Never Look Down

by Warren C Easley

  “Incredible,” I said. “How do they sell?”

  She gave me a perky smile. “Like hot cakes. The holidays are right around the corner. Makes a great Christmas gift, or,” she went on, “we have some really nice handguns for women, too. The pink Glock’s my favorite. It’s light and compact, but a .44-caliber round will stop a horse. Would you like to see one?”

  She was good, no doubt about it. “Actually, I’m a little pressed for time, Jamie. I was hoping I could talk to your boss. Is Roz Jenkins around?” I removed a card from my shirt pocket and handed it to her. “Tell her I’m an acquaintance of Jack Pfister’s.” It wasn’t a lie.

  Jamie made a call and then showed me to a staircase. “Up the stairs, first door on your left.” I knocked on the unmarked door, and a voice boomed out, “Door’s open.” Jenkins sat behind a massive desk in an equally large office with a window that looked out over Water Street and east toward Mount Hood, which was out there somewhere behind the cloud cover. She laid her reading glasses on the desk and stood to greet me. She was tall, close to six foot, and full-figured, with short, blond-going-to-gray hair atop a round, open face that was windblown and wrinkled, yet attractive at the same time. Her eyes were robin’s-egg blue, wide and intense, almost unblinking. She met my eyes and smiled, disarmingly so. “You’re a friend of Jack Pfister’s?”

  I introduced myself and said, “I practice law out in the north valley—Dundee. Jack’s been, uh, advising me on becoming a gun trust lawyer. Sounds like a growth opportunity.” When in Rome, speak Italian.

  She nodded and smirked. “With all the goddamn laws and regulations out there today, people certainly need good legal advice about handling their firearms. Pfister’s one of the best.”

  I nodded back. “But that’s not why I’m here.” I went on to explain my interest in Claudia Borrego’s murder using the just-doing-an-old-friend-a-favor routine, which was working for me. Then I said, “I understand a young man named Manny Bonilla was set to be your driver.”

  Jenkins looked surprised. “Was that his name? Never met him. My son-in-law handles the hiring and firing around here.”

  I nodded. “He turned the job down at the last minute. I’m just trying to fill in some blanks, wondering if you recall anything about this? Jack Pfister helped him get the job.”

  “What, he wants the job after all?”

  “No. Unfortunately, he was found dead shortly after Ms. Borrego’s murder. The cause of death’s still under investigation.”

  Jenkins made a face. “Damn, that’s too bad. Bonilla, huh? Name rings a bell. That the fella they found in the river up by Sauvie Island? I remember reading about that.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “He an ex-con? I know Jack’s real active in helping them out.”

  “Yes. Bonilla did time at Sheridan and was in the federal re-entry program here in Portland.”

  Roz popped up from behind her desk. “Come on, let’s go find my son-in-law, Arthur. I believe he’s down at the range.” She walked fast in a pair of pointy-toed boots with some handsome inlay work, straight leg jeans, and a checkered shirt with pearl buttons. A diamond-encrusted Rolex with a gold band jounced on her wrist. At a door in the retail space marked “Firing Range,” she removed two sets of molded plastic earmuffs and safety glasses from a rack and handed me a set of each. “Here, put these on. Arthur’s demonstrating the Thompson right now.” I must have looked puzzled, because she laughed, the sound coming from her belly. “You know, the Chicago Typewriter, a vintage submachine like the Al Capone days. Come on. You’ll get a kick out of this.”

  The firing range was twenty stations deep, with each station separated from its neighbor by insulating foam walls, the targets retrievable by the push of a button and backed by a huge mound of what Roz explained were ground-up tires. There were half a dozen single shooters scattered along the range and a group of four or five huddled toward the far end. As we entered we heard a muffled rat tat tat tat tat tat coming from the far end, followed by howls and peels of nervous laughter.

  Jenkins pointed in that direction and smiled broadly. “That’s the Thompson. Arthur collects guns and loves to demonstrate them.” We joined the group where a man I took to be Arthur was adroitly reloading the straight clip with .45-caliber bullets that looked like fat bumblebees. He was substantially shorter than his mother-in-law, with thinning hair, an angular face that tapered to a sharp chin, and eyes the color of shallow water.

  A twenty-something standing next to him held the Thompson, which had a gleaming blue-black barrel and a wood shoulder stock and matching, curved handgrip with finger grooves. The wood was burnished to a rich luster by years of use and meticulous care, giving the weapon the appeal of a fine antique. I could understand the desire to own such a gun. The rest of the group, including one man my age, was arguing about who was going to fire the Thompson next.

  Jenkins and I waited through two more rat-tat-tat cycles before Arthur broke free of the group, submachine gun in hand. I gave him a gee-whiz look as Jenkins introduced me but watched his face carefully as she explained what I wanted.

  “Manny Bonilla? Yeah, I seem to recall the name.” He smiled affably enough, but the muscle along his jawline flexed a couple of times as the smile faded. He looked at Jenkins. “I really don’t think our hiring practices are any of Mr. Claxton’s business.”

  Jenkins straightened up. “Oh, hell, Arthur, tell the man what he wants to know. He’s just trying to help a friend out, for Christ sake. This fella’s turned up dead.”

  Arthur seemed unfazed by the news of Bonilla’s passing. “He was going to be your driver. God knows you can’t afford another accident, Roz.”

  Roz drew her face into a pout and waved a hand at him. “That last one could’ve happened to anyone.”

  Turning to Arthur, I said, “Uh, Bonilla turned down your offer so he could work at a minimum wage job at a little bistro over in the Pearl. Any idea why he did that?”

  Arthur fixed me with his pale eyes and shrugged. “Beats me. We start our people at seventeen an hour—”

  “With benefits,” Jenkins interjected.

  “—right, with benefits,” Arthur said. “All I know is Pfister called and told me Bonilla wasn’t coming. It was no big deal. There were five more in line for that job.”

  I said, “Was Bonilla upset about anything?”

  Arthur shrugged again. “Dunno. He didn’t bother to call me. Look, Mr. Claxton, I have over a hundred wage employees working for me up and down the coast. I don’t get into the way their heads work.”

  “How did you feel about hiring a convicted felon?”

  Arthur smirked at what he clearly considered an inappropriate question, and his jaw flexed again. “If Jack Pfister says a man’s okay, that’s good enough for me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.” He turned abruptly and sauntered off, the Thompson lolling at his side.

  As Roz Jenkins was showing me out I said, “Looks like a great business here. You must be very proud.”

  She stopped, put her hands on her hips, and smiled broadly. “Sure am. We just opened our fifteenth store. For me, it’s the family aspect. Folks can come here and spend an afternoon shooting, not out in the damn woods somewhere, like we did when I was a kid. Especially families in the city. They need a decent place to shoot.”

  I nodded. “I see your point. Arthur seems very knowledgeable.”

  She chuckled. “Oh, he’s an expert on firearms. Has an MBA, too. Stanford. Wants us to be the Starbucks of gun shops and ranges. He runs the day-to-day operation now. Gives me more time to devote to my passion, gun rights.” She paused then added, “Do you shoot, Cal?”

  “Oh, I have a Glock up in the closet a friend gave me. But, I’m, uh, not very handy with it.”

  She flashed the broad smile again. “You come on back then. Bring the Glock. I’ll teach you how to shoot it.”
r />   I told her I would, and as she turned to leave I nodded at her feet. “Nice boots. Who made them?”

  She glanced down. “Oh, a custom shop out near Estacada. Bootmaker named Timmons.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Kelly

  As Kelly hurried to class the next morning Digger rolled up next to her on his longboard, hopped off, and appraised her with beady eyes set deep and close on either side of his nose. S’up, girl? You goin’ to class today?”

  Kelly kept up her brisk pace, trying not to look at his zit-ridden forehead. It was hard to do, like not looking at a car wreck. “What’s it look like, Digger?”

  “Why not cut? I’ve got a couple of blunts. We could hang out at my cousin’s place. He’s, uh, at work.”

  Kelly stopped and looked at him, her face drawn up in genuine amazement. “You’re kidding, right?”

  His smile slimed over. “No. I thought we could, you know, have some kicks.”

  Kelly felt her skin crawl. She knew she should probably not provoke him, but she had little skill in letting people down easy. She turned and faced him full on, her anger engulfing her. “Digger, I’d rather eat a bowl of maggots than go anywhere with you.”

  His face hardened, and his eyes seemed to recede into their sockets like burrowing animals. “Yeah, well, I thought we could talk about your backpack and that bitch that got snuffed, too. You must know a lot about that.”

  Kelly deflected the comments without changing expression. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. That wasn’t my backpack that cop had. Old Town’s full of those blue bags and you know it.”

  “So where’s yours, then?”

  “It got ripped off at a bus stop, you dick wad.”

  “Sure it did.”

  “If you don’t believe me, that’s your problem. Now run along on your kiddie board.”

  Digger tried to smile, but it morphed into a sneer. “Okay, bitch, have it your way.” He mounted his board and pushed off, but not before calling Kelly every ugly and abusive term he’d learned on the street.

  Kelly stood there for a moment in shock. What would the little creep do now? Would he go to the cops, or worse, Macho Dude? Or, maybe he bought her story. After all, she didn’t cave in to his threats. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

  She must have been still visibly shaken, because when she ran into Kiyana and Zook at the park Ki said, “What’s happened, baby girl? You’re white as a sheet.”

  After Kelly described the encounter with Digger, Zook said, “That little turd. How ’bout I bust his longboard over his head?”

  Kiyana laughed. “Don’t do that unless I’m there to watch, Zook.”

  Kelly’s heart swelled at Zook’s words. Maybe he did care, after all. She wanted to hike up on her tiptoes and kiss him, but she resisted. The last thing she wanted was for Zook to add more fuel to the fire by confronting Digger. She said, “Hey guys, let’s just cool it, okay? I can take care of myself.”

  Maybe Digger was bluffing. She could hope, anyway.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Cal

  I was planning to swing by The Sharp Eye to talk to Nando after I left the Arsenal, but Esperanza told me he’d left for the day. I caught him by phone and by the time I reached Caffeine Central had filled him in. The tagger, K209, was still MIA. When I mentioned the lawyer, Jack Pfister, Nando said, “Yes, I know of this Pfister. His foundation helps ex-offenders find employment. Two employees in my office cleaning business were recommended by him.”

  “Yeah, well, Pfister arranged a pretty decent job for Bonilla as a driver for a wealthy woman named Rosalind Jenkins. She owns a chain of gun shops on the West Coast. The one in Portland’s called Bridgetown Arsenal. But Bonilla turned the job down at the last minute with no explanation. That strikes me as a little strange. I visited Pfister and the Arsenal today. All I can tell you is that both Pfister and the guy who runs the gun shop seemed to get a little heartburn when I brought Bonilla’s name up.”

  “Perhaps they are worried about the publicity.”

  “Could be. There’s something else, too. I met the woman who owns the chain. She had on a handsome pair of cowboy boots. Guess who made the boots.”

  “Not the bootmaker from Estacada?”

  “None other.”

  Nando paused several beats. “So all roads seem to lead to this gun shop.”

  “It would appear so. What about Bonilla’s cause of death? Have you heard anything?”

  “I checked this morning. There is a woman in the ME’s office who I used to, uh, see. At the moment, the death is classified as suspicious on account of some unexplained bruises, but they have not ruled out suicide. He could have jumped off the Fremont Bridge.”

  “Good work, Nando. Maybe this thing’s starting to give a little. Keep digging on Cardenas, and I’ll keep working the Bonilla-gun shop angle. If there’s a connection, we’ve got to find it.”

  “There’s a connection, Calvin, I assure you.”

  ***

  I spent the rest of the afternoon on the phone talking to clients and one judge with whom I was having a running dispute over a change of venue. I have to admit it felt good doing some real work—the kind that results in a check payable to me. When Archie got restless I took him out for a walk, and when I returned Tay Jefferson was standing in front of Caffeine Central.

  “Hi,” she said. Her honey-brown eyes looked darker in the weak autumn light, but her smile seemed to light the street. You can tell a lot from a smile, and Tay’s seemed to derive from a kind of inner peace I could only envy. Archie made a beeline for her, and she knelt down, hugged his neck, and scratched him behind the ears. “Oh,” she said, as she ran her finger along the ridge of a whitish scar that peeked through his fur at the base of his right ear, “what happened to cause this?”

  “He, uh, was hit with a tire iron. A friend of mine who’s a vet saved him. The guy that hit him is serving a life term for murder.”

  When I finished the story she took Archie’s head in both hands, looked him in the eye, and said, “Well, I’m not surprised you pulled through, big boy. You have a lot to live for.” Then she smiled up at me. “Esperanza told me I might find you here, Cal. You weren’t picking up, so I thought I’d drop by to see if I could catch you.”

  “Sorry. I was on the phone most of the afternoon. What’s going on?”

  She stood up and faced me. “I’ve done a little sleuthing myself. Thought maybe I could buy you a drink and tell you about it.”

  I looked down at Arch. “I’ve got to feed this guy. Tell you what, why don’t you join us for dinner? You like pasta?”

  She accepted my invitation and followed me up the stairs to the apartment. I poured us each a glass of wine and after confirming she liked spicy food, set to work chopping garlic, cloves, onions, red peppers, Kalamata black olives, and basil on a cutting board. I was curious to hear about her “sleuthing” but saw no need to rush the conversation and apparently neither did she. After a couple of sips of wine she closed her eyes. “Umm, this is a good white. Bone dry, just the way I like it.”

  I smiled and held up the bottle. “Sancerre. From the Loire Valley. They invented dry.”

  She nodded. “Where did you learn to cook?”

  I put a pot of water on the stove for the penne. “Self-taught. Uh, after my wife passed away I had no choice. I’d grown accustomed to good food.”

  “Sorry to hear about your wife. Did that happen in L.A. when you were a DA?”

  “Yeah.” I poured some olive oil into a big skillet and began heating it. “I came up here after.” I forced a smile. “You know, a new direction and all that. Where are you from?”

  “I’m an L.A. refugee, too, South Central. I got a masters at UCLA and worked in counseling down there. Came up here eight years ago to take the FRC job.”

  “Family
down there?”

  “A younger brother. He’s a high school teacher.” She smiled a bit wistfully. “Our mother died of cancer when I was twelve. My brother and I wound up in foster care.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  She waved a hand. “Oh, it worked out okay. The foster parents turned out to be wonderful people. My brother and I are still very close to them.”

  I poured the penne into the boiling water and sautéed the spices in hot olive oil. I then added red wine, a pinch of brown sugar, and crushed tomatoes to the sauté and let the sauce begin to simmer.

  Soon the kitchen was filled with a tangy tomato aroma. Tay got up and used a spoon to taste it. “Yum. What do you call this concoction?”

  “Arrabbiata. It’s about as spicy as it gets in Italy.” While the penne cooked and the sauce simmered, I made a quick salad, sliced-up half a baguette, and opened a bottle of Sokol Blosser pinot that I’d stashed away for an undefined special occasion. A dinner with this interesting woman seemed to fit the bill.

  When we were finally eating, I said, “So, tell me about this sleuthing.”

  She finished chewing a bite before answering. “Well, there’s been a lot of talk at the center about both Claudia and Manny, as you can imagine.”

  “Is anyone connecting the two deaths?”

  She shook her head. “No. I haven’t heard anything like that. The police have been back asking more questions, though. Thanks to you and Nando, I’m not involved in that discussion. But I was talking to a Hispanic resident yesterday, and he let something slip.”

  I stopped my fork halfway to my mouth and waited for her to continue.

  “He said he wasn’t surprised Manny’s dead. He said when Manny was inside he was seen mixing with some bad dudes.”

  “Did he give you any names?”

  “One. A guy named Javier Acedo. He’s known as Javi, a local banger with mucho cartel connections. Runs a lot of bad stuff from inside Sheridan.”