Cyclone Rumble

by J.P. Voss

  19

  Every cop in Long Beach had converged on the Pike. Harper and me booked it for the exit, avoiding the police by zigzagging between rides along the Midway. We found Vince lying across the back seat of the Riviera.

  I drove. The ride to the hospital was quiet. Harper and me held hands. Vince sucked on a joint.

  Out of the blue, I turned to Harper and said, “I love you Harper.”

  “I love you too Duffy,” she replied, squeezing my hand gently. “You’re the little brother I never had.”

  I didn’t say anything after that. Neither did she. There wasn’t much else to say. I held her hand for a little while longer, so it didn’t look like my feelings were hurt. Then I let her slip from my grasp and drove with both hands on the wheel.

  At Long Beach Memorial, Harper got three stitches. Vince refused treatment, set his own broken nose, and cleaned up in the Hospital restroom. When the nurse asked if I needed to see a doctor, I tried to convince her I was going to be okay. From the look on her face, I don’t think she believed me.

  The three of us crashed at my place in San Pedro. Harper slept in Morgan’s room, Vince slept in mine, and I nodded out on two beanbag chairs in the living room. When I woke up, nobody else was awake, so I went down and picked up some donuts. After I got back, I sat in the living room eating a chocolate éclair, washing it down with a Yoohoo Soda, while reading the L.A. Times.

  The papers main feature story was—Shootout at the Long Beach Pike. I guessed Zico was sleeping it off somewhere, because the cover photo showed Detective Sanchez standing alone in front of the Cyclone Racer, with the L.A. coroners in the background carrying a gurney loaded with an overstuffed body bag. In a long narrow column next to the main feature, there was an article praising Law Enforcement Cooperation. The reporter gave kudos to the undisclosed Federal Agent who was instrumental in apprehending the suspected robber. The writer made certain the reading public knew the FBI Agent was a hero, emphasizing how the agent risked his life along with the brave detectives from San Bernardino.

  After I finished my second éclair, Vince woke up and drifted into the living room. I handed him his favorite breakfast, a can of Dr. Pepper and a maple bar. He sat down on the aluminum lawn chair next to me, and started stuffing the doughnut in his mouth. He breathed a little funny, but he seemed in good spirits, and he had a healthy appetite. He drained the DP and ripped an ear-popping burp.

  I heard the back-bedroom door open, and Harper shuffled in rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Wearing a pair of my brother’s floppy wool socks, polka dot boxer shorts with the waistband knotted, and a military dress shirt tied loosely at the midriff, she looked fantastic.

  “Good morning,” I said. “How’s your finger?”

  Harper examined the bandages, wiggled her finger, then looked at me and smiled, “It’s doing pretty good—considering where it’s been. How are you two this morning?”

  “It’s three o’clock,” I said, handing her a paper bag containing an old-fashioned buttermilk donut and a small carton of milk. “I didn’t know what to get you. I hope this works.”

  “It’s perfect.” Harper sat on a beanbag chair, crossing her legs in a lady-like Lotus Position. She fumbled with the milk carton and said, “I can’t believe I slept so long.”

  I jumped over Vince and opened the paper container for her.

  “Thanks Duffy. You’re a sweetheart.” She patted her good hand on the beanbag chair next to her. “Sit down, and tell me your plan.”

  I plopped in the beanbag. Then reached over and broke off a piece of Harper’s doughnut. “I got the idea from a TV show. This guy went around recovering stolen stuff, and the insurance company paid him a ten percent recovery fee. I know this is pushing my luck, but I want a reward for finding the money.”

  “I’ll call my stepfather. I’m sure he can arrange everything. You know he’s a very influential man in the insurance business.” She kissed me on the cheek. “I think you’ve earned a ten-percent reward. The timing couldn’t be better. The money will pay for your college education.”

  “It’s not for me. I want Lawson to get the reward.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “It’s the only way Harper. We’ve gotta pay him off. If we give back the money, and Lawson doesn’t get anything out of the deal, he’s going to come after Morgan and me, maybe you too. I don’t want to wake up some night with a Serpent wrapped around my neck.”

  “If it’ll make you sleep better, I’ll agree to it, but I think it’s a shame. That money should be yours. You deserve it.”

  “All I want is a fresh start.”

  Harper lifted her milk carton and gave a toast. “Here’s to fresh starts.”

  I went over and lifted the L.A. Times classifieds off the dinning room card table, picked up the divorce papers, and handed the paperwork to Harper. When she saw Steve Reno’s signature at the bottom of the last page, a teardrop squeezed from the corner of her eye. Without taking a breath, she sat perfectly still while the droplet zigzagged down her cheek and fell off her chin. Then she started crying and disappeared into Morgan’s bedroom.

  Vince and me laid around watching an old horror film marathon on Channel 9. Vince went out around seven and got three burger combos. We finished our meals and split Harper’s. When Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein came on the TV, I took a nap. I woke up at 9:30. Around 10:00, I heard the backdoor open, and Harper came through the kitchen into the living room. She looked reborn, like an angel whose prayers had been answered.

  “I’ve got good news,” she said.

  “Where did you go?”

  “When I woke up, you two were snoring away, so I walked down to a payphone and called my stepfather in Dallas. Everything has been arranged.” She handed me a scrap of paper with her step dad’s name and phone number on it. “Give this to Lawson. All he has to do is call. Once they have the money, the responsible party will send him a cashier’s check for the amount.”

  “How much is it?” I asked.

  “According to my stepfather, who knew about the robbery, ten-percent should be between twenty-five and thirty thousand dollars.”

  “Didn’t he ask how you knew about the money?”

  “My stepfather Steven Bradley is a very shrewd man. He’s knows better than to ask too many questions. He won’t lie, but he’s not above avoiding the truth. He didn’t ask, so I didn’t tell. All I said to Steve was—if someone had information leading to the recovery of the stolen money, would he or she be entitled to a reward. He said yes—up to ten percent.” Harper relaxed on the beanbag with her arms folded behind her head. “I told Steve that I might know somebody, who might know somebody, who might know where the money is. He told me to have that person call him, and he would arrange everything.”

  We finished watching Blood of the Vampire, then the eleven o’clock news. After that, we split for downtown.

  The Pantry Restaurant at 9th and Figueroa had been a Los Angeles staple since before I could remember. The world changed around it, but the Pantry stayed the same. The décor was Depression Era, and the menu was nailed to the wall. They made the best sourdough toast I’d ever had, and the hash browns made me want to cry. A midnight breakfast was a thing of beauty.

  We grabbed a table in the back. Vince and me scarfed while Harper nibble on a piece of toast. Lawson approached and Vince didn’t look too happy.

  Lawson said, “You got a problem with the Serpents.”

  “I got a problem with the guy who broke my nose.”

  “He’s the guy they shot,” I said. “He’s dead.”

  “Problem solved,” Vince replied.

  Lawson took a seat facing the door at an empty table next to us and waved off the waiter. Sanchez and Zico came in like they didn’t want to be seen and took the chairs opposite Lawson, sitting with their backs to the restaurant. Nobody said a word, so I asked the waiter for more coffee. I put some jam on another piece of toast and took a big bite. Agent Andrews came walking in with my b
rother, and I choked down my toast with a hot gulp of java. I jumped up and met Morgan in the middle of the restaurant. We hugged. It felt kind of strange. We’d never hugged. Then again, I’d never been so glad to see him. I broke the embrace and walked back to the table. My brother followed.

  Lawson got up, wrapped his arms around Morgan and slapped him on the back. My brother kept his eyes on Harper.

  “Why is she here?” Morgan asked. “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s because you’re not too bright. Follow me.”

  I led the way into a back office. Everyone followed. Vince knew the night manager at the Pantry, and he agreed to let us use a small office in the back. I took the managers seat behind the desk. Vince sat behind me on a three-drawer file. Harper sat on the desk. Looking at Morgan, she looked pissed. Morgan didn’t look like he knew what to do. I asked him to come around behind the desk. Sanchez and Zico sat in two chairs across from me, and Agent Andrews stood behind them. Lawson leaned against the wall.

  “Sanchez and Zico,” I said. “You first. You need to close your case. In order to close your case—you need two things. You need the perpetrator, and you need to recover the stolen cash.” I looked around. “Everyone likes T-bone for robbery?”

  The detectives nodded yes. Agent Andrews shrugged.

  “Then all you need is the money—right?”

  “That’s it,” Zico said. “The money makes us all friends.”

  I showed the detectives the slip of paper Harper had given me earlier. “Write down this name and number. Call this man first thing in the morning. He’s a big shot executive in the insurance business. He’ll handle the money exchange. Tell him you have an informant who knows where the money is, and that the informant will call him in a few hours. He’ll make sure you get credit for the recovery. I’ll take care of the rest. The money will be back were it belongs before noon tomorrow.”

  “I’ve got a better idea—you little pissant? How about I bust you right now.”

  “Don’t be stupid Zico. You bust me, and you might as well call the L.A. Times. That’s what I’ll do. Then we’ll all spend the next six months calling each other names in the newspaper. We can’t prove you were drunk last night when you shot T-bone, and you can’t prove any of us had anything to do with the Robbery. Why make waves. In the end, all you’ll do is hurt Sanchez’s career. Right now—he’s a big hero with his face plastered on the front page of the L.A. Times.”

  Sanchez stood up. “Let’s go.”