. Bob did a commercial in France for Colnago and part of his contract called for receipt of them as an incentive. He just wanted to have a different one for each month.”

  “He changes bikes each month?”

  “Well, he did until the yellow one became his favorite. After he was photographed on it for the cover of People Magazine, he felt it matched his hair better.”

  His hair. What a reason to pick a three thousand dollar bicycle. “And that’s the bike he had at the house.”

  “Yes. It’s the only one he’s ridden in the last six months.”

  Hondo adjusted his seat and was ready to go. Mickey hopped on her bike and moved it from the shade into the sun. The light on all that bright pink and green made my eyes squint, like looking at a neon sign from three inches away.

  Mickey led out, saying over her shoulder, “I rode with Bob many times on this trail. He had two favorite routes that I thought we could try first.” Mickey may have really been a male and only about five-six and one-twenty, but that pink bike was moving. By the time I adjusted my seat and was pedaling, they were already two hundred yards ahead. I stood up and leaned into it, changing gears and moving my feet fast on the pedals so that in ten minutes I pulled up beside Hondo. I readjusted myself several times on the seat and couldn’t find a comfortable position.

  Hondo said, “I bet riding that tiny seat hurts something fierce.”

  “No worse than hopping on a running chainsaw.” I wiggled again and found a position that was a little better.

  Hondo said, “Yeah, but that squeeze old Frank gave you would have killed a lesser man.” He grinned at me, then sped up beside Mickey and told her to watch the right side, that he would watch the left and I would watch both.

  We had the trail to ourselves so far, and the sun on us felt warm and penetrating. I had a good sweat going. My muscles limbered up and the pain between my legs lessened to that of a throbbing bad tooth. There hadn’t been much rain and the brush on the hillsides and in the canyons had a brown, brittle look, making what green shrubs and trees there were stand out like fresh paint. Dust stayed in the air behind us as we moved higher, following the contours of the ridges in a steady upward angle.

  Two hours later, we reached the main fork. Mickey moved under the shade and we followed her. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright with energy. “Wow, that is sooo exhilarating.” There was fine sweat on Mickey’s face, but she must have been wearing waterproof mascara today because it hadn’t run. Hondo and I were huffing and I could feel the tremble in my thighs from that last climb.

  Hondo said, “What’s down that one?” He pointed to the left fork.

  Mickey said, “That’s Bob’s long trail. It winds across and west, then back. It’s about two hours.”

  “More?�
�� I said.

  “Yes, silly. It’s the long route.” She pointed to the right hand path, “That’s the short one. It only takes an hour.”

  “More?”

  Mickey waved her finger at me. “You just want to make me feel good. An athletic looking man like you could ride all day. I appreciate it, but you don’t have to hold back on my account.”

  Hondo said, “Yeah, don’t hold back on her account.”

  I said, “Maybe we should split up, cover more area faster.”

  Mickey said, “That’s a wonderful plan. I’ve been reading up on Private Dicks--” Hondo shook with silent laughter “--And you guys are smart, like Phillip Marlowe and Spenser and Travis McGee, just uncanny the way you work out what to do. Your minds are so keen, so piercing. I’m very impressed. I know you’ll find Bob, I just know it.” She teared up on the last part, but held it in.

  I guess it never dawned on Mickey that the detectives she named weren’t real flesh and blood people but hey, our minds were keen. I said, “Why don’t you and Hondo take the long route and I’ll take the short one, meet you back at the cars.” Hondo tried to give me a look but he had his sunglasses on, so I acted like I didn’t notice. Mickey didn’t wait to discuss it, but hopped on her pink bike and started down the left trail. Hondo made a low noise like a dog’s warning growl, then followed her.

  I leaned my head back, looked at the hard blue sky above me and smiled. It’s the little pleasures in life that are so satisfying. I eased onto my bike and started down the short trail, squirming on the seat as I went.

  I’d gone maybe a hundred yards when I passed a small game trail on my left. I caught the light just right as I glanced at it and saw the faded impression of a bicycle tread. I stopped and looked at the narrow, threadlike path. It was maybe ten inches wide and curved around obstacles like a snake, slicing a pale line into the brush to disappear as it slanted behind a head-high slab of rock. I left the bike on the hiking trail and followed the faded bicycle impressions on foot. The tracks kept going as far as I could see, and the imprints were identical to my tires. I trotted back to the bike and turned it around. I rode as fast as I dared and it still took me ten minutes to catch up to Hondo and Mickey. I was so out of breath I couldn’t even whisper when I got close enough to stop them.