Cyclone Rumble

by J.P. Voss

  15

  My cousin snatched the hookah off the coffee table and stashed it in the closet by the front door. He spun toward the entry, leaned down, and peered through the peephole. Vince secured the deadbolt. “Duff! Come check this out. There’s some old dude standing out by the street. He looks like a Narc.”

  When a car door slammed out in the alley, Vince backtracked across the living room, through the dining area, and stopped at the patio door. He slid open the glass panel and craned his neck, trying to see over the back wall. He glanced back at me and said, “Some Gomer wearing a cowboy hat just got out of a pickup truck. You gotta check this guy out.”

  “I’ll be right with you,” I replied. I asked Harper, “What’s your plan?”

  “Don’t worry Duffy. Everything is going to work out fine. We’ll talk about it after you bathe.”

  Chaotic racket muffled an angry voice rumbling in from the alley.

  Harper said, “You should go see if Vince needs any help. We’ll talk later.”

  “Okay. We’ll talk about it later.” I started to chug the last of my beer and stopped. “Why’d you use the alias O’Neal? It’s not your real name. Is it Miss Bradley?”

  “It’s not my legal name Duffy, but it is my real name. O’Neal is the name my father gave me. Bradley is my adopted name. I was going to use Bradley, but it made me think of my mother, and we’re not speaking right now. And I absolutely refuse to use my married name.”

  “You’re still married?”

  “Steve won’t sign the divorce papers. He’s so impossible. After all that’s happened, he honestly thinks we’re still going to get back together.”

  “He’s not real smart. Is he?”

  Vince leaned in the apartment. “We’ve got one pissed off peckerwood out here.”

  “I hope this is him. Vince will kick his ass.” I drained my beer, belched, then got up and followed my cousin out onto the patio.

  Harper’s old man was standing in the alley, on the other side of the brick wall. He had his right arm draped over the top block, and he slouched on it, like it was a crutch. His jaw was swollen, with a nice black and blue hue, and his eyes were a bloodshot cocktail of rage and pain. I imagined smoke coming out of his ears, like one of those cartoon bulls.

  I can’t believe that shit-kicker followed me. What a dick.

  Reno said, “I saw you with my fuckin’ old lady. Where is she?”

  “First of all. Harper isn’t anyone’s fuckin’ old lady.”

  “Who’s the Pencil Neck?” Vince asked.

  “He’s Harper’s soon to be ex old man.”

  “You want me to kick his ass?”

  “I’ll let you know,” I said as I stepped to the wall and locked eyes with Reno. “She dumped you a long time ago Hopalong Cassidy. Why don’t you sign the divorce papers and get along little doggie. It’s over between you two.”

  “Is that what that whore told you?”

  “Watch your mouth!”

  Vince stepped up behind me and stood tight against my left flank.

  Reno brought his left hand above the fence. He was holding some paperwork. It was thick, and folded in thirds. “You can tell that bitch I’m never going to sign the divorce papers. Not now. Not ever.” He flicked his wrist, tossing the documents toward my face.

  The papers glanced off my shoulder, and I cocked my arm, primed to throw a devastating right in the direction of Reno’s swollen jaw.

  Reno’s bloodshot eyes boiled. He reached behind his back and brought up a nickel-plated Colt Revolver. Resting the gun’s butt on top of the wall, he pointed the barrel at my face.

  I moved to my right and stepped back, away from Vince. My eyes were locked on the muzzle; the barrel was locked on me. I hesitated for a second, fixated on my own mortality. Adrenalin screamed through my body, and I challenged Reno with a glare.

  Vince stepped to the wall, grabbed the .38, and yanked it out of Reno’s hand. It sounded like the time I set off a cherry bomb in the handball courts at school. When the bullet ricochet off the block wall next to me, fragmented concrete and dust exploded in my face, and I hit the deck.

  I stood up, and my cousin tossed me the gun. Vince cleared the wall, like a gymnast going over a pommel horse, and then used the bed rail to vault into the truck bed. Vince unleashed an all out underhand right. Reno, who was almost to the driver’s door, never saw it coming. Vince’s knuckles caught Reno directly on the chin. The cowboy wobbled back a few feet, turned to jelly and melted.

  Vince jumped out of the truck, landed on the far side, and stood over Reno. My cousin dropped out of sight, and I lifted myself up on the block wall. I couldn’t see what was going on, but I heard Vince smack him a few times.

  Vince stood up, pulling Reno up by the collar. My cousin tossed the punch-drunk cowboy over his shoulder and carried him with ease. He stopped at the back of the truck, dropped the tailgate with one hand, and then flopped Reno in the truck bed. Vince twisted toward me and did a double bicep pose, like a weightlifter.

  Four inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than me, Vince was in great shape. He surfed seven days a week and pumped iron with the Muscle Beach gang. He was a few years older, and it was great to have him around when some of the older guys tried to mess with me. Vince loved to mix it up, especially with some dickhead lookin’ to get his ass kicked.

  Reno moaned, mumbled something about eight seconds, and then struggled to sit up. With his legs dangling off the tailgate, he sat on the end of the truck and rubbed his jaw. He was wiping a trickle of blood off his chin when a white ’67 Plymouth came tearing down the alley. The driver slammed on the brakes, and the car came to a dramatic sideways stop.

  Detective Sanchez exited the vehicle with his weapon drawn and barked, “Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”

  Behind me, I heard the sound of a winded water buffalo running down the concrete walk that ran along the side of Vince’s duplex apartment. I spun around, and Detective Zico flopped to a stop in front of the patio door.

  Zico hyperventilated as he huffed, “Don’t…or…I’ll…shoot.”

  I almost laughed, but he had a gun on me. And I could see myself going back to jail.

  “Where’s the gun,” Sanchez commanded. “Where’s the Goddamn gun.”

  I pointed to the inside corner on the patio, next to a standing ashtray.

  Zico gave me the stink eye and holstered his gun. He pulled a Popsicle stick out of the ashtray, stuck it in the barrel of Reno’s .38, and picked up the gun. Then the asshole grabbed me by the shirt collar and yanked me off the wall. He said, “I’ve got you now pissant. You’re under arrest for attempted murder.”

  “Are you still drunk? That asshole over there tried to kill me.”

  He slapped me. I almost grabbed the gun. He could sense it. Zico held the gun’s handle near my face, egging me on. When I didn’t take it, he snickered, like I was some kind of punk. He dropped the gun in his coat pocket and shoved me up against the wall. He gave me a rough pat down, like he was some kind of tough guy, and then locked the cuffs on me.

  I turned toward Vince. He was spread-eagle against the wall, and the detective was patting him down. My cousin’s eyes were defiant as the cop clamped on the handcuffs. Vince’s smile showed contempt, and he spit on the ground next to Sanchez’s feet.

  Reno started balling like a child having a tantrum at the shopping mall. “That bitch can’t leave me; nobody dumps Steve Reno.”

  Sanchez and Zico turned toward Reno. They glanced my way before checking with each other. Sanchez pointed toward the apartment, and Zico started for the door. He stopped.

  “What the fuck?”

  “No need to look detective.”

  Standing just inside the back door, wearing a beachcomber straw hat, tropical shirt, Bermuda shorts, black socks and wingtips, Special Agent Andrews lifted a Polaroid Camera to his eye and snapped a shot.

  “Who’s the hodad?” Vince asked.

  “That’s Special Agent Andrews of the FBI
.” I rolled my eyes at Andrews. “Snazzy outfit Agent Andrews. I hope it’s a disguise.”

  Andrews stepped onto the patio and said, “You should be nice to me. I’m going to keep you and your hippie friend out of jail.”

  Detective Zico started to bull his way past Andrews. “Get out of my way G-Man.”

  “There’s no need to search Detective. The girl is gone.”

  Sanchez called out, “I’ll radio in an APB.”

  Andrews laughed. “What are you going to say? I’m looking for a beautiful blond on the beach in L.A.? You’d better call in the National Guard.”

  “Nobody asked your opinion,” Zico said. He held one nostril closed with his index finger and blew out a bugger. “What the hell are you doin’ here anyways?”

  “I’ve been following you and Detective Sanchez.”

  Zico looked confused.

  Andrews spelled it out. “I was at the Wonderland Ballroom last night. When things started to escalate, I called the local police. After I made the call, I left the bar and parked my car a few hundred yards north, just off the road. I spotted young Mr. Allison cutting across the desert in his ’41 Studebaker pickup. When I started to follow him with my lights out, you and Detective Sanchez pulled a u-turn right in front of me. From then on, I followed you following him.”

  “I don’t like being followed,” Zico said.

  Andrews replied, “You’re going to like this even less. I need you to release your prisoner.”

  “Fuck you G-Man.”

  Andrews stepped around Zico and moved to the back wall. He motioned for Detective Sanchez to come close. Sanchez stepped to the wall, and Andrews whispered in his ear.

  Sanchez nodded his head a few times, thought about it, and then started to take the handcuffs off of Vince. He said, “Zico—cut him loose.”

  “That’s fuckin’ bullshit. I’m gonna bust this punk.”

  Detective Sanchez waved him off. “Remove the cuffs and meet me out front. We’re interfering with a Federal investigation. We’re extending Agent Andrews a professional courtesy and leaving immediately.”

  Zico released my wrists and walked out front. Sanchez got in the Plymouth, shoved it into reverse and peeled out, going backwards down the alley on his way to pick up his partner.

  Steve Reno stood up and said, “That fuckin’ Mexican took my gun.”

  Vince shoved Reno, who fell back in the truck bed.

  I asked Andrews, “What did you say to Sanchez?”

  “I told him Zico was an idiot.”

  “I could of told him that.”

  “And I told him arresting you would be a huge mistake.”

  “I could have told him that too. That didn’t make him change his mind.”

  “No,” he said. “It didn’t. When I told him he blew the surveillance, and that arresting you would only create a report documenting his failure, he started to see things in a clearer light.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I saw everything that happened in Las Vegas,” Andrews said. “The detectives left first, parked on a side street and waited. You left right after them. I knew you would be heading south, either to Barstow, San Bernardino, or the Los Angeles area. I had plenty of time to catch up, so I kept surveillance on the cowboy. He was the wild card. I waited while he limped over to his trailer. He came out fuming with some documents in one hand and a pistol in the other. He got in his pickup and started for the highway. The cowboy must of spotted you at the convenience market, because he pulled over and waited while you used the phone. He pulled over right in front of the Detectives.”

  “So what?”

  “From there the detectives followed the cowboy, who was following you. They made their big mistake when they lost track of both of you only a few blocks from this apartment. They drove around in circles for a half an hour, and finally picked up the cowboy again, who was parked across the street from this residence. When your cowboy friend pulled around to alley, Sanchez dropped Zico off out front and followed the pickup. That’s when the shot went off. Zico should have stayed out front. If he had, they’d have you and the girl. He blew his responsibility, and she got away.”

  “Harper’s gone?”

  “So she was here,” he said.

  “You didn’t know.”

  “I wasn’t sure.”

  “You’re sneaky.”

  “I’m an FBI Agent.”

  Vince said, “Same thing.”

  Andrews blew off my cousin. He came over to me, put his hand on my shoulder, and looked into my eyes, like he liked me, but was getting tired of my bullshit. “I’m going to give you one last chance Duff. You need to cooperate with me now—before it’s too late. Everyone’s closing in on you, the next time we’ll get you, and the girl, and the money. That’s three strikes and you’re out. Your brother committed a crime, and your going to pay the penalty.”

  “Loyalty is double-edged sword,” I said. “It cuts both ways. Sometimes it cuts deep.”

  He shook my hand and said, “The next time we meet I’m going to arrest you. And I’ll be instrumental in sending you to prison for a very long time. I’m not happy about it, but I’m going to do it. It’s my job.”

  “Can I borrow a pen?”

  That pissed him off. “Didn’t you hear a word I said? You’d better start listening to me young man. You’d be smart to take my advice.”

  “I don’t want advice; I just want a pen.”

  He took a ballpoint pen out of his shirt pocket and handed it to me. “Keep it.” He looked genuinely disappointed, liked he really expected me to turn on my brother. He got this disgusted look on his face and walked away.

  Steve Reno stood up. “Where the fuck is my old lady.”

  Vince punched him in the solar plexus, and Reno’s butt hit the tailgate. He teetered back and in agony, gasping for air.

  I picked up the scattered divorce papers and put them in order. I jumped over the wall and stuck the pen and papers in Reno’s face.

  “Sign them,” I said. “Or I’ll have Vince break your arm.”