by Jeff Shelby
He shook it, leaving a film of perspiration on my palm. “Sam Rolovich. Kid owes me rent.”
I casually wiped my hand against my shorts. “You the super?”
He frowned, like I’d insulted him. “Property manager.”
“Sorry. He owes you?”
He nodded, glancing up at the apartment. “Two months’ worth.” His eyes shifted and he was looking at me with suspicion. “Why do you care?”
I pulled a card out of my pocket and handed it to him. “Linc’s brother asked me to help him find him.”
He studied the card. “Hmm. A private eye. For real?”
“For real.”
“Never met one of you before.”
“Right. The rent thing-is that a regular deal for him?”
“No,” Sam said, hitching up his jeans with his free hand, exposing decade-old flip-flops on his feet. “Kid’s lived here a year and always paid ahead a time. Last month, he gave me some story about having to pay tuition, said he was gonna be late.” He shrugged. “Me, I’m a nice guy, so I let it slide. I know where he lives, you know?”
Sam looked like anything but a nice guy, but I played along. “Sure.”
“So, then when I didn’t get this month’s rent on Friday, I came looking for him. He wasn’t there. Then his brother showed up and said he didn’t know where he was, either. Promised to find him.” He frowned and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Haven’t seen the kid or his friends yet.”
I nodded at the bat. “Maybe he’s scared.”
Sam looked at the bat, then looked embarrassed. “Hey, you never know who you’re gonna run into.”
So true.
“You said friends. I thought he lived by himself.”
He made a face and the crooked mouth got more crooked. “He does, but all those fucking bangers are always hanging around with him.”
“Bangers? As in gangbangers?” I said, not sure I’d heard him correctly.
He nodded. “Yep. One of them used to live here, but I kicked his ass out. Got tired of all the bullshit.”
“Remember his name?”
A plane roared over us, headed to Lindbergh, the engines quickly fading in the distance.
He pointed toward the office. “Come on. Let’s go take a look.”
I followed him to a door just off the side of the building. The room was about the size of a small closet. An old wooden desk sat in the middle, surrounded by two metal filing cabinets and two metal folding chairs. The desk was covered in piles of paper and manila folders. A calendar with a busty woman in a bikini leaning over the hood of a car hung on the wall behind the desk. An aroma of old popcorn and stale beer clung to the air.
“Have a seat,” Sam said, waving at one of the chairs. He stood the bat up next to one of the cabinets. “Ignore the mess.”
I wasn’t sure what my other choice was, so I didn’t say anything.
He opened up the middle drawer on one of the cabinets and rummaged through it for a moment, then yanked out a thin red folder.
“Here it is,” he said, turning around and sitting down in the chair on the other side of the desk. “Fucker’s name was Deacon Moreno.” He handed the file across the desk to me.
The photocopied driver’s license photo showed a young black man with a hard face. No smile, no trace of humor in his expression. His date of birth put him at twenty-four years old. Six-foot and 185 pounds. The address listed was in Logan Heights, a neighborhood even I wouldn’t venture into alone.
“The address on the license was bogus,” Sam said. “He owed me rent. I went to collect but it’s a laundromat.”
I handed the folder back to Sam. “Why’d you kick him out?”
“Oh, man,” he said, rolling his eyes. “That guy was a problem from the day he walked in. Late with his rent, that goddamned hip-hop music booming out of his place and car at all hours, all his hotshot homeboys hanging out in the parking lot all the time.”
“How did you know they were gang members?”
He rolled his eyes again. “Come on. What am I, an idiot? Bunch of fucking black kids in tricked-out cars, wearing Raiders jerseys and gold chains, smoking weed.” He tapped his temple with his index finger. “I know because I know.”
I wasn’t so sure. There was a big difference between kids who acted like gangsters and those who actually lived the life. But I didn’t want to insult Sam’s astute observations. Afraid he might show me his white hood and cross-burning tools.
“And after you evicted Deacon, he came to see Linc?” I asked.
“Yep. Couple of times. Him and some of his buddies. Usually at night.”
The picture I was getting of Linc was far from the one his brother had drawn for me. Trading sex for homework wasn’t the most ethical thing, but I could see where a guy his age would consider an offer like that from an attractive girl like Rachel. A serious kid who was trying to get his degree, though, didn’t run with a gang or store guns in his apartment. Falling in with a bad crowd was one thing. Falling in with a gang was another.
“How about the girls that live next door to Linc?” I asked.
Sam laughed. “The stoner chicks? No problems with them. One of their rich daddies pays for them. Two months at a time. They don’t bother me.”
The unmistakable sound of a gunshot outside froze us.
Sam stood up. “What the fuck?”
Tires squealed on pavement. I jumped up from the chair and shoved the door open to the parking lot.
The lot was empty save for my Jeep. I looked to the street and saw traffic moving at a normal pace. I looked back toward the apartments.
Rachel was standing outside her door. Her left hand was against the wall, bracing herself, and her eyes were wide, confused, and frightened. Her right hand was at her chest, blood spilling out over her fingers.
Sam burst out of the office behind me, the bat in his hand.
“Go call 911,” I told him.
But he didn’t move.
We both stood there and watched Rachel crumple to the ground.
Four
Detective John Wellton said, “Braddock. What a complete and utterly unpleasant surprise.”
We were standing in the parking lot and I watched as the EMTs loaded Rachel into the ambulance, ready to take her to Sharp Hospital. She’d been shot once. There was a lot of blood and I couldn’t tell how badly she was hurt.
“I’m missing a gnome in my garden,” I said. “You’d make a nice replacement.”
Wellton glared at me. He wore a light blue oxford open at the neck tucked into gray dress slacks. The sunglasses on his face were just slightly darker than his skin. And even in the thick-heeled loafers, he didn’t break five-four.
“Funny, asshole.” He turned back to the apartments. “What did you see?”
I watched a team of officers mill around the spot where she’d been shot. “Came out of the office. She was already standing there. Then she collapsed.”
He nodded and removed the sunglasses. “See the shooter?”
“Nope. I heard the shot, but that was it.” I pointed at Sam’s office. “I was in there.”
He nodded again. We watched Dana come out of the apartment with two officers. She was sobbing and each officer had an arm under an elbow to keep her steady.
“And your reason for being here?” Wellton asked.
“Is none of your business,” I said.
He snorted. “Well, whatever you were doing, nice work.”
I hadn’t seen him in a while and he was as irritating as I remembered.
“I was looking for the kid that lives in the apartment next to hers,” I said, deciding there was no reason to keep it from him. “Talked to both girls for maybe ten minutes, they didn’t know anything about where he is. Then I came out and talked to the manager.”
I thought about the guns that Peter had seen in Linc’s apartment. I hadn’t seen them yet, so I wasn’t sure they existed. At least, that’s how I rationalized not bringing them up.
“Rolovich is the manager?”
“Yeah. A piece of crap, but I don’t think he knows anything.”
“You two probably had a lot in common, then.”
Maybe Wellton was more irritating than I remembered.
“Santangelo should be here in a minute,” he said, glancing at me.
My stomach tightened at the mention of his partner’s name. I hadn’t seen her in a while and I didn’t have any plans to change that.
“She’s coming down?” I asked.
He looked at his watch. “Anytime now.”
A knot. It was now a definite knot in my stomach.
“You done with me?” I asked.
Wellton turned to me, his eyes steady. “Still on the outs with her, huh?”
“Wouldn’t know. Haven’t spoken to her in a long time.”
“Lucky her,” he said, the corners of his mouth flickering into a grin. “Yeah, I’m done with you. For now.”
“Can I take my Jeep?”
He smiled and shook his head. “That I’m not done with.”
“Why not?”
“It’s inside my crime scene.”
“When can I get it back?”
His smile got bigger. “When I say so.” He paused. “Maybe I’ll take it for a spin.”
“You should. It’s probably more fun than your Big Wheel.”
His smile disappeared. He glared at me for a moment, then turned and moved away.
I walked to the street and stood there, wondering how I was going to get home. I was contemplating the bus when a Yellow Cab came down El Cajon. I waved at him and he came over three lanes to meet me.
“Where to?” he asked out the passenger window, leaning across the passenger seat.
“Mission Beach.”
“You got cash?”
“Yeah.”
“All yours, then.”
As I opened the rear passenger door, I glanced up and saw Liz Santangelo stepping out of her car on the far side of the lot.
She shut the door and stood next to the car. She wore a bright green blouse and slim black pants. Her dark hair was pulled back over her shoulders and I could make out silver earrings on her ears. Her gun bulged on her hip.
I hadn’t seen her in about six months. The last time I’d seen her had been in a hospital hallway. She’d walked out on me, disappointed again in a choice I’d made, our always-sputtering relationship screeching to a halt. I’d done something impulsive against her wishes that had resulted in the deaths of two people and nearly mine as well.
I hadn’t called her and she hadn’t called me. My reason was stubbornness. I wasn’t sure what hers was.
But seeing her now, I realized how much I missed her.
She glanced in my direction, doing a double-take, and then the look on her face telling me that she wished she hadn’t done that. Or that she at least wished I hadn’t seen her do it.
We stood there for a moment, each of us looking at the other, she looking as unsure as I felt.
I finally held my hand up to Liz, a halfhearted, confused wave. Maybe a symbolic white flag of sorts.
She blinked once, turned her head, and walked over to the group of cops in the parking lot without acknowledging me.
“We going anytime soon, pal?” the driver asked from inside the idling cab.
I slid into the backseat, stung more than I wanted to be. “Yeah. We’re going right now.”
Five
The cab dropped me off at the corner of Mission and Jamaica. Mission Beach is a conglomeration of mazelike alleys about ten feet wide and I didn’t want to subject him to the rigors of maneuvering to my house.
I grabbed a beer out of the fridge and heard clapping out near my patio. I walked out of the kitchen and opened the back slider.
Carter, all six-foot-nine of him, was doing a handstand on the three-foot wall that separates my patio from the boardwalk. A group of four Japanese tourists were alternately snapping photos of him and cheering from the boardwalk side of the wall.
“Did you tell them that you can drink beer through your nose, too?” I asked.
He lifted his head in my direction. “I didn’t think they’d find that as charming.”
He brought his legs down and sprang off the wall onto the patio, his yellow board shorts and white tank top falling into place. His fans erupted into more applause.
He bowed to them and held out his hand. They shoved some cash into his massive palm and then shuffled off, chattering excitedly among themselves.
“Do I get a cut of that?” I asked, sitting down in one of the patio chairs.
“No.”
“It’s my property.”
He shoved the bills into his pocket and grinned. “Yeah, but you don’t support my act.”
“That is so true.”
Carter Hamm, my best friend, sat down next to me. His white-blond hair was sticking up like tiny spikes on his head. He propped his huge feet up on the small table in front of us.
“That dude find you this morning?” he asked.
I looked across the boardwalk to where Peter Pluto had waited for me at the edge of the water. “Yeah. Let’s chat about that.”
“Chat? You must really be pissed.”
“Handstands and perceptive. You are one of a kind.”
He leaned back in the chair. “That’s what the ladies tell me.”
I sipped from the beer and shook my head. “Yeah, the dude from this morning found me. When I was out in the water. When I wasn’t looking for a job.”
Carter glanced to me, his dark eyes squinting into the disappearing sun. “So you bailed on him?”
I took another drink and didn’t say anything.
“No, of course not,” he said, nodding his head. “You decided to help him. Plus, you need cash.”
“It’s your fault.”
“Is not.”
“Is too.”
“I just told him where to find you.”
“And you knew I’d say yes.”
“I didn’t even know what he wanted.”
“Not to take my picture doing a handstand, that’s for sure.”
“Well, you suck at handstands.”
Arguing with Carter was like arguing with a three-year-old-a genetic freak of a three-year-old.
I held up my hand. “Fine. My fault.”
He folded his arms across his chest and nodded. “Exactly. So what happened?”
“Went to look for this guy’s brother at his apartment and while I was there, a girl got shot.”
“Shut up.”
“I’d like to, but you keep asking me questions.”
I set my beer down on the table between our chairs. He immediately snatched it, held it up to his mouth, and emptied it.
“Tell me,” he said, setting the empty bottle down.
I told him about Linc’s place, the girls, Rolovich, and the shooting.
“That’s some afternoon,” he said when I was done.
“No kidding.”
“You gonna keep looking for the kid?”
I shrugged because I didn’t know now if I wanted to or not.
We sat there staring for a few minutes at the bouquet of purples and yellows in the sky at the far edge of the water. The crowd on the boardwalk was slowly dissipating as the evening trudged in.
“You wanna go out?” Carter asked, gesturing at the water. “Decent swells should be here soon.”
I closed my eyes. “Nah.”
We sat there again quietly for a few moments.
“You saw her, didn’t you?” he said finally.
“Saw who?”
“The Virgin Mary. Who the hell do you think I mean? Liz.”
I didn’t say anything. Of all the annoying things about Carter, perhaps the one that bugged me the most was his ability to read me like an eye chart.
“Did you talk to her?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Didn’t feel like it.”
; “Right.”
The truth was I didn’t know why I hadn’t just gone over to talk to Liz. Maybe it was because I was afraid of what she’d say to me. Not talking to her had become weirdly comfortable and I wasn’t sure I was ready to give that up.
Carter stood, yanked off his tank top, and grabbed the eight-foot G amp;S surfboard next to the sliding door. He tucked it under his arm and stepped over the small stone wall onto the boardwalk.
He turned around. “You know I can’t stand her, dude. I really can’t. It would be fine with me if I never saw her again, never had to hear her name again.” He shook his head. “But if you’re in love with her, or whatever, you’re just being chickenshit. Flat out. So she’s pissed at you. Big deal. Liz is pissed at everyone, as far as I can tell. Deal with it and quit sulking. I’ve watched it for too long now and I’m tired of it.” He shook his head. “I’ve never thought of you as a coward, Noah, and I don’t really wanna start.”
He turned and walked down the sand toward the water and the exploding hues of the horizon and left me to think about that.
Six
After a night of restless sleep, Rachel’s eyes, Liz’s face, and Carter’s words rattling around in my brain, I decided I needed a few more details from Peter Pluto. I needed to see what specifically he’d meant by maybe Linc getting hooked up with a bad crowd. Did he know about the gang or was there another crowd I needed to be aware of?
And as much as I wanted to avoid the subject, I wanted to know more about their father. Nothing he’d told me about his brother had added up and I ended up watching a girl I’d just met take a bullet. I didn’t know whether the shooting was tied directly to Linc Pluto’s disappearance, but it sure seemed like an awfully big coincidence.
I walked up Mission to the Enterprise rental office, and after fifteen minutes drove away in a rented Ford Taurus. My car was still impounded and I didn’t mind sticking a few more dollars on Peter Pluto’s tab.
His home was in Clairemont, a nondescript suburb north of the downtown area and twenty minutes from my house. The community rests on the hills just above Mission Bay and stretches two dozen miles to the east. Middle-class housing, strip malls, and neighborhoods that had deteriorated marked what had once been a desired address. Most of the original residents had vacated to the sprawling suburbs of the east and north, seeking newer homes and newer schools, leaving most of Clairemont in search of an identity.