P.J. Morse - Clancy Parker 01 - Heavy Mental

by P. J. Morse

  I pulled out my Crackberry and dialed up the Barbary’s front desk. I spoke in a heavy German accent that I practiced after watching Wayne’s set of Fassbinder DVDs, which he was watching stoned the night before. When someone picked up, I turned on the charm, “Hallo. Ich mus -”

  “Huh, lady?”

  “I am sorry. Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”

  “Sprechen Sie wha?”

  I pretended to struggle with my words. “I am here now for a meeting, and I need help with my luggage. Uh, bellhop?”

  “You stayin’ here, lady?”

  “This is the Hotel Barbary, ja?”

  “Uh, ja. You want someone to meet you out front?”

  “Please, yes. Send Antonio. I know him. I like him. Tell him I will have a blue BMW named Bucky. Five minutes. Das ist ser gut. Danke schoen.”

  Jamal stalled a little bit before turning right off Market and down Fourth Street so we would time everything correctly.

  Poor Fake Jorge was a sitting duck. He was in front of the Hotel Barbary, and he looked bored. I knew he wouldn’t be bored for long. He would be mighty surprised to see a Beamer with “Bucky” plates and no Bucky inside.

  To taunt Fake Jorge, I asked Jamal to pull up a little bit past him. Fake Jorge’s head swiveled once he saw the BMW and the “BUCKY” plate. His mouth opened a little, and he smiled. I was thrilled. That look on his face just cemented the tie between him and Mr. Buckner.

  Fake Jorge ran up to the car. “Mr. Buckner! I knew you’d come back! I’ll do better next time! I’ll get her next time, boss!”

  Then I leapt out with the element of surprise. “Hallo!” I waved at Fake Jorge, who looked from me to the car.

  “Shit,” Fake Jorge said.

  And then I boldly stepped in front of him, grabbed his face with both hands, and kissed him squarely on the mouth.

  A kid walking past gawked and said, “Daaaamn!”

  I held Fake Jorge there for a good thirty seconds until I knew his brains were thoroughly scrambled. The other bellhops suspected nothing, and one yelled, “You go, Antonio!”

  I pulled Fake Jorge toward the car, and then I shoved my right hand into the jogging suit pocket, aiming my pistol squarely at his stomach. I wrapped my left hand behind his head, as if pulling him close to whisper a sweet nothing. “You gonna get me now? Looks like I got you.”

  Fake Jorge tried to shake me off, but he was a tough little bugger, and I shoved the pistol right between two of his ribs. “It’s gonna hurt more if you don’t move it!”

  Jamal had already left the drivers’ seat and walked around the car to open the door. He was perfect at playing the part of a patient limo driver indulging a wealthy tourist’s penchant for having sex with bellhops. When some people stopped to stare, he even yelled, “What the hell you lookin’ at? Never seen people fuckin’ before?”

  I muscled Fake Jorge into the car by his head and threw myself on top of his body. He was flailing wildly by this point, chattering in a mix of Spanish and English, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t calling me sweetheart. I gave him another poke in the ribs. “And that’s for the chloroform!” I tried to slap some duct tape over his mouth, but he kept screaming.

  Jamal took off for the parking lot the Gold Rush BBQ valets used. He regularly twisted his head back to see what was going on and tried to send a backhand or two in Fake Jorge’s direction. I was reading Fake Jorge the riot act. “Okay, if you feel mouthy, what’s going on with Buckner? How do you know him? What do you do for him? Did he give you that credit card? I’ll go easy on you if you stop screaming and talk.”

  Fake Jorge stopped screaming, but he spat at me and missed, so I kept yelling. “Are you Jorge? Who are YOU? Who is Jorge Vazquez? Ya know, the real Jorge Vazquez doesn’t appreciate your using his credit card!” The Fake Jorge tried to tear at my hair in response, and my wig came off, but I reared back and aimed the gun squarely between his eyes.

  I wouldn’t have shot him, but Fake Jorge didn’t know that. I’d never shot anybody, but I had to admit that I was tempted when it came to Fake Jorge.

  The mere suggestion of being shot made Fake Jorge freeze. Fake Jorge or whoever he was wasn’t the type to take a bullet for the team, but he still wasn’t talking.

  “What’s the plan?” I shouted. He didn’t answer, so I hit him in the jaw and duct taped his mouth, if only to stop the yelling.

  “Remind me never to piss you off,” Jamal said.

  Then Jamal pulled into the valet parking lot, where Wayne was waiting with his Westy. Wayne was so excited to be part of the action that he threw on a fake mustache and sunglasses. Jamal, Wayne, the Fake Jorge, and I would have made a motley crew to anyone driving past. One guy looked like—and was—an ex-con from Hunter’s Point. The other looked like the bastard offspring of Mark Twain and an acid casualty. The woman was a yuppie chick who was straddling a frightened, short Latino.

  According to plan, Jamal promptly changed back into his Gold Coast BBQ windbreaker and headed off like he didn’t know us. I took a deep breath. Jamal didn’t get caught by his boss, and I owed him. All he had to do was get the car and give it to Mr. Buckner when he left the restaurant.

  That left Wayne and me. Wayne was a fantastic guitar player, and he was plenty generous with his food and his drugs, but he’d never followed me on a job before. Watching me subdue the Fake Jorge and tie a blindfold around his head, Wayne said, “Wow, you’re pretty good at that,” he said.

  I sighed. I needed to get the Fake Jorge out of the backseat of Mr. Buckner’s BMW and in the back of that Westy before anyone noticed what was going on. San Francisco was forgiving, but it wasn’t that forgiving. “Can you help me tie him up?”

  At least Wayne was eager. He clapped his hands together with glee. He threw a rope around Fake Jorge’s arms and started looping and knotting. I dragged Fake Jorge out by his torso while Wayne wrapped his arms around Fake Jorge’s feet and tried to lift them, but Fake Jorge started kicking. I hissed, “Don’t you dare,” and prodded him with the gun. “Duct tape everything that’s moving,” I told Wayne.

  Wayne managed to corral the squirmy Fake Jorge the second time around. As we toted him lengthwise to the Westy’s open side door, Wayne exclaimed, “This is fun! It really is like tying up a hog!”

  “Wait. You really tied up a hog?” I asked.

  Wayne laughed. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, ma’am.”

  Then we tossed Fake Jorge through the Westy’s side entrance and used Wayne’s surprise hog-tying skills to truss him up.

  CHAPTER 35

  I RESPECT YOU PEOPLE

  WAYNE DROVE THE WESTY AROUND in circles to get Fake Jorge confused, and then he headed over to Potrero Hill and the Echo Chamber. The building was so far out and the bands practicing there would be so loud that hardly anyone would notice we were dragging a trussed human being inside and forcing information out of him.

  I heard powerful rock music throbbing from outside as Wayne and I threw open the Westy doors and dragged out the Fake Jorge. I had his feet, and Wayne had his head. We had to drop him on purpose twice to get him to settle down.

  We passed the lead singer of Black Ice, who was trying out some martial arts movements in the parking lot. That was part of his schtick, that and humping the front amplifiers. He stared at us for a while until I said, “Bad drugs!” and nodded down at Fake Jorge.

  “Oh. Right on.” Then he went back to slicing his hands through the air.

  I muttered under my breath, “You must be giving him the good shit, Wayne!”

  Wayne giggled. “It pays to make friends.”

  Wayne and I kept dragging Fake Jorge through the building until we reached our space. According to plan, we stretched Fake Jorge out and held him as still as possible when we went past the Echo Chamber’s security cameras, which were stationed to make sure strangers weren’t trying to lift band equipment. If anyone asked, all the Marquee Idols plus Muriel were to say one of our friends did indeed encounter some bad drugs, an e
ntirely plausible story that had unfolded many a time at the rehearsal facility.

  Once we made it inside, I dropped Fake Jorge’s bound feet while Wayne straddled him and kept him still. I unlocked the door to our rented space, opened it and stared into darkness. I wondered where Shane and Muriel were as I flicked on the light, but I wasn’t wondering for long. The two were up against the wall, doing what is often done in a bed.

  Wayne gasped—for good reason, as Shane’s bottom was bare. “My eyes! My eyes!”

  I winced. I assumed my plan would go badly and Muriel would beat the living hell out of Shane at worst, or there would be a mild thaw in relations at best. I didn’t expect the reunion of Muriel and Shane to look like a National Geographic program on the behavior of human beings in mating season.

  “A-hem!” I announced. “We have a visitor! Remember?”

  The thrusting came to a halt. Muriel took a short breath and yelled, “Can’t anyone get any privacy around here?”

  Sensing an opportunity, Fake Jorge thrashed about, pushing his legs out against me and butting his head against Wayne, so we pulled him back into the hallway. “No,” I told her. “But, uh, thanks … you guys … for helping me out. This is awkward, and I hate to interrupt, but we’re having some trouble reining this person in!”

  Shane was muttering, but Muriel was calm, as if she didn’t care who saw her in flagrante delicto. “Okay,” she said. “You guys mind looking away a moment?”

  Fake Jorge began twisting around, but Wayne and I obliged as Shane and Muriel disconnected from each other.

  “Nice to see you’re getting along again,” I said, my eyes closed tight as I held on to Fake Jorge.

  Then I heard someone walking down the hall. Black Ice’s lead singer chose that moment to go back inside the Echo Chamber and do his own rehearsing. He paused, looked down at Fake Jorge and looked up at the half-naked bodies of Muriel and Shane. He gaped at the sight.

  I thought we were busted. I imagined the arrival of the SFPD and being booked on charges of kidnapping. I would lose my license, and then I might be stuck begging Larry for legal counsel.

  Instead, the lead singer said, “You are some serious motherfuckers! No one will fuck with you people! I love you guys!” He kept walking down the hall. “If you ever need a singer, you call me. Any time! I respect you people!”

  Wayne called out after him, “I respect you, too, dude!”

  I just took a deep breath and said, “Thank you.”

  Once Muriel said in a surprisingly demure voice that she was ready, Wayne and I threw Fake Jorge to the floor and closed the door. The soundproofing in that particular room was outstanding, so the interrogation could proceed as planned.

  Fake Jorge tried to get up, but all the trussing sent him sprawling on the floor. I felt a little sorry for him because he seemed genuinely scared, and I saw evidence that he’d wet himself.

  “Oh, no!” Wayne exclaimed. “Poor Westy!”

  I took a towel off the sofa and threw it over Fake Jorge’s middle. While Shane adjusted his pants, Muriel and Wayne rolled Fake Jorge over and pulled out the wallet from his back pocket. There was the Real Jorge’s Mastercard, along with Mastercards and Visas for about seven or eight people, including an American Express belonging to Sabrina Norton Buckner. I pulled a small tape recorder from the pocket of my sweatpants and pushed a button.

  “That’s funny,” I said. “You don’t look much like Sabrina Norton Buckner.”

  Fake Jorge farted in contempt.

  “Excuse you!” Wayne took a camera from his pocket and snapped pictures of the individual cards as evidence. “You’ve been a busy boy!”

  I heard several sharp raps on the door of our practice room. A shiver passed through my body as I thought of cops, or maybe Travis. Or even Mr. Buckner. With Shane as backup, I opened the door a crack and saw a young, beefy guy with khaki shorts, a black T-shirt, and plug earrings that had stretched his earlobes into long ovals. He was lugging his bass guitar, and he was looking mighty pissed off. His skin showed signs of a growing sunburn.

  I gasped and looked back at Wayne, who shrugged and said, “Oh. Whoops.”

  “You scheduled an audition?” I yelped.

  There was nowhere to hide Fake Jorge. Muriel thought fast and started rolling Fake Jorge out of view of the door, as if he were a log, while Shane and Wayne tried to block the scene.

  I threw open the door and planted myself in the doorway to get rid of the guy. “Hi! I’m really sorry, but we can’t do auditions today.” Fake Jorge was whimpering in the back, so I added, “Our drummer got food poisoning.”

  The bassist scowled, so I added, “Sushi. You know? What can you do? Do you want to come back another time?” As I asked that, I was thrilled to hear Muriel hiss, “No … no … I’ll play the gig, dammit! I give up!”

  The bassist heard Muriel. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and raised an eyebrow. His voice was loud, “I came here all the way from El Cerrito, and I think I deserve some time.”

  I chuckled, “Well, you see -”

  And then Fake Jorge let out a muffled “harrumph!”

  The bassist craned his thick neck, trying to see around me. He saw Muriel with her foot firmly planted on Fake Jorge’s stomach and barked, “Is this some kind of bring-out-the-gimp thing? That’s it! I’m done with this shit! I’ve had it! I’m going to law school!”

  Those words made me yell, “You and everybody else!” and slam the door right in his face.

  I then whipped around and ran to adjust Fake Jorge’s binds. I made a point of not looking back at Wayne. I thought that Shane may have been distracted, but at least his and Muriel’s intimate moment didn’t completely jeopardize the plan.

  Eventually, Wayne caught my chill and asked, “Are you mad at me?”

  “All is forgiven if you hold him down while I start talking.”

  It took Wayne a few minutes to figure out how to do it, but he sat down on Fake Jorge while I turned on the tape recorder. “So, Antonio or whatever your name is, are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I pulled the duct tape off his mouth.

  “Bitch!” he yelled.

  Shane thumped him on the head. “Manners!” he yelled. Muriel bent over and shouted in his ear, “Bitch, huh? I will give you something to bitch about!”

  “It’s okay.” I squatted by Fake Jorge. “You have every right to be mad. We treated you a little rough back there.”

  “Liar,” he spat. Shane thumped him again.

  “What’s up with the necklace?” I asked.

  Fake Jorge jerked his head back in surprise. “I don’t know anything about a necklace.”

  “Now I get to call you a liar, sir,” I said. “Let’s approach this differently. I know that the shrink fired you and that you—these are your words—‘fucking hate desk jobs.’ So why were you working there? Just tell me that.”

  Fake Jorge didn’t say anything, so I approached it differently. “Why were you working for the shrink and for Mr. Buckner at the same time?”

  Still nothing.

  “What if I were to tell you that you and Travis aren’t going to get any money out of that necklace? Not a plug nickel. Mr. Buckner has way too many debts to pay off. And a mistress! And a big bill several restaurants. You really think he’s going to give that money to you?”

  Fake Jorge shook his head.

  Then I knelt down. “I know it was you who drove the ice-cream truck. Am I right? Do you really think that Mr. Buckner would have your back in court? See how fast he fired your ass when I ran off on you? He doesn’t care about you. He wants you to stay in that bellhop job.”

  Fake Jorge squirmed a little.

  “Mr. Buckner’s not giving you any money. He’s putting his wife in an asylum, and he’s gonna find that necklace himself. You couldn’t find it at the doctor’s office, so you get nothing.”

  He kept shaking his head, but it was slower this time.

  “With all the credit cards I found on you, you�
�re lucky I’m not calling the cops. I mean, I don’t have to call the cops …” I let that thought settle in. “If you know what I mean.”

  Fake Jorge understood loud and clear. His voice was flat as he caved in. “She lost the necklace. It’s not a crime if we find it and don’t give it back, right?”

  “So did you take the necklace from her in the office?”

  Fake Jorge nodded his head no.

  “So you were trying to kill me so I wouldn’t find it?”

  Fake Jorge nodded his head yes.

  “Dude, you are going to jail!” Wayne yelled.

  Fake Jorge stiffened up and started trying to kick at my legs. I decided that everyone else in the room besides me needed to stop watching so much television. I tried to calm Fake Jorge down. “Don’t mind my associates. He’s wrong. You’re not going to jail. Not for this, anyway. You only did what you were told, right? Who told you to take the necklace?”

  “Mr. Buckner.”

  “And it didn’t work out?”

  “No,” he replied.

  “So why were you trying to hurt me?”

  “He found out his wife hired you. He told us to distract you so we could find the necklace. And you were gonna prove the wife was crazy,” Fake Jorge replied.

  “How much were you going to get for the necklace?” I asked.

  “Ten grand.”

  I laughed. “No wonder Travis was talking about taking it himself!” I felt lucky that I hadn’t actually found the necklace, or Fake Jorge and Travis would have killed me for sure. Even if I hadn’t found the necklace, Mr. Buckner would still have the evidence he needed to commit his wife, and then he’d get the rest of the cash. Not a bad deal for him.

  But that didn’t answer everything.

  “What about the maids?” I asked.

  “He wanted the maids to think she was crazy.”

  Of course Mr. Buckner wanted the maids to check the pantry—he had to have put Sabrina’s diamonds in the lemonade mix. And he told the maids that Sabrina was funny in the head. Instant witnesses to testify she was crazy. And then Mr. Buckner kept telling me how nutty his wife was and how he wanted pictures proving she was nutty.