Baca

by Billy Kring

  Frank’s right eye twitched as he looked at me, “Baca, this is a private conversation.”

  “Why don’t you tell them how you funnel money made from criminal enterprise into your studio so you can keep it afloat?”

  One of the men got up and said, “I’ll talk to you later, Mr. Meadows.” The others left with him and I sat down beside Frank.

  He started to get up and I snugged his elbow into the crook of my arm and used my hand to force his hand down at a right angle. A little more pressure and I could inflict a lot of pain. A little more than that and I could break his wrist.

  “Frank, tell me about Carl Rakes.” Frank tried a quick move to pull his hand away and punch me, but I applied the pressure and he grimaced. I said, “You try that again and I’ll break your wrist so bad that hand will fly around on the end of your arm like a propeller. Now, tell me about Rakes.”

  He growled, “What do you want to know?”

  “How’d you meet him?”

  He looked at me like he thought I already knew, “Bond introduced us.”

  “Bond?”

  “Yeah, I thought she told you.”

  “Nope.” I thought a moment then said, “It doesn’t bother you, Bond rubbing all over him?”

  “You really that naive, Baca?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Carl is both our partners.”

  “I’m not talking about business. I saw what was going on at the pool.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about. Both Bond and I are omnisexual.”

  “So plants and animals are fair game, too.”

  Frank rolled his eyes, “We have sex together.”

  “They used to call it ménage a trois.”

  “You common people have such small minds.”

  “Common people? Frank, I hear a lot of Pennsylvania coal mine in your voice. Doesn’t get more common than that.”

  Frank struggled and I gave his wrist a good one that brought a hiss from his lips. He settled back, not wanting that kind of pain again. We stared at each other for a minute, then he said, “What I know, Carl Rakes was in the Russian Special Forces and sided with the wrong group during one of the Russian political changeovers. The victors thought he was too dangerous so they arrested him for crimes against the state and stuck him in jail. Not just any jail, but the one filled with the meanest, sickest, toughest criminals in the country, the prison at Sarana.

  He was forced to become the toughest one there just to survive. Seems convicts have a thing for military or police when they join the prison population. Anyhow, that’s what he did.

  “What goes around comes around, and some of his political cronies came back into power years later and they freed and pardoned him. He’d had enough of Mother Russia and he immigrated to America about seven years ago. We met and I hired him. That what you wanted?”

  “How did Bond know him before you?”

  “I don’t know. Ask her.”

  Frank sulled up and I figured that was all I was going to get, so I let him go. He rubbed his wrist and said, “You keep sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong and you’re going to get hurt.”

  I moved my face close to his, “Simon Mortay ran my best friend through with a sword. I think Rakes beat Mickey Haile to death with his fists. I’m not the one who needs to watch out. Tell them that.” I walked to the bar and ordered a Tunguska Blast. I needed it after that little episode. I watched Frank in the mirror behind the bar as I downed the Blast. The combination of hot/cold secret ingredients, and one hundred proof octane blossomed in my stomach and spread outward like the pressure waves on those old films of exploding nuclear bombs. When I left, my fingers, toes, and scalp were tingling as if they’d been massaged with menthol. I didn’t know what was in that stuff, but it was worth the twenty bucks.

  **

  When I got to the office, Hunter was waiting. She was mad clear through, but not at me.

  “Somebody’s got a long reach, Ronny. I got a call from my Chief a few minutes ago, seems I’m to report directly to Washington to face a review board on my conduct.”

  “What are they saying you did?”

  “Worked out here with you and Hondo without getting prior authorization.”

  I’ll tell them you were just tagging along. I mean, we didn’t pay you, so you weren’t really working.”

  She shook her head, “Whoever did this has some juice, because they’re going hard at me, is what the Chief said. It’s a firing offense.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’ve got a flight out in three hours. I’m going by to see Hondo, then head for the airport. I’m sorry to leave you like this, but...”

  “Hey, you do what you need to. If I can testify or anything, tell them they’re wrong, let me know or have them call me.”

  She nodded, walked over, gave me a hug, and left before we both got emotional.

  The office felt empty. Hondo was in the hospital and I’d gotten used to Hunter being here. Right then, if I’d had ten of those Tunguska Blasts I’d have popped them all down. I walked to the windows and looked at the full parking lot. Several people in gym clothes were beside Shamu looking at the bullet holes. One girl put her finger in the holes.

  I looked past them and saw a Sheriff’s Department sedan pull into the lot. Vick Best got out and walked toward my office. When he was close, I opened the door. “Hello Vick.”

  He walked past me into the office and plopped in a chair. He rubbed his head and sighed.

  I closed the door and sat behind my desk. “Spit it out,” I said.

  “Your Investigator’s license has been suspended. You’re no longer authorized to do private investigations in the state of California.”

  “Suspended for what?”

  “Ronny, it came down from high up, is all I can tell you. Some sort of ethics violation. They’re going to review it, give you a chance to respond, then make a final decision, but until then, you’re suspended.”

  “Hondo too?” Vick nodded.

  “You know who?”

  “No.”

  We sat there in silence, then Vick said, “Your permit to carry is suspended, too.”

  I nodded. It figured.

  He rose and put his hand on my shoulder, “It comes to it, I’ll testify in your behalf.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I gotta go, tell Hondo he’s in our thoughts.”

  “I will.” Vick left and closed the door behind him.

  What a day, I thought. I took off my shoulder holster and magnum and hung it in the closet, then moped around the office for the next hour but didn’t accomplish anything so I drove to the auto body shop and the body man came out, cleaning his hands on a red rag.

  “Christ, Baca. You tell them where to shoot so they’d hit the only place hasn’t been repaired before? I’m gonna buy stock in Bond-O before I start this one. Price’ll go through the roof. Leave it and I’ll get to it soon.”

  “You got a loaner?”

  “Sure, take that one,” He pointed at a five year old mint green Yugo. It looked like something from Toys R Us. “Keys are in it,” he said.

  “Do I wind it up or does it take batteries?”

  “Ha-ha, funny guy. Gets a gazillion miles a gallon, so you won’t spend a fortune driving it this week.”

  “It’s going to take a week to fix my truck?”

  “I got others before you. I’ll work on it between other jobs. It’s the best I can do.”

  “All right,” I said. “Call me if you finish it sooner.”

  “Oh sure, Captain Ahab.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Not every guy in town drives a fish-mobile.”

  “It’s not...never mind.” I went to the Yugo and folded myself inside like an accordion. It was actually roomier that I thought it would be. I started it up and we putted our way to the hospital.

  **

  I parked and rode the elevator to the third floor and walked to Hondo’s room. Th
e door was closed and I started to push it open, but a nurse stopped me. “You can’t go in there. He’s not allowed visitors.”

  “I just saw him not six hours ago,” I said.

  “Are you Mr. Baca?”

  “Yes.”

  “Before he lost consciousness.”

  “What?”

  “He’s very ill, Mr. Baca. He said to tell you the little dancer came to visit and you need to find her.”

  “How’s he ill? What happened?”

  “Pneumonia.”

  “But, it’s so fast.”

  She said, “Some people call it Galloping Pneumonia, but the technical name is Streptococcus Pneumonia Group A. It’s bacterial.” She touched my forearm, “Do you remember the Muppet fellow who passed away?”

  “Jim Henson, sure.”

  “He died of streptococcus pneumonia less than twenty hours after being admitted to the hospital. It’s a very fast-acting strain, resistant to many antibiotics. This is the type your friend has.”

  I felt all the strength go out of me. “Will he make it?”

  “I don’t know. We’re doing everything we can, and he is in phenomenal shape. We’ll know more tomorrow.”

  “Can I look in on him?”

  She bit her lip then said, “For a moment, no more.”

  I went in and saw Hondo under an oxygen tent. He looked flushed and was having trouble breathing. His eyes were closed and his arms were under the clear tent. I watched him for a minute, then said, “You make it or I’m going to be pissed.” I wiped my eyes and left the room.

  The nurse was waiting outside and I said, “Will you call me if there’s any change?”

  “Yes, we have your number.”

  I left the hospital in a daze. The sun was disappearing beyond the sea. I turned on the Yugo’s lights after taking several minutes figuring out which knob and button went to what. Hondo’s message said, The little dancer, and I assumed he meant the one he’d rescued at the Caspian Diamond. Finding her might be a chore since I didn’t know her name or address, and I’d be less than welcome at the Diamond.

  I thought about it as I drove up Mulholland and took the road to my house, then saw an orange glow in the sky.

  The fire trucks beat me there. My house was blazing away like a high school bonfire. I parked the Yugo and stepped out to stare. The roof collapsed in a plume of sparks and embers rising on the smoke.

  I sat on the curb and for some reason an old interview with Willie Nelson popped in my head where Willie told of the day his record company fired him, his third wife served divorce papers, and he came home to see his house burning to the ground. Willie sat on the curb and wrote, What Can You Do To Me Now.

  Great, now I was living a country song.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I watched the house burn to a pile of rubble and when the fire department left, I followed them down Mulholland and took the road to the hospital. If they wouldn’t let me stay in the room with Hondo I’d stay in the visitor’s area. At least it had a couch.

  I tried five times to see him. The first four I tried Sneaky. I’d wait until the nurses were all busy and I would creep to Hondo’s door, and each time I was caught before I could enter. The fifth time I tried Clever. I was in the cafeteria when I saw a male doctor leave his white lab coat on the back of his chair. I knew the next shift of nurses were on and none of them had caught me. The idea blossomed. I put on the lab coat and went to the nurses’ station. I told them I was a lung specialist and needed to check on Mr. Wells. The nurses looked at each other, then back at me. The one closest to me, the redhead, folded her arms on her chest and said, “Okay Doctor, would you like us to perform percutaneous radiofrequency trigeminal ganglioysis?”

  A trickle of sweat ran down my temple. I said, “Of course, I’ll need you to do that.”

  “And where would you like that administered on Mr. Wells?”

  I felt like the proverbial deer in the headlights. “Let’s go in rectally.”

  That brought a snort, then laughter and head shaking from all of them. The redhead said, “That procedure is performed behind the eye. Please sit down, Mr. Baca. We’ll let you in when we can.” To top it off, they asked me for the lab coat. I went to the waiting room and tried to close my eyes. Every hour, I opened them and saw that ten minutes had passed. Dawn took forever to arrive.

  At seven-thirty, the nurse that had taken my lab coat came and tapped me on the shoulder, “Come with me,” she said.

  A cold knot formed in my stomach. I followed her to the nurses’ station and she said, “Mr. Wells made it through the night and that’s a good sign. He’s still not out of danger, and he’s still unconscious, but if you want to go in there and sit with him, I’ll let you.”

  I went in and looked at Hondo through the plastic oxygen tent. He looked like he’d lost twenty pounds and his face was pale. I went to the bed and touched his arm through the plastic. “I’m right here,” I said. I moved a chair closer to the bed and tried to think optimistic thoughts.

  Two hours later, as I watched the television, I heard a weak voice say, “Find Landman.” Hondo’s eyes were open.

  “Hey,” I said.

  Hondo cleared his throat and said again, “Landman, go find him.”

  “I think I’ll hang out with you instead.”

  He shook his head slowly and coughed, “No, get to work. Make us some money.”

  “We’re not getting paid for this one, remember?”

  “Do it for Sparta.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m fine. You make me nervous, all hovering like you are. Go do Good Guy stuff.”

  “I’ll go as soon as I know you’re all right.”

  “Look at me, I’m not all right. I’ve got a hole through me and my lungs feel like they’re full of hot glue. It’s hard to breathe, but I’m not going to die. I’m going to get well, but not soon enough to help you do what you need to do.”

  A nurse who looked to be in her late forties came in and checked Hondo’s vital signs. She smiled after taking his temperature and said, “Your fever’s going down. That is excellent, young man.”

  After the nurse left I said, “I guess I could go do something. No sense hanging around here to watch you sleep. Did you know you make baby noises when you go night-night?”

  “Only when I’ve been skewered.”

  “Uh-huh.” I stood and said, “I’m off to do some top-flight detective work. Don’t forget to eat your hospital food.”

  Hondo said, “Yum.” He coughed again and looked at me with fever-bright eyes, “Find Landman. I’ll deal with Rakes and Mortay when I get out of here.”

  “Sure,” I said, “By the time the hospital discharges you, both of them will be dead from old age. Good plan.”

  “You’re so witty,” Hondo said, then his brow wrinkled, “Mickey’s funeral is today, right?”

  I nodded, “Yeah, at one.”

  “Tell her parents I’m sorry I can’t be there.”

  “I will.”

  **

  I drove the Yugo to the office where I showered and shaved. I didn’t have a suit, but there was a Men’s Wearhouse not too far away so I drove there and bought a dark blue suit with white shirt and dark blue tie. That made one suit, two pairs of jeans, one black polo short sleeve shirt, six pairs of socks and underwear, four tee shirts and four pairs of athletic shorts. I had one other piece of clothing and was taking it with me to the funeral. The rest of my clothes were all ash-black and blowing across the California landscape with every breeze. I didn’t find any shoes that felt good, so I wore my New Balance shoes with the suit.

  The funeral was at graveside, and only a small group of about a dozen people attended. The casket was closed because of the beating Mickey had taken, but I asked the funeral director if I might place something inside the casket.

  “I’ll open it for you,” he said. I followed him to the casket and waited until he opened it about six inches. I took my Patagonia windbreaker and placed it be
side her. The director nodded, then closed the casket.

  I recognized Mickey’s parents right away. They were small framed like Mickey, and the woman had Mickey’s eyes. The pastor gave a nice eulogy, and he kept it short, not pretending he knew Mickey Haile well. Afterwards I walked by the parents and told them Hondo was ill and couldn’t make it, but that we were sorry for their loss.

  The father looked at me a moment and said, “Are you Ronny Baca?”

  “Yes.”

  He rose and said, “Please walk with me.” I followed him as we moved away from the crowd. He stopped about thirty yards away and turned. I could see grief etched deep into his face. He said, “Mickey was very taken with you.”

  “I liked her, too.”

  A tiny smile touched his lips when I said ‘her’. He continued, “She thought you could do anything, and she was so proud to have you and Mr. Wells as friends.”

  “I’m going to find the people who hurt her, Mr. Haile.”

  He appraised me. “I believe you will, Mr. Baca.” He sighed and looked to his wife at the grave site. “I should get back with Mary. Please tell Mr. Wells we wish him a fast recovery.” He walked to his wife and I got into the Yugo, where I sat for several minutes before driving to the office.

  **

  I changed into jeans and a blue tee shirt, then went through the mutual door of our office and Archie’s gym. I saw Arch coaching one of the Raiders through a leg workout on the extension machine. I recognized him as one of the corners on the Raiders’ defense who lived in Los Angeles in the off season. He was one of those hard-hitting defensive backs that receivers said should have to wear red lights and sirens on their helmets to warn people when they were coming. I remembered he was out last season with a knee injury.

  Archie said to him, “I talked to your surgeon yesterday and we worked out a next-level program for you. It’s pretty easy.”

  The Pro’s bald, ebony head was already beaded with sweat. He said, “Arch, you think building the pyramids is easy.”

  I reached them and said to the D back, “You mind if I talk to Arch for a minute?”

  “Please. It’ll give me a break.”