by Chill, David
As I approached the front door I saw Crystal's car, a white Mercedes, parked in the driveway. The car gleamed, except for the driver's door which was scraped and dented. Traces of dark blue paint were evident in the scratches.
The maid ushered me inside and led me into the living room where Crystal sat on a couch, gazing out at the Pacific. The surf was mild, sending soft waves rolling onto the sand and leaving a residue of foam in their bubbly wake. There was a time when I swam regularly in the ocean, but too many sewage spills from the local Hyperion plant had left me with the suspicion that I was doing myself more harm than good.
"Nice view," I commented.
Crystal nodded. "It never changes. The waves keep coming."
"There's a certain security in knowing what's out there," I said.
She turned and looked at me. "I could use some of that. And I appreciate your coming here."
Across the room sat an unused stone fireplace. On the mantle above it sat three dozen condolence cards, most extending sympathy, but one or two wishing a happy birthday.
"Was it your birthday recently?" I asked.
"Wayne's," she said. "Two weeks ago. I haven't felt much like taking them down."
I sat down next to her. "Something happened today. I don't want you to worry, and realistically it doesn't concern you so much as it does me."
"What's wrong," she asked.
"I went over to Second Chance to speak with Jerry Winkler. After I walked outside, somebody tried to run me over."
Crystal put a hand over her mouth. "My God," she whispered. "Is this ever going to end?"
"It will, believe me. But there was something that happened just afterwards that concerns me almost as much. After the car took off, I saw another car follow it. Your father was driving it. A grey sedan, I believe."
The hand Crystal held over her mouth stayed there a moment longer before she lowered it to speak. "It wouldn't have been a brown car, that was involved, would it?"
I stared at her. "Maybe," I said.
"My father called a little while ago. He was very vague, but he asked if Wayne's brother Peter had a brown colored car. When I told him he did, he wanted Peter's address in Hermosa. I can't understand why Peter would be involved in this."
"Does Peter have a Firebird?"
She shook her head. "I'm not sure."
I rose from the couch. "I better get down to Hermosa Beach and see what's what."
She walked me to the door. "Be careful, Burnside. There's been enough tragedy. I can't take much more."
I felt the stinging in my elbow, the dull ache in my wrist and the soreness around the top of my ear where Bausch's punch had landed the other night.
"Me neither," I told her.
*
A big rig had jackknifed on the San Diego freeway just past El Segundo and traffic was backed up to the Marina freeway. It was stop and go for a long while, and by the time I reached Peter's bungalow, a little over an hour had transpired.
My body tensed as I saw the large grey sedan parked in front of the house. One wheel was on the sidewalk, indicating Markovich had been in a hurry. If there was any good fortune to be garnered, it was that Markovich had likely been tied up in the same traffic jam. In the driveway sat a brown MG that bore little resemblance to the Firebird which had come at me earlier.
I ran up the steps and ignored the half dead volleyball that was now sitting near the door. Easing the screen door open I entered the house surreptitiously, moving across the hardwood floor, glad I had on a pair of soft sneakers. Some music was playing in another part of the house. I stepped quietly through the unkempt den before I heard a stirring in the bedroom. Walking in, I saw Peter lying in a heap, blood covering his face. One arm dangled awkwardly at his side as he moaned quietly. He was still alive, but he was losing blood and judging from the head wound needed to reach a hospital quickly.
I drew my gun as I picked up a landline telephone and dialed 911. Speaking in a low tone, I directed the dispatcher to send an ambulance over to respond to a life threatening emergency. I described the injuries as having resulted from an assault, but the situation had been stabilized. A white lie. Paramedics were not allowed to enter a residence if a crime was still in process, and I wanted Peter to receive medical attention immediately. The local police would be notified as well, but paramedics needed to arrive first. The dispatcher asked if I was sure the injuries were life threatening. I took a look at Peter and snarled quietly into the phone that they certainly were and he was losing blood fast.
Hanging up, I moved through the rest of the house, gun drawn, reflexes at the ready. The house was a mess, clothes strewn about, magazines haphazardly opened on the floor. I walked past the den and found the large figure I had expected.
A radio was blaring, apparently the reason why Markovich hadn't heard me. Seated at a desk, he was busy rifling through the drawers. When I flicked on the light to get his attention, he looked up and stared straight into the barrel of my .38.
"Hands where I can see them," I said, approaching him. "Preferably on top of your head."
"What are you doing?" he demanded.
"I'm giving you an order. I suggest you follow it."
He stood up and I reacted by shoving him back down with my free hand. His massive body bounced as he fell back into the chair.
"You no understand," he said. "I protect you."
"And you no understand. If you don't do exactly what I say, I'm going to shoot you. If my hunch is right, you've just beaten up an innocent man."
He gave me a look that combined both confusion and horror. I patted him down and found him to be unarmed. The thick, barrel chested upper body was solid as a rock. He made no move for the gun and remained frozen while I pawed him for a weapon. The only thing I emerged with was a pocket razor knife, the kind that's used for scraping excess paint from windows.
"Why don't you tell me what's going on here," I suggested. "What were you doing at Second Chance today?"
Markovich cleared his throat. "I try to help you. Why you pull big gun on me?"
I motioned with the gun. "When I hold this gun it means I ask the questions. Now, come on. Give. What were you doing there?"
He looked at me through big brown eyes, his jowls hanging down in a way that made him look like a cartoon character.
"It is true. I follow you. I try to find out who killed my son-in-law."
"Why Peter then?"
"Peter have brown car. It looked like one that almost hit you this morning."
"But it wasn't," I pointed out. "Peter has a little MG. The car this morning was a Firebird. The only thing they have in common is they're both a similar color."
"I no tell difference. I try to follow but it too quick. I know Peter has brown car that look like hot rod."
"I take it you also didn't get the license plate of that car this afternoon."
"No," he said. "But I know Wayne's brother drives sports car. And he no like Wayne. He want Wayne's money."
"That rightfully belongs to Crystal," I offered.
"Yes," he sniffed adamantly, shaking his head up and down. "That right. He no like you investigating."
"He told you that?"
"Yes."
"Before or after you turned his face into chopped meat?"
Markovich squirmed a little in his chair. "I no plan to do this. I just want to talk, but he no let me inside. He call me names. I have to teach lesson."
"Oh you taught him a lesson, all right," I pointed out. "Don't open doors to bulky maniacs unless they're brandishing a shotgun. Peter tell you anything else?"
"He say," Markovich started and began taking rapid breaths, "that my family pack of pigs. That I raise pigs for daughters. Both Crystal and Sara. I no take that from punk like him."
His eyes darted back and forth across the room as he talked. There was something about the manner in which he spoke that was irregular and disjointed. This was a man who had helped build homes for most of his life, and he was now intimately
involved in a murder investigation. Something did not fit.
"What were you looking for in Peter's desk?" I asked.
"I look for gun that kill Wayne," he said.
"Gun?" I asked incredulously. "You haven't heard. The gun was recovered. It was planted in one of the offices at Second Chance."
Markovich gave me a blank look. I continued.
"And on top of the fact that you didn't get much information, you may wind up with Peter pressing assault charges against you."
"He no press nothing," Markovich said and raised a big fist. "He know what I do to him next time."
Something snapped inside of me and I reached over and grabbed the big man by the shirt collar. "Listen to me, you dumb son of a bitch. You don't go around beating people up because you think they might be guilty. You need evidence."
Markovich didn't try to resist, he simply listened to what I had to say. I released the grip on his shirt and we stared into each other's eyes for a long minute. I didn't think he was the type to let someone grab him, but after looking into the barrel of a loaded pistol, he may have had some of his machismo tempered. Finally he spoke.
"My wife, she die in car accident many years ago. I have member of my family die in shooting last week. I have nothing but my daughters to live for. I look out for them. I look out for you, too. You watch."
"Don't get in the way anymore," I said, getting exasperated. "I'm warning you."
"All right, I no follow you," he said. "But I find out who did this. You no worry."
The low wail of an ambulance siren interrupted our pleasant chat. I tucked the .38 back into my holster and walked outside, my two hundred sixty pound albatross choosing not to follow me. A red van with lights flashing pulled up in front of the house. Two paramedics got out and I directed them to Peter's bedroom. They asked if the assault was still going on and I informed them the fight was over and they could enter the premises. I didn't tell them who had done the number on Peter, simply saying this was how I found him. The police would get a different story.
I had once read that paramedics ranked second only to fireman in terms of professions that earned the most respect. Both were selfless jobs which gave aid and comfort to those in dire need. The least respected profession was drug dealer, followed by used car salesmen and politicians.
"Is he going to be all right?" I asked, as they worked on him.
"He's lost some blood and he may have a fractured skull," the paramedic said, working rapidly. "I think we got here in time though. I've seen worse and they've pulled through."
The two men moved quickly and efficiently. They cleaned Peter's face carefully and put a bandage over the wound on the right side of his temple. The left arm was placed in a splint and they lifted him delicately onto a stretcher. As they wheeled him out to the van, a Hermosa Beach police cruiser rolled up to the curb. A tall, skinny officer in a khaki colored uniform and wire rimmed sunglasses pulled himself out of the unit and conferred with the paramedics for a moment before he approached me.
"What happened here?" he inquired.
"A man's been assaulted," I said, pointing to Peter. "The other pugilist is inside."
"Who the hell are you?" he peered at me over the sunglasses and revealing a pair of bushy brown eyebrows.
I pulled out my license. "Private investigator."
The cop shook his head. "My lucky day. C'mon show me where this clown is."
As we walked through the front door, a rustling noise could be heard in the backyard. The room Markovich had been sitting in was empty, but the window on the far wall was wide open. A pair of light green drapes blew softly in the breeze. I raced to the window and stuck my head out only to see a bulky figure haul himself over a six foot chain link fence. The fence shook furiously from the weight, and once past the fence Markovich began to move awkwardly through a neighbor's back yard. I spun around and found myself nose to nose with a stone faced cop.
"He's getting away!" I yelled. "Come on!"
The cop pushed me back hard as I tried to run past him. "Nice story, Jack," he sneered.
"What are you doing?!" I screamed. "If we don't move now, the guy who did this'll be long gone!"
"Uh-huh," he said in a voice that was as placid as mine was desperate. "Before I risk my ass, I think you and I are going to have a little chat back at the station house."
My chest began to heave up and down. "The guy who did this..."
"...may be standing right here. You look like you've been through a little brawl yourself today. C'mon Jack. Let's turn around. Hands on top of your head."
Chapter 13
The Hermosa Beach jail is hardly a Mediterranean palace, but it is far less intimidating than the Twin Towers facility in downtown Los Angeles. I had the misfortune to be briefly incarcerated there, and it was the closest thing to purgatory I had ever encountered. Aside from the vomit, human excrement and bloodstains that marked the floors and walls, the inmates there were likely to be highly dangerous or certifiably insane. In comparison, Hermosa Beach's jail cell more resembled a cheap motel room with few amenities.
After questioning, the police decided I was the number one suspect and chose to detain me. There were only two people who could corroborate my story and neither would be helping me today -- if they ever would. Markovich was hardly a candidate who would step forward. And Peter Fairborn was still unconscious and in serious condition at Little Company of Mary Hospital in nearby Torrance. That presented a further complication. Should Peter die, I would be looking at a homicide charge.
The cell I was placed in had two beds, a sink and a toilet. It was small and sparse, the grey concrete walls reflecting a cold, barren atmosphere. My roommate eyed me suspiciously as I was led in, his dirty fingers playing with the long grey hair that hung limply down to his neck. Resting languidly on the wafer thin mattress, he propped his head up with a pile of sheets. I spread the skimpy blanket across the other mattress and tossed myself down upon it. A few minutes passed before the grimy man spoke.
"Want a candy bar?" he asked in a gravelly voice. "Two dollars."
I told him no. I had no appetite, and my money and watch had been removed before I was led in. The man reached into his pocket and tossed over a Payday bar anyway.
"Here you go," he said. "You can owe me."
I shrugged and put the candy bar aside for later. I might be here a while. Maybe a lifetime. The thought sent shivers up my spine, and trickles of sweat forming on my brow. When I was imprisoned three years ago it was on a bogus charge also, but the consequences were less serious. And that time I was ultimately sprung on a technicality.
"What are you in for?" the man asked.
I shrugged. "Being in the wrong place at the wrong time."
As if hearing this in slow motion, the man offered a delayed smile after five seconds. His clothes were tattered, but his bright blue eyes had the clear simplicity of a child's.
"Ain't that something," he remarked. "I'm in for the same thing. Where was you sleeping?"
I shook my head. "It's a long story."
"Ain't they all," he agreed. "They busted me down by the Pier. All I was doing was catching some Zs. Not bothering a soul, just having a snooze. Next thing I know, I'm being rousted by one of them brown shirts. If I was ten years younger, I'd've cold cocked the bitch."
The man pulled out another Payday bar and peeled the wrapper back. He ate slowly, occasionally smacking his lips and indicating he was garnering much pleasure from the simple act. When the last bite was swallowed, he licked his fingers and sat back peacefully.
"Ain't nothing like a good snack," he declared.
"I thought they normally took all personal possessions. How'd you smuggle those candy bars in?"
"Didn't smuggle them. That jailor knows me, guess he feels a little sorry for me."
I looked at him curiously. Ordinarily I would have preferred to be alone with my brooding and my thoughts. There was something that was both intriguing and scary about the man. He looked anci
ent, but that was nothing compared to the way I was feeling. I felt old and withered and worn. The future seemed as cold and empty as a winter day in North Dakota.
"What'd you do before you became homeless?" I asked.
"Homeless," he repeated. "They got nice names for it now. We used to call guys that didn't work bums. Or vagrants. Some lady gave me a dollar the other day and told me I was a victim. Imagine that."
I looked at him. "Are you?"
"Victim of my own mistakes, maybe. I'm not gonna lie to you man. I made myself into what I am. It's my fault."
"What happened?"
"Simple enough story. Had a job for twenty years working as a machinist over in Lomita. The company started having money problems and they finally shipped most of the work to China or India, some place like that. And there was no more room for me."
"You could have gotten another job."
"Man, don't you think I tried? Everybody was letting people go. Nobody hiring. My wife, she supported me for a while but got tired of it. Helen hooked up with another guy, and then I took to drinking, I mean hell, there was nothing else to do. I been on the streets ever since. I'll probably die out there. Or in here. At least in here I get a few meals."
"You can try something else," I said. "I know of a group that tries to help put people back on their feet. You have to want it, though."
"Hell, I want it, sure," he said. "But I'm sixty years old. Nobody'll hire me. It's no use, I've tried. In a couple of years, I can go on Social Security. If I make it that long."
We sat in silence for a while, the only sound being the occasional cursing or yelling that came from a nearby cell. The man's resignation at his fate gnawed at me, and I wondered how I would react to similar circumstances. Clearly, adversity is a true test of a person's mettle. Playing football for USC many years ago left a marked impression on me, and it taught me to never give up hope. Situations change and opportunities have a way of availing themselves to those who persevere. I began to feel a little better, perhaps after considering the old man's despair. It's odd how hearing about someone else's problems can lighten your load. My situation was precarious at best but as long as I had my faculties and a strong body, I wasn't going down without a fight. The world may have its share of quirks and inequities, but life was always evolving.