Hard Cold Whisper

by Michael Hemmingson

  I didn’t stay on the phone to explain myself. “I’m sorry, Allen,” I said, “you’ve been good to me, but it’s time for me to make some much needed changes.”

  If the cops were looking for me, he would’ve mentioned it.

  All he said was, “Good luck, kid.”

  Those five days at the beach, we lived in luxury; we ate the best food and drank the best wine and tequila. She bought a whole new wardrobe, flowing white and yellow dresses and skirts, blue and green blouses with a cheerful Mexican flair, fluffy designer bots and Hollister sweat jackets of various colors which seemed to be the fashion for young women in Mexico.

  She bought me a new suit, some Hawaiian shirts, slacks and shorts.

  “I’m your sugar momma now,” she said.

  I didn’t mind, I didn’t mind at all. I felt I deserved every peso she spent.

  Rosarito was a world all its own, a section of Baja California that seemed to be separated from Mexico, the drug cartels, and the poverty you find all over the nation. Long stretches of empty beaches; lone high rise buildings that emerged from the ground like monoliths; the Fox Studios movie lot where a number of big movies had been made, where budgets were lower than movies made in Los Angeles or San Diego. Tourists and citizens came in from Tijuana, either by taxi or shuttle bus, to shop and dine and enjoy the beach, although it was cloudy, windy, and cold. “Rosarito is always this way,” Gabriella said, “not like the sunny beach where you live.”

  I could see myself living here, alone or (better) with her; it seemed like the ideal idyll place to hide, grow old and die in peace.

  Eventually we were going to have to go back to the States and take care of business, the little odds and ends we amass in life. Gabriella and I agreed that I would go first, that it might be best not to be seen with each other in San Diego or Chula Vista. I would vacate my apartment, put stuff in storage, rent a moving trunk, or just leave my shit on the side of the street, up for grabs. I had a few other minor details to take care of. Gabriella gave me $5000 in bundled hundred dollar bills to purchase a used car.

  She would stay behind and make arrangement for a place to live in Cancun or Acapulco, either one was fine with me. She didn’t have anything pressing to do in the States and her lawyer, Ramos, could handle the details of accounts and property sales.

  She had it all planned.

  Didn’t listen to my intuition when I knew goddamn well that’s always the best voice that never bullshits. Something told me to ditch the car and walk across the border, get a used replacement in San Ysidro. I had been monitoring the news online in Rosarito, and there were no mentions or items about Miguel, Meghan, or Roy Erics

  And then there I was in the car lane to re-enter the U.S. and it was too late to leave the car somewhere and walk away.

  Once you’re in that line to cross the border, there’s no lane to turn back.

  Get rid of the Mustang—it would be the first thing I’d do.

  Take a deep fucking breath. . .

  I was calm. . .

  I wasn’t worried. . .

  I wasn’t even worried when the Customs and Border Patrol agent in the booth ran my I.D. through his computer and told me to please pull my car into Secondary.

  “Any problem?”

  “It’s routine,” the agent said, “you got the lucky draw.”

  I did as I was instructed. Secondary was two hundred feet away, a small portal where half a dozen agents would scrutinize my car, my person, ask me questions: “What were you doing in Mexico? Did you bring anything back? Have anything to declare? Where are you going?”

  I parked the Mustang in Secondary and uniformed BCP agents emerged from virtually nowhere, popping up like wraiths with their government issued service weapons drawn.

  They yelled at me to slowly step out of the car with my hands in the air.

  36.

  Lisa Dean, Esq., visited me in holding at the downtown jail.

  We sat across from each other and we were both grave: I in my drab dark blue jumpsuit and she in a black skirt and blazer.

  “I’ll be blunt,” she said, “it isn’t good.”

  “They won’t tell me what happened, other than they think I murdered three people.”

  “The Tijuana cops and Baja State Police both got anonymous phone calls, telling them that the person responsible for three dumped bodies would be crossing the border. The Border Patrol and ICE also got the same calls, with your license plate, name, description, the works. Whoever made the calls was playing both sides, see who would get your first. I’d say you’re lucky the Mexican authorities don’t have you, although they don’t impose the death penalty down there. Nevertheless, you have more rights at home.”

  “I haven’t been told what, exactly, they have on me.”

  “A shell casing was found under the passenger seat of your car, that was given to the Tijuana Police and they say it matches a gun they found, the same gun that shot and killed the three people that were…found…in a field.

  The shell casing: The one she picked up…I wasn’t paying attention…she purposely put it under the seat, probably when she was getting the bribe money for that cop…

  “You had $5,000 on you,” my lawyer said.

  I shrugged. “Noting illegal about that.”

  “The trunk of your car is being scoured for DNA evidence; so is your apartment. Is there anything to worry about on those fronts?”

  “Probably.”

  “Look, David, I don’t want to, or need to, know if you’re guilty because I can’t take this case. I’m doing what I can now because you’ve been my client for your work-related matters. You’re going to need to get a good, a damn good criminal defense lawyer. I can recommend a couple if you’d like.”

  “Thank you for what you’ve done already,” I said. “Tell me, how is Allen’s case going?”

  She smiled. “Oh. I managed to negotiate a settlement the D.A. was happy with. Allen won’t be doing any time, just paying some steep fines and taking anger management classes.”

  “Good for him,” I said.

  At least someone was getting out of their fuck-ups.

  37.

  I confessed.

  I wasn’t going to fry alone. Gabriella betrayed me and I was going to return the favor. I told the police and prosecutors all about Gabriella Amaya, how I met her, how we romanced, how she plotted a game with a Chula Vista gang member but betrayed him and how I fell for it and succumbed to her plan. I told them to check for evidence of blood splatter in Gabriella’s house, check the knife if it was still there. I suggested they verify everything with her attorney, Ramos.

  I can’t say I was all that surprised when they told me that Enrique Ramos was no longer at the office address I gave them, that he had dual citizenship in the U.S. and Mexico and they had no idea where he was. Aunt Yolanda’s property holdings had been sold to an investment group for under market value and the money was not in the accounts Gabriella had inherited. The sale of these properties had been in escrow months before Aunt Yolanda’s death.

  There was that job Ramos sent me on, the empty house on a distant lot, and the two men who were waiting to ambush me. I had no doubt that the property once belonged to the aunt and the men were hired by Ramos. This was why Gabriella acted oddly indifferent toward me that night and had “forgotten” about our big dinner plans. She hadn’t expected me to show up. Were those men supposed to have killed me? Put me in a coma?

  And when I paid her a surprise visit and Ramos was there, and she was naked under that robe.

  She was with Ramos now, and she had been all along; the two of them had hatched a convoluted plan to get Miguel and some Caucasian patsy like me to get rid of the obstacles in their way to wealth.

  I imagined that Ramos came by the house one day to have his client, Yolanda Ruiz, sign some papers, and there at the door was this beautiful, sexy teenage girl…

  But there was no record of any 19-year-old woman named Gabriella Amaya who was caregiver and n
iece to Yolanda Ruiz. She did have a niece that age named Maria Ruiz, who lived in Tijuana and was the sole beneficiary of her aunt’s estate, but Maria did not have a green card and had never crossed the border in the states with a visa.

  Her whereabouts were unknown and there was no reason to track her down since my word on the matter was hardly credible to anyone concerned.

  There was no investigation into whether or not Yolanda Ruiz was murdered. They had me on bigger issues, and the old woman’s death appeared to be natural.

  The Mexican authorities wouldn’t provide any other information because they were pissed that they weren’t getting a crack at me. There had been several petitions to have me extradited and stand trial in Baja California, but the San Diego D.A.’s office—who had let my former employer off for misdeed—argued that since the actual murders occurred in San Diego, they lawfully had my homicidal ass. If I ever got paroled, then I would be sent to Mexico and tried for transporting three corpses into their country and leaving them for the local cops to clean up and deal with.

  Received a 25-to-life for Roy Erics. My plea had been self-defense. I refused to confess to the murder of ex-girlfriend Meghan and gangbanger Miguel, because I didn’t kill them and there was no convincing evidence I had; however, I did get one hundred years extra for conspiracy to cover-up the murders and tampering with evidence and obstructing justice by moving the bodies out of the United States. Meghan’s family demand that I meet justice for their daughter’s death, so there might be a civil wrongful death trial for that down the line.

  If it happens, it happens. Maybe I’ll confess and take my civil responsibility—what money will they get out of me? I know money is not what they want; they want satisfaction and I’m willing to give it to Meghan’s parents.

  Gabriella, whatever her name is or wherever she was now, would have a laugh when she heard about it, and that laugh would not hurt.

  Three months later, I heard that Enrique Ramos’ body was found on the beach in Acapulco. He had been stabbed two dozen times. Local authorities believed he had been robbed and killed by a local gang of homicidal youths.

  “You got away with another one, baby,” I whispered in my cell, where it was always hard and cold.

  I didn’t feel sorry for Ramos, not one bit. He played me, and the girl played him like an antique guitar.

  I’m in Corcoran State Prison: 900 plus acres in Kings County, California. There are some high-profile killers here, like Charlie Manson and Phil Spector. Sirhan Sirhan was once here. Robert Downey, Jr. did his time here. There was a 1998 documentary about the facility, Maximum Security University.

  There are a lot of guys here who claim they were set up, they are innocent; they were framed.

  I’m not one of them.

  38.

  Was sitting in the yard, kicking back on a bench, aware that I was being stared at. Many eyes. The Mexican gang, working out on the weights. There was one I recognized, he was new: big and bald and lots of tattoos.

  I expected him in the showers and he did not disappoint.

  The other guys in the shower area quickly left and the two of us were alone.

  “Been waiting a long time for this,” José said.

  “Patience is a positive personality trait,” I said.

  He held a small sharp object, a shiv of some sort. “Two things,” he said, “first for the teeth I lost, then payback for what you did to Miguel.”

  There was no point in telling him I didn’t kill his friend. José was on a mission and there was nothing stopping him.

  The wet floor of the showers was my advantage. José tried to stab me in the side but he only nicked me. I slammed my arm into his neck and crushed his esophagus. He slipped on the floor and fell down, stabbing himself with his own weapon.

  There was blood mixed with water. I grabbed my bar of soap and walked out of the shower.

  His homies in the Mexican population of inmates were waiting for him, to congratulate him on a quick and clean kill. They weren’t expecting me to emerge the victor.

  There were twenty of them. I stood and waiting for it. They only stared at me. I won the fight and jailhouse rules mandated respect to the winner. That didn’t mean one of them wouldn’t come after me later, or José after he got out of the infirmary, looking for three paybacks.

  For the moment, I was okay. They looked down as I passed by; other inmates cheered me on and patted me on the back.

  39.

  The next night, before lockdown, a guard I’d never seen before kept my door open and made sure it didn’t shut when all the other cell doors in my section did. He gave me a cold stare and the slightest smirk. I didn't have a good feeling about him.

  Something wasn’t right. This was certain when two beefy skinheads, guys from the Aryan Brotherhood, sauntered in, cracking their knuckles and necks and looking pleased with themselves. The guard turned his head, like he hadn't seen a thing, and walked away.

  “A message from Arnold Maxwell, direct from him to you,” one of the skinheads informed me.

  I remembered what Maxwell had said: “Do you know who I am?” And his big truck, and his property out there in the boonies, and that fucking Nazi tattoo on his fat neck.

  I stood my ground and cracked my knuckles. Whatever was coming was coming.

  “You going to stand there all day and stare at me to death,” I said, “or kill me?”

  It wasn’t a fair fight. Could I expect anything more?

  “Show me what you Hitler-lovin’ motherfuckers got,” I said, and they did.

  40.

  While I was in the infirmary, I received a postcard.

  I had two broken arms and a broken leg, three broken ribs and a missing left eye. I was in pain all the time; the meds they gave me didn’t work for shit.

  The postcard was from Brazil. The photo image was a beautiful beachfront, hotels in the background. Written on the other side: Pinky promise. I had to squint my right eye to read it. It was her handwriting.

  Was this Gabriella’s—Maria’s—idea of a joke? Yeah, she was living la vida loca in South America, and I pictured her topless on the beach, soaking up the sun, her skin darker than I could ever recall.

  Later I was told that “someone” had wired $10,000 into my commissary account. Was this her way of saying she was sorry? The money would help—I could purchase items to use as barter, and protection against the Aryans or Mexicans should they want to mess me up more.

  Or ice my ass.

  Some nights, to escape from the pain my body is in, I imagine myself in another life, with her; we have a big house in Latin America and we have our first child, and we’re pretty darn happy. We got away with it and that was thrill enough to have two happy lives.

  When I have use of my arms again, the first thing I am going to do is tear that motherfucking postcard into many pieces, flush it all down the toilet with a chaser of spit and piss and vitriol and a long, eerie motherfucking giggle from the blackest depths of my squishy intestines.

  About the Author

  Michael Hemmingson lives in southern California and writes novels, stories, essays, and screenplays. His two previous books for Black Mask are Shabbytown and The Trouble with Tramps. Other books include This Other Eden, Ourselves or Nothing, The Chronotope, Poison from a Dead Sun, Judas Payne, The Rooms, Wild Turkey, The Yacht People, The Rose of Heaven, Pictures of Houses with Water Damage, etc. He wrote the screenplay for the indie film, The Watermelon.