by S. W. Lauden
The Police Chief rolled the baggy around in his fingers. He was buying time, trying to craft his next question. Greg sat in silence, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“How’s the girl?”
The official police reports from the raid on Grizzly Flats assumed all unaccounted for fugitives had escaped. Nobody but the Police Chief knew that Greg had actually taken one of them home with him. They purposely didn’t speak about her much, so that he couldn’t be implicated if it was ever discovered, but Greg saw that it was eating the old man up inside. He knew it wasn’t about the law as much as it was about Greg’s safety.
If it ever got serious and Greg truly needed the police’s help, Kristen could present serious problems for him. Which meant he had to keep going it alone as long as she was around.
“She seems good,” Greg said. “You’d never know she didn’t grow up at the beach.”
Greg realized that it sound like he was talking about his daughter or niece, not his girlfriend. He gave up and tried to change the subject.
“Have you heard anything from the Sheriff’s Department recently?”
“I check in every couple of days, but I’ve got to be honest—that last false alarm really pissed them off.”
“I get it, but that doesn’t change the fact that Magnus and his crew are still out there. And Marco might be with them.”
“You don’t need to tell me again. I know you’re thinking about your friend’s safety, but what if—?”
“What?”
“We don’t even know if he’s still alive. And even if he is…”
The old man gave a frustrated shake of his head. Greg leaned forward to slam his hands down on the desk.
“Spit it out.”
“What if he isn’t being held against his will?”
“Why? Because he’s got a history of drug problems?”
“And a pretty impressive police record. I’m just asking you to put your personal feelings aside and consider the possibility.”
Cops are some of the least forgiving people on the planet.
Greg snorted, but he knew the old man was right. He was really sticking his neck out trying to find Marco this way. If he didn’t have the Police Chief on his side, he pretty much wouldn’t have anybody.
He stood up and pushed the chair back with the sole of his sneaker. Marco was the last friend he had who would join him on a suicide mission like that. The irony wasn’t lost on Greg.
“Thanks, Chief.”
“I’d stay out of the mountains for a little while if I were you.”
“That an order?”
“Just advice. Take a break and clear your head. Might give you some new perspective. You seem like a powder keg these days.”
“Let me know when you get the results on the weed.”
“The minute I hear back from the lab. And Greg...”
Greg stopped in the doorway, but didn’t turn around right away. The Police Chief reached into his desk and pulled out a plastic evidence bag with a tarnished handgun inside. Greg froze when he realized what it was.
“Is that—?”
“Yep. Thought you might want see it before it gets archived. Give you a little closure.”
Chills ran down Greg’s spine as images from that day in the alley flashed in his mind. He could see the kid in the blue hat falling to the pavement, his body twisting, and his arms flailing. The spreading pool of blood.
“Where did you find it?”
“Turned up in a drug raid last week. Dealer claims that Manny asked him to hold it for him, but he never came back to get it…”
“…Because you put him and the rest of the gang away.”
“All in a day’s work. He requested a meeting with you, by the way.”
Greg’s whole body contracted. It felt like he had been punched in the chest.
“The kid in the blue hat?”
“He has a name, you know.”
“Don’t say it.”
Greg’s reached out to steady himself on the edge of the desk. He spun around and lunged for the door. The Police Chief was yelling after him “Think it over. It might do you some good,” as Greg raced down the hallway and stormed outside.
His head was about to explode from what he had just seen and heard. The gun that changed his life—haunted his dreams—was right there in an evidence bag.
Greg took greedy breaths through his nose as he walked across the empty street. It was obvious why the Police Chief was suggesting the meeting. He wanted Greg to get on with his life so that he might consider rejoining the ranks of the VHPD. Although, that was the furthest thing from Greg’s mind at the moment. Why would the kid in the blue hat want to see me now?
His car was sitting right where it had been parked so many times before. The El Camino roared to life when he turned the key. He took the steering wheel in his hands, but kept his foot on the brake. There was still a lot of work to do on the Lathrop case, but he couldn’t get himself to care: not when J.J. might have some information about Tim’s death.
Greg threw the car into drive and took off for Orange County. PRJ was playing at Danny’s Bar in Fullerton, not far from the state university. He wanted to get there early to catch J.J. before the show, so he didn’t have to stay for the whole set.
He turned the radio on and flipped between stations. His fingers stopped moving when he heard his own name.
“…a former Virgil Heights police officer named Greg Salem, according to a new column in today’s edition of the SoCal Sentinel. The controversy revolves around a lethal new strain of marijuana known on the streets as ‘Grizzly Bear’. Sentinel gossip columnist Leslie Thompson says in her latest hit piece that Mr. Salem has declined to be interviewed on several occasions, leaving her to speculate that he might be behind this new designer drug…”
Greg turned the radio off and started pounding on the dashboard. The immediate release felt good, but not nearly enough to satisfy his mounting rage. He sat there for several minutes trying to calm down, but it wasn’t working. He needed to talk to somebody to help him get out of his own head.
Greg grabbed his phone and started dialing. Kristen answered on the first ring. It felt good to hear her voice.
“What’s up, sweetie?”
“Nothing. Just wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“On your way home?”
“Actually, no. I have some work to do tonight.”
There was a pause before she responded.
“At the bar?”
“No, it’s private investigation work.”
“I should have guessed. Is she with you right now?”
Her voice was harder now, with a jagged edge of jealousy. An accusatory tone he’d never heard her use before. It wasn’t helping Greg’s state of mind like he hoped it would.
“Who? Maggie?”
She’d already hung up. He climbed in his car and started toward Fullerton; but first he had one more stop to make.
›
The SoCal Sentinel office was on Hollywood Boulevard, not far from the tourist hotspots. Greg found street parking a few blocks away and walked down. Homeless people dressed like superheroes offered to take pictures with him for twenty bucks. He waved them off and kept moving until he reached the front doors of the building.
A sun-faded directory on the wall pointed him to the second floor. He was greeted at the front counter by a pear-shaped, middle aged man with a pronounced lisp.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Leslie Thompson.”
The man narrowed his eyes. It clearly wasn’t the first time somebody had come looking for their star columnist.
“Thompson’s not in. I can take a message.”
“When will she be back?”
“Hard to say with reporters. They’re always on assi
gnment.”
“Well, if her main assignment is still Greg Salem, I’m right here. So I’ll just wait.”
Greg turned to look for a couch or a chair, but the room was empty. He dropped an elbow onto the counter and took out his phone instead. He could hear the man furiously typing on the computer keyboard behind him. Greg knew he wouldn’t have long to wait.
The woman who eventually emerged was nothing like what he’d expected. She was almost six feet tall, with bright red hair that hung in loose curls from her head. The buttons on her fitted blouse strained against her bulging breasts. She walked right over and stuck out her hand.
“Mr. Salem.”
Greg tucked the phone back into his pocket, and still left her hanging.
“Are you Thompson?”
She crossed her arms and cocked her head, sizing him up. Greg couldn’t tell if she was annoyed or scared. She was about to speak, but he cut her off.
“I want to set the record straight on a few things you’ve written about me.”
He took a step forward. She took a step back. The man behind the counter picked up the phone and started dialing. Greg guessed he only had a few moments before security arrived. He decided to make his point fast.
“I’m not some Hollywood star looking for attention or publicity.”
“Okay…”
“So stay out of my business or I’ll really give you something to write about.”
“If you truly aren’t looking for attention, then you wouldn’t be here threatening a newspaper reporter.”
“Take it however you want. Just leave me alone.”
Greg spun to face the elevator. Two security guards exited when the doors opened. He let them pass before walking in and hitting the button for the lobby. He could see them talking to Leslie Thompson when the doors slid shut.
›
The excursion to The SoCal Sentinel offices put Greg way behind schedule. What should have been a forty-five-minute trip down the freeway turned into two-and-a-half hours of stop-and-go traffic. It gave Greg plenty of time to stew.
Danny’s Bar looked like any other hole in the wall from the outside. A live band was blaring through the wall where a couple of college kids were leaning to smoke cigarettes. The guy at the door carded Greg out of habit, but didn’t even look at his birth date.
Greg pulled the heavy wooden door open and wandered inside. The place was pitch black, except for the well-lit stage where five guys were doing a passable version of “Institutionalized” by Suicidal Tendencies. He took an empty stool at the bar and scanned the stage. He wasn’t even sure that he would recognize J.J. these days. The last time they had seen each other was fifteen years ago when they were both blind drunk. That night had ended with a short fistfight and a long string of threats.
“What’ll it be?”
The bartender was young, barely drinking age himself. His delicate mustache was carefully curled up at the ends, hardly covering his sneer. They were practically screaming at each other over the band.
“Club soda.”
The kid put his elbow on the bar and leaned in. It was obvious he wanted to be heard.
“This is a bar. You want to sip on bubbly water, go somewhere else.”
“Fine. You got Budweiser?”
“This is a bar in America, ain’t it?”
Greg kept his cool until the bartender slammed the longneck down and wandered off. A thin film of sweat was forming on his upper lip and under his shirt. He hadn’t taken a drink since the night that he and Marco got reacquainted. But he also hadn’t been doing a very good job of keeping up with his meetings.
He was considering the bottle in front of him when the band broke into “Lady Killer” by The Vandals. Greg threw a five-dollar bill onto the bar and made his way to the stage empty-handed.
It was a healthy crowd for a cover band on a weeknight, but easy enough to maneuver. Greg was only half way there when he got a good look at the bassist. He was a little heavier these days, and his head was shaved clean, but it was definitely J.J. It looked like he might have spotted Greg too.
The final notes of the last song were still ringing out when J.J. stepped up to the mic.
“You’re in luck tonight, because we have a special guest in the house. It’s been a long time since we’ve played together, but I think we can still remember a few of the old songs. Give a round of applause for my friend, Greg Salem of Bad Citizen Corporation!”
There was a smattering of applause followed by a confused murmur. Heads turned, one by one, until it felt like the whole place was staring at Greg. J.J. didn’t help the situation by announcing his name again and counting the band into a song from the first BCC record. That’s when the crowd started yelling. Greg thought the music sounded clunky being played by a bunch of middle-aged guys, but he didn’t know what else to do. So he jumped up on stage and started screaming.
The words came back without much effort, but the experience was surreal. This wasn’t a crowd of lubed up BCC fans at Eddie’s. It was a dive bar in Fullerton full of college kids who probably weren’t born when his band broke-up.
They were kicking into their second song when Greg stepped to the edge of the stage. He wanted to make eye contact with the vibrating kids in the front row, watch the high-energy music pulsing through them like electricity, see their bodies twitching involuntarily as the relentless onslaught of sounds whipped them into a frenzy.
The place erupted when they ran out of songs ten minutes later. J.J. slammed his bass down and pushed Greg from the stage. They were through the back door and out in an alley before the crowd realized the show had ended. Greg was still winded.
“What the hell was that?”
A big grin was smeared across J.J.’s round face.
“You kidding? There’s a whole new generation of kids that are really into BCC.”
“What? How?”
“Welcome to the digital age. Everything old is new again. Might be time for us to get the band back together and cash in. Lord knows I could use some money.”
Bad Citizen Corporation without Tim was always hard to stomach, but any reunion would have to happen without him. It didn’t seem like a possibility at all with Marco missing. Or would he and J.J. be enough to make it feel like it used to? Greg didn’t let himself dwell on the pipe dream too long before he got back down to business.
“That’s not what I came down here for. I have some questions about Quincy McCloud…”
J.J.’s happy expression dissolved.
“…and my brother.”
›
J.J. took Greg back to his motel room and told him everything he knew about Quincy. The place looked a lot like the one Marco used to live in, before it got condemned. J.J. swore up and down that he never slept with her. Greg was wishing he could say the same.
“She practically threw herself at me once she found out I used to be in BCC,” J.J. said. “I’d get back from lecturing and she’d be in my office waiting for me, half naked and ready to rock.”
“I kept telling her that it was too risky, no matter how tempting it was. And it was really freakin’ tempting, Greg. That girl was a knock out.”
J.J. claimed that she started making up lies when she realized he wasn’t just playing hard to get. He knew he was screwed when rumors started circulating in the faculty lounge.
“There was something seriously wrong with that girl. You could see it in her eyes. She asked a million questions about you.”
It gave Greg a certain sense of closure to find out more about the woman who had torn his world apart. Let him find a little forgiveness in his heart for her once he understood how deranged she truly was. But that wasn’t why he’d come looking for J.J.
“So you’re telling me that you don’t have any information about Tim’s death?”
J.J.’s lips started quivering a
nd tears filled his eyes.
“Christ. No, all right? I was junkie, not a murderer. That whole period of my life is a long, blurry regret. I wish I could take it all back, every second of it, but I can’t. And no, I don’t have any info about Tim. If I did I would have told you a long time ago.”
Greg could have kept pushing, but knew that J.J. didn’t have the information he so badly needed in order to get on with his life.
“It’s cool, J.J. I believe you.”
They spent the next few hours trading war stories about the good old days. J.J.’s version wasn’t quite as bad as the one Greg had been telling himself all these years. Some of it even sounded fun, the way that his old bassist remembered it. Greg was happy that J.J. had gotten sober too, otherwise he might have succumbed to the temptation to drink again.
He was getting up to leave when J.J. finally asked how Marco was doing. It was late, Greg was wiped out and he couldn’t see any reason to lie. J.J. already knew how Quincy’s story ended, so Greg told him how their old drummer helped bring her down. But that also meant explaining that Marco had been kidnapped, or murdered, by a would-be drug kingpin.
J.J.’s response wasn’t what Greg expected.
“I taught botany. There’s no way some marketing guy is fusing marijuana and coca plants together with somatic fusion out in the middle of the forest. If it was that easy somebody a lot smarter than him would have already done it. And they’d be really rich.”
Greg thought J.J. sounded pretty convincing as an expert witness. Though, it wasn’t much of a relief.
“Well, that’s why I’m heading back up to the mountains first thing tomorrow.”
J.J. was still in shock when he walked Greg to the door. They started to shake hands, but hugged instead, slapping each other’s backs and promising to stay in touch. Kristen still wasn’t picking up her phone so Greg texted her instead.
Hope you’re okay. On my way home.Greg was still typing when he walked up to the El Camino. He was surprised to find J.J. waiting there for him.
“What’s up, bro?”
J.J. only had two pieces of luggage, a small rolling suitcase and his bass guitar.
“Thought you might need some help looking for Marco.”