Never Look Down

by Warren C Easley

  The next morning I made us a six-egg omelet with some black morels I had stashed away along with Tillamook cheddar, green onions, and fresh garlic. I sent Gunderson off a well-fed man, although he was rightly concerned about his safety. I told him to start carrying his house keys or find a better hiding place, and if he couldn’t get his smashed window repaired that day, he could stay with me until he did.

  Later that morning, my favorite police detective called. “Goddamn it, Claxton,” Harmon Scott said the moment I answered, “I thought you were out of my life.”

  “Good morning to you, too, Harmon.”

  “I know you had something to do with Gunderson coming forward in the first place, and I’m grateful for that—”

  “Always a pleasure to serve.”

  “—but how in hell did you turn up as a witness in that break-in last night?”

  “Blame your partner, Ludlow. He and Gunderson share the same religion but not the same beliefs about sexual orientation. Gunderson didn’t want to deal with him, so he called me for advice. It screwed up a good fishing trip, if you really want to know.” I answered some more of Scott’s questions, and he told me Bonilla’s death was still classified as “suspicious” and that they’d found absolutely no link between his death and Claudia Borrego’s other than their blood relationship.

  When I asked about the assault on me and if he’d followed up with Timmons the bootmaker out in Estacada, he replied, “Sorry. Dead end. The guy’s paranoid about Big Brother, purges his tax records religiously, and couldn’t remember anything that far back.”

  “No search warrant?”

  “Nah, you know how it goes. Money’s tight. Searches ain’t cheap. No reason to doubt him.”

  “What if he’s covering for a friend?”

  When Scott didn’t respond, I let it ride. I did know how it goes. We signed off after I extracted a promise that Scott would have a patrol car watch Gunderson’s apartment for a couple of nights.

  I thought about taking a run before looking at the material I’d photographed in Bonilla’s notebook, but a front had moved in, and it was pelting rain. I fixed myself another cappuccino instead, and after e-mailing myself the photos and saving them in a file, set to work at my computer. Reading the love letter the night before prepared me somewhat for the mangled, torturously cramped combination of cursive and print letters and atrocious spelling that characterized Bonilla’s handwriting. But, it was still slow going. The notebook served as a kind of do-it-yourself day minder and catch-all for the young man.

  The first dozen or so pages were notes from meetings, sequentially dated from the latter half of August through September. Several entries were headed “Meeting with CB,” and were followed by brief notes, mostly tips on interviewing and résumés. I assumed these referred to meetings with his case manager, Claudia Borrego. Nothing in the notes caught my eye. There were also a couple of “TJ Meeting” entries, probably sessions with Tay Jefferson, his psychological counselor. No notes were recorded.

  On September 12, Bonilla had scribbled “Interview—Sept. 19.” I assumed this referred to his interview for the driving job. An entry dated September 19 read: “Training Sept. 23, 26, 30 at 9 hm.”

  “Three days training for a driving job?” I said loud enough to cause Archie to lift his head in the corner. I couldn’t read the first letter following the 9, but surely it was an “a” and not a “p.” I mean, why begin training at nine at night?

  There were three pages titled simply “Notes” with no dates. The pages contained odd jottings and crude three-dimensional sketches of a block of some kind showing a curved appendage that jutted from the bottom and what appeared to be a lever arm on the top. A few dimensions were noted and lots of arrows with the tagline, “See Diagram.” I wondered if this referred to the drawings Gunderson had described that disappeared along with the gun and ammunition.

  There were three even more puzzling entries on the next page. The first read,

  Oct. 23 – two trucks/100 units

  ECA-25

  MGC-30

  BRC-45

  The second,

  Oct. 24 – one truck. 45 mods - SDGC

  The third,

  Nov. 19 – two trucks/80

  ECGR-35

  RBRR-45

  And the fourth,

  Nov. 23 – one truck SDGC – 40

  On October 12, just five days before he died, Manny Bonilla wrote a final entry in the notebook, right below the heading for a ten o’clock meeting with Claudia Borrego. It read,

  I am not a product of my circumstances.

  I am a product of my decisions.

  I pushed myself away from my desk, leaned back, and clasped my hands behind my head. Certainly the quote on the last page suggested Manny was having a change of heart, but I already knew that. His nearly incomprehensible sketches suggested a link to the diagrams stolen from Gunderson’s apartment, but only that. I would need help to decipher the sketches. The entries referring to the training were interesting, but, again, only suggestive of a link, this time to the Arsenal.

  I considered the missing gun again. He must have known the possession of such a weapon jeopardized his release from federal prison. Did he acquire it for self-protection, or did he have a darker use in mind?

  The alphabet soup meant something, too, but I didn’t have a clue. Units of what? Mods? What the hell did these refer to?

  Finally, I wondered what that old fox, Harmon Scott, would make of all this. I smiled just thinking about it and knew, even though neither of us would ever admit it, there was kind of a competition going on between us.

  The rain had dwindled to a light mist, so I put on my Asics and Gore-Tex, leashed up Arch and headed for the river. Arch gave me a couple of irritated looks but fell into a brisk trot beside me. We went past the Salmon Fountain and all the way to McCormick and Schmick’s before turning around. My lungs were burning when we finally came to the steps at the Burnside Bridge, but I forced myself to take them without slowing down and kicked it all the way back to Caffeine Central. Frustration neutralized, at least for the moment, and next steps decided.

  After a shower, I made two phone calls. First, I called Jack Pfister and invited him to lunch. He accepted.

  Next, I called Roz Jenkins at the Bridgetown Armory. I was told she was tied up, but she called me back a few minutes later. We made a date to meet at the Bridgetown Arsenal the next morning.

  Just like that I was back in it.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Cal

  The next day I took down a shoebox containing my Glock 17 from the closet of the tiny bedroom apartment in Caffeine Central. Nando gave it to me after the place was been broken into. I had never shot the gun, and the one time I carried it for self-protection, I wound up being kidnapped and nearly killed. So much for my skills with a handgun. I removed the gun from the box and held it in my hand, marveling, as I always did, at how well it seemed to fit my hand and how substantial it felt. A means of projecting power, a guarantor of personal safety, a murderous instrument, a brilliantly engineered machine—it said all of that and a lot more. I pulled the slide back to make sure the chamber was empty, then slid the clip from the handle and removed the cartridges, ten of them. The clip held seventeen, but somehow that many bullets seemed excessive. I put the shells back in a cartridge box and tucked it and the Glock into the briefcase I used for court appearances. After all, I couldn’t just walk into the Arsenal carrying the damn gun, could I?

  It was a ringingly clear day, but an arctic air mass from the north had brought an early, light frost that vanished by mid-morning. I left a clearly disappointed Archie inside Caffeine Central on guard dog duty and crossed the Willamette by way of the Hawthorne Bridge. The Arsenal looked busy with better than half the parking lot full. I reached the entry just as Roz Jenkins was seeing off a group of about a dozen women, mostly middl
e-aged and well-groomed. “Hello, Calvin,” she greeted me from inside the building. I smiled, nodded, and made way past the women. “That’s my Tea and Targets group,” she explained as I entered the Arsenal. “We get together every week to have coffee and tea, to chat, and to shoot.”

  “Oh, they all shoot pink Glocks, I suppose.”

  She chuckled and shook her head. “Some do. It’s a damn fine gun but a bit prissy for my taste, and spendy, too. She turned and said over her shoulder, “Come on. Let’s get started.”

  I followed her through the showroom. The young saleswoman with the tight jeans was showing some kind of assault rifle to three admiring young men. I couldn’t tell which they admired the most, the gun or the girl.

  As we walked by I thought I recognized the boots the young girl wore.

  After we both donned ear and eye protection, Roz led me to a firing lane midway down the range and watched as I loaded the clip with seventeen 9x19mm Parabellum cartridges and set the trigger safety. “Good,” she said. “Now, remember, unless you’re aiming at the target, keep the barrel down.” After demonstrating the proper two-handed grip, she said, “keep the barrel level when you aim, and put the front sight blade in the center of the rear notch; equal light on both sides.” She handed me the Glock. “The target’s set at thirty-five feet. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  She watched as I fired off several rounds, the sharp recoil a vivid reminder of the energy being unleashed. She smiled broadly. “Not bad, Cal. Widen your stance a bit. Relax, aim using both sights, and squeeze off the shots.” The pattern on the target got a little tighter.

  As I reloaded the clip for the third time, Roz Jenkins beamed. “Don’t you just love that Glock?”

  I nodded, admittedly flushed by the display of the gun’s power and precision, but I was yet to feel any romantic involvement.

  She laughed, full throated, sensing my hesitation. “Listen to me. God, I’m such a zealot. That gun’s not evil, you know. It’s just a block of steel. It takes a human being to misuse it.”

  I wanted to say it’s more complicated than that but thought better of it. I was considering a more neutral reply when I saw Arthur striding toward us. He gave me what passed for a smile. “Mr. Claxton, welcome to the Arsenal.”

  “Thanks.” I finished loading the clip and snapped it in place. “Roz here is a good instructor.” I squared up and fired off a half dozen shots that ripped the target in a reasonably tight pattern around the bull’s eye.

  Roz whooped. “Look at that! He’s a natural, Arthur.”

  Arthur said, “Not bad. Put the target at fifty feet, see how he does.” I did okay at fifty feet, then reloaded and offered the Glock to Arthur, barrel down. He proceeded to quickly and efficiently obliterate any trace of the bull’s eye.

  Roz whooped again. “Nice shootin’, Arthur!” She turned to me. “Whataya think of that, Cal?”

  “Impressive.” And it was.

  Arthur handed the Glock back to me. “Jack Pfister tells me you’re looking at becoming a gun trust lawyer.”

  “Yeah. I checked it out. Looks like a nice growth opportunity. If you’ve got some time, I’d love to pick your brain, you know, about the business.”

  He looked at his watch and frowned. “I don’t know. I’m kind of jammed.”

  “Oh, come on, Arthur. You’re not that busy.” Roz to my rescue once again. “The movement needs good lawyers.”

  The movement?

  I thanked Roz and followed Arthur to his office, just down from his mother-in-law’s. He took a call, so I checked out his gun collection. The Thompson submachine gun hung in a glass case surrounded by an array of other weapons, a hulking World War I era Browning Automatic Rifle, a Kalashnikov AK-47 with its familiar forward-curved ammo clip, an M-16 assault rifle used in Vietnam, to name three. The opposite wall sported a collection of old flintlock pistols, tiny derringers, and long-barreled six shooters.

  “Some collection,” I said when he punched off.

  He flicked a wrist indifferently. “Oh, thanks. I enjoy collecting.”

  “I didn’t know a derringer could be so small.”

  Arthur smiled indulgently. “Yes, small but deadly. One shot’s all you need if your aim’s good.”

  “You ever shoot one of these little guys?”

  He nodded. “I’ve shot all the guns in my collection. They’re all in perfect working order.” He sat ramrod straight in his chair and regarded me with pale, almost colorless eyes. “I read in the paper that they arrested a man for that shooting you were investigating.”

  I smiled brightly. “Yes. The ex-husband. Surprise, surprise.”

  “What about that kid who was going to drive for Roz?”

  “Manny Bonilla?” I shrugged. “I don’t really know. Suicide, maybe. Who knows?”

  He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and looked as if he wasn’t sure what to say next.” I didn’t help him. “So,” he finally ventured, “a gun trust lawyer, huh?”

  I smiled modestly. “Oh, you know, I have a small practice, so every little bit helps. I’m interested in your take on the business.”

  Arthur suddenly became animated, and as if reading from an invisible PowerPoint script began dazzling me with facts and figures about the growing gun market. He even made a little joke about his “bullet proof” business plan before going through it in mind-numbing detail. He capped it all off by telling me how the gun business was a shining example of the capitalist system and a boon for the American way of life. I took on a gee-whiz air and popped in enough questions and comments to demonstrate the sincerity of my interest.

  The bottom line—if I were smart I’d develop a business plan of my own and get in on the gravy train.

  As the conversation began to wind down I said, “I understand you have a workshop here at the Arsenal where you do gun repairs and recycle ammo, that sort of thing. I’d love to see your operation.”

  Arthur smiled, but his eyes didn’t. He straightened back up in his chair. “Sorry, Cal, but we only allow our workers in the shop area. That’s a strict rule. Safety, you know.”

  I smiled back. “Of course.” This was the opening I was looking for. I wasn’t quite sure how to play it, so I just barged ahead. “That reminds me. Did Bonilla receive some kind of training here at the Arsenal?” It never hurts to ask.

  Arthur’s smile withered, and his eyes went as flat as a couple of nickels. “Of course not. He can’t work here. He’s a felon.”

  I smiled. “Oops. Shows you how much I have to learn.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  I paused and furrowed my brow. “I think his stepfather mentioned something,” I lied. I left it at that and waited for a response.

  Arthur gripped two fingers of his left hand in his right palm and twisted, as if that would force a smile. It didn’t. “Well, he never worked for us, period.” Then he forced his hands apart and flattened them on the surface of the desk. “Look, uh, Cal, I’m a busy man. I wish you all the luck in your law practice.”

  I gave him my best sheepish smile. “Well, there I go, asking too many questions. Bad habit of mine.” I popped up and offered my hand. “Thanks for your time, Arthur, and good luck with that business plan.”

  On my way out I stopped at Roz Jenkins’ office and stuck my head in. “Thanks again for the shooting lesson, Roz. Am I good to go on the range now?”

  She looked up from a desk spread with papers and smiled. “You bet. Keep it up and I’ll be after you for our shooting team.”

  I gave her an aw-shucks laugh. “Arthur gave me some great insights. Tried to get a tour of your shop, but he was too busy.”

  “Don’t feel bad. He’s tight as a tick about security and safety.” She laughed. “Even with me.”

  I nodded agreement. “Say, did your salesgirl out there on the floor have on a pair of those custom
boots, the ones you were wearing the other day?”

  “Probably. They’re popular around here. It works both ways, too. The bootmaker and his crowd are regular customers at the Arsenal.”

  “You don’t say. Uh, that would be Farnell Timmons, right?”

  “Right.” Then she added, “There’s a pro-gun rally this Sunday down on the river, Tom McCall Park.” Her face lit up with a bright smile. “I’m gonna speak. You should come, Cal. Three o’clock.”

  I told her I would and left the Arsenal that day feeling drained. That much acting in one day will do that to you.

  But at the same time I knew I was onto something, something I would have to see through no matter where it led me. It wasn’t a particularly comforting thought.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Kelly

  Kelly spent the next week watching the newspaper, hoping to see the Anthony Cardenas’ arrest lead to the arrest of the other man involved in Rupert Youngblood’s murder. Each day without any news ratcheted up her anxiety until she felt like a rocket on a launch pad in the middle of a countdown. What should she do? Going to the cops would wreck everything that she and Veronica had managed to put together. She even caught herself worrying about what would become of the mutt if they got busted. Spencer was ugly and ill-mannered, but at least he wasn’t yappy. That would have been too much.

  The situation with Zook wasn’t any better. On Thursday of that week, when he still hadn’t shown at the alternative school, Kelly and Kiyana went looking for him over in north Portland at an abandoned house. The house, they were told, was being squatted by Johnny Sprague and some of his friends. Zook had been seen there. They found him a half block down from the house, talking to a skinny kid with bleached hair. The kid sauntered off as they approached, and Zook put something in his jeans.

  “S’up, Zook?” Kelly said. “Haven’t seen you around at school.”

  Zook, whose blond stubble was maybe three days old, wore grimy jeans and a stained, too-small fleece jacket Kelly had never seen before. His ever-present basketball was nowhere to be seen. He dropped his eyes, then brought them back up. “What are you two doing here?”