by Neil Russell
Big Jim looked at the ensign. “If it comes to it, I’ll do everything I can for the girl. Including take her to Hong Kong, which is unlikely to do either of us much good. The Japanese medical team ... well, they can pray to their emperor.”
Fabian knelt by the bed. He carefully examined the infants, touching them lightly, feeling their tiny pulses. All LAPD recruits received instruction in emergency childbirth and common irregularities. But he didn’t need special training to diagnose this. The babies were premature, their lungs underdeveloped and filled with fluid. Without immediate, specialized care, they would soon join their brother. In fact, any breath could be their last. The mother knew it too, and her face was heavy with fear.
Fabian brushed the woman’s hair from her brow, and she managed a weak smile. He stood. “Okay, Reverend, we’re here. What’s the favor?”
* * * *
12
Purple Dogs and High School Reunions
It was getting too late to drive out to the Brandos’. I decided to pass on another night in Victorville, where I didn’t know who might be watching, and headed back south on the 15. Three miles outside of Apple Valley, I dropped my speed to fifty, which on that road is the equivalent of being parked, and everything in my rearview mirror passed me, some shooting me the traditional California hello. As far as I could tell, nobody hung back, but just to belt-and-suspender it, as soon as I exited, I pulled onto the shoulder. The few cars that got off in the next few minutes all went by without a look.
The Purple Dog Motel was appropriately nondescript and, from what I could tell, minus dogs of any flavor. When I paid cash and wrote Donnie Two Knives in the register, the nearly comatose clerk didn’t look. As I parked in front of Room 146 and opened the door to the worn but reasonably clean unit, the chance that SAC Huston might someday come across the registration lifted my spirits.
I hadn’t heard from Jake, and my call to him went straight to voice mail. So I wandered into the bathroom, killed two good-sized spiders, rinsed some black hairs out of the sink and brushed my teeth. Then I cranked up the air-conditioning and lay back on the bed with my cell phone. The Verizon 411 operator efficiently connected me to the LA outpost of the FBI.
“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have an Agent Huston in this office. The Agent in Charge is Ronald Hyatt. Would you like to speak with his secretary?”
“No thanks,” I said lightly. “It’s not business. Francesca and I went to high school together, and I was just calling to tell her about the reunion. Somebody said she was working out of Los Angeles now, but maybe they got it confused with Las Vegas. Do you have their number?”
It turned out SAC Huston didn’t work in Vegas either, but the polite young man on the phone said she’d been there a week earlier. “If any calls come in for her, we’re supposed to forward them to Washington. May I have your name and number please?”
Washington. That’s why she’d been alone at the crime scene. She jumped a flight, and the rest of the team had to catch up. “Sorry to miss her,” I said. “She still as warm and cuddly as ever?”
There was silence on the other end.
“I’m kidding,” I said. “We used to call her Luca Brasi. It takes more than a circus to put a smile on that face.”
The kid lowered his voice. “Jesus, mister, I could get in trouble for saying this cause everything’s recorded, but I didn’t think she could smile. The whole staff cheered when she left. Some of the agents too.”
Miss Huston was truly an asshole with a propeller, leaving a little shit wherever she went. “I’ll catch up with her another time,” I said, and hung up.
The best time to get something done on the phone is after midnight. Overnight shifts in any business are notoriously bored, tired or busy faxing out their resumes. It was almost eight in California—eleven in the East—but I wanted to make my next call when body clocks are at their most vulnerable.
Doctors term 4:00 a.m. the death hour. No matter how used to being awake we are, in the sixty minutes between four and five, something deep in our primeval being slows the autonomic nervous system to a crawl. It’s when hospital patients flatline, and the elderly drift away. At four, flight attendants are trained to take hot coffee to pilots and strike up a conversation. Military commanders recheck their sentries. The death hour is also when a cop might hesitate over a decision that would be instantaneous two hours earlier, and when a long-haul trucker is most likely to find himself straddling eighty thousand pounds of steel, sound asleep.
I found a restaurant with a parking lot full of gardening and construction trucks and ranchera music drifting outside. Rosario’s turned out to be owned by a handsome Guatemalan lady who supplemented traditional Mexican dishes with Paella Marinera and Chicken Pepian. When I spoke Spanish to her, she immediately treated me like a celebrity and brought so much food I started sharing it with other diners. Eventually, we had all the tables in the place pushed together, and the band cranked it up several notches.
I’ve got nothing but respect for law-abiding people who risk death seeking a better life. Not so the illegal immigration hustlers who care about nothing but a quick buck and accumulating power. Add to that the disorder and mixed messages fomented by the country’s elected officials, and you have a reprehensible brew of anger and tears. But at some point, if one wants to continue to have an America, there has to be a moderating, universally enforced policy, and the first president to articulate one and not crawl under his desk when somebody loud or rich disagrees will get enough support on both sides to make it stick. For a start, I suggest he or she invite Rosario to the White House to cook. It’ll get things off on the right foot.
Way too many Pacificos later—and having humiliated myself singing—I managed to break away from my forty newfound friends and head back to the Purple Dog. It was a good bet I had no business driving, but fortunately I limped home without attracting attention, though it did take a while to fumble my key into the door. It was almost 11:00. I set the alarm for 12:30 and fell asleep with Steve McQueen and Ali MacGraw ducking shotgun blasts in the background.
At 1:15, freshly showered and with a cup of horrendous, in-room coffee, I put Verizon back to work and was quickly connected to FBI Headquarters in Washington. Two internal transfers later, I found myself talking to a young lady who sounded like she was in line for a root canal.
“Department 11,” she mumbled. “Ms. Luchinski.”
So far, no one had called me on the high school reunion story, so I stuck with it. When I finished my spiel, there was silence on the other end. Then Ms. Luchinski burst out laughing. “You want Agent Huston to come to a party? What the hell are you? Nuts? God, I can’t wait to tell the rest of the office. Nobody’s gonna believe me.”
“Well, I haven’t seen her in a while. Does she still go by Fantasy Fran?”
The girl laughed again, this time uproariously. “Oh my, God. Fantasy Fran. This is too much. Somebody said she used to be married, but we’ve got a pool going that nobody’s ever seen that promised land ... the money doubles if you can prove it’s not platinum. Believe me, you don’t want her at your reunion. Take my advice, and forget you called. Enjoy yourselves.”
I got conversational. “How’s the weather in D.C.?”
“Rained all week. Where are you?”
“Juneau. And it’s raining here too.”
“Where’s Juneau?”
“Alaska.”
“Huston’s from Alaska?”
It could have been a trap question, but I was betting the graveyard shift didn’t have access to a SAC’s personnel file. And it didn’t sound like Fran-baby did much sharing with the girls in the office.”
“Yep, good old Central High. Want me to sing the alma mater?”
“You sound like fun. What’s your name?”
I decided to amuse myself. “Curtis.”
“We got an agent named Curtis. Pete. I hope you’re not related. He’s creepy.”
“Might be an unhappy cross-dresser. Get somebod
y to check for panties.”
She laughed again. “Boy, are you a welcome break.”
“My friends call me Hank.”
“Hi, Hank. I’m Roxy. Never been to Alaska. Anywhere really. Except Sarasota once. Almost died from old people smell. What time is it out there?”
“Late. Just got into port. I own a crab boat.”
“Wow! Like those guys on Discovery?”
“Just like that.”
I think she swooned over the phone. “You guys are so macho. You ever take people on rides?”
‘Pretty girls, all the time. You qualify?”
I could hear the smile three thousand miles away. “I don’t think I’d disappoint.”
“Next time you’re in town, come on over. Put you right up in the wheelhouse. Let you steer. Hey, what’s Department 11 anyway? Sounds important.”
“I don’t actually know. I asked once but just got a shitty look.” Roxy had lowered her voice, which wouldn’t have made any difference to the recording system. I couldn’t believe she hadn’t been told all calls to the FBI are monitored, but it only takes about an hour for new employees to figure out no one checks tapes unless there’s a problem, so that wasn’t the reason. I guessed there were other ears nearby.
“Nosy neighbors?”
“Jesus, you can say that again. There’s an old broad across the way that might as well put out a newsletter.”
“We get a guy like that, we throw him overboard. You were telling me about Department 11.”
“All I know is everybody’s always closing their doors when they talk—and they travel a lot. I’ve only been here since Christmas. I wanted to work at the Pentagon. That’s where the real men are. Maybe meet a naval aviator like in Officer and a Gentleman. Rest of this town is full of Ivy League dorks who took their moms to the prom.”
“Who calls there?”
“Mostly people from other FBI offices. But it’s weird. We don’t get any mail, and there’s no Internet. Just some internal system where you can’t even play solitaire. Most of the girls read books or do crosswords, but that gets really old, really fast. If I didn’t have a car payment, I’d be outta here.”
Suddenly, there was a loud thump against the wall of my room that rattled the mirror over the TV. “What was that?” Roxy asked.
“Couple of my guys are having a disagreement. Happens sometimes after we’ve been at sea a while.”
Then a woman screamed, and there was more banging.
“That didn’t sound like guys,” she said.
“There’s a girlfriend involved. I need to call you back. You have a direct line?”
“No, tell the switchboard you want Ext. 664. The Hot Code tonight is Gemstone. It’s the only way you can get to a specific phone in this office.”
This was why I made calls at four in the morning. In five minutes, I had a friend inside Department 11 and had learned it was code protected. Whatever Huston was in charge of, it wasn’t the Ten Most Wanted List.
“And Hank, we’re not supposed to take personal calls, so if somebody else answers, hang up, okay?”
Something shattered against the wall next door.
“Wow, they’re really going at it,” Roxy said. “Good luck. I get off at six.”
I hung up and picked up the room phone. No one answered at the front desk. Then next door, a woman began begging for her life.
* * * *
I went through the cheap door with my shoulder, hit the floor and rolled. I’d assumed the Gestapo insignia on the over-chromed Harley Rocker parked next to my pickup would be consistent with owner’s rank in the human race. I was wrong. The guy was big but looked more like Saturday night in Newport Beach than a one-percenter in search of a bar fight. Sandy-haired, clean-cut and with no visible tattoos, his designer jeans and the soft, black leather vest over his shirtless torso said Nordstrom not outlaw. However, the girl he was pounding on probably wasn’t making those kind of distinctions.
She had a thick mane of long, curly raven black hair and a pair of unending athletic legs that jutted out of her cutoff jeans and left little to the imagination. She was cowering on the bed, trying to cover her face and head while Vest Boy whaled on her with a wide, leather belt. She alternately moaned and screamed, which should have had the place swarming with cops but didn’t. Her white blouse, its tails tied under her ample breasts, was torn, and her forearms sprayed red froth each time the strap hit them.
If the guy noticed my entrance, he didn’t care, because he never looked and kept swinging. I got my feet under me, pushed up and went into him. I wanted to take him square on, but he moved slightly, and I felt leather sting my cheek.
My momentum took me past him, and I grabbed his right arm and ducked under the belt’s tail as it came around. I fell on my left hip and rolled toward the bathroom, pulling his body across mine. The twin snaps of his radius and ulna followed by his elbow taking his full weight against the floor should have meant the fight was over, but as his face brushed mine, I smelled the unmistakable odor of acetone, which meant he’d either been gargling with fingernail polish remover or smoking meth.
Oblivious to pain, he pulled away from me and crawled into the bathroom, where he armed himself with the toilet tank cover. Bellowing like a rhino, he rushed me, holding the slab of porcelain like a battering ram. It would have crushed several ribs, minimum, but he bumped into the doorframe, and the slight course change gave me a chance to get heavy torque into a flat-handed chop across his windpipe. He went to his knees, clutching his throat with both hands. Picking up the tank cover, I brought it down on his head, shattering it. He slumped to the floor, out.
The girl was still on the bed, now in a fetal position, whimpering. I crossed the room and stepped outside. Except for the faint hum of traffic on the interstate, it was dead quiet. If anyone had heard the commotion, they were ignoring it.
I got the first-aid kit out of the Ram and examined the young lady’s wounds. Despite the blood, they weren’t serious, and a little gauze and tape took care of them. Her emotional state was another matter. Even though she was conscious, she’d gone limp. At first, I thought she might be in a meth crash, but her pupils were normal and her pulse only slightly elevated.
She wouldn’t or couldn’t answer even simple questions, so I picked her up and carried her to my room. The bed was turned down, and as I slipped her between the sheets, I saw her eyes flash. She relaxed when I pulled up the covers and stepped away.
I found the guy moaning softly, checked his pockets and came up with the Harley keys and a wallet. My guest was Byron Gilbert Frankel, age twenty-nine, six-three, 220, who lived on Skyline Terrace in Calabasas. An address among multimillion-dollar homes indicated he wasn’t a professional badass, and his Screen Actors Guild card cemented it. “Well, Byron,” I said. “What say we send you back to the Land of Milk and Pretend?”
I returned to my truck and found a roll of duct tape— probably the most useful tool ever invented—then started the Harley and rode it into the motel room, where I walked it back and forth until I got it between the foot of the bed and the dresser and pointed toward the door. Mr. Frankel’s eyes were open, but there was nobody home. I manipulated his broken arm until I awakened the right nerves, and he sat straight up, coughing. His sweat was cold, which probably meant he was in shock, and his jeans suddenly darkened as his bladder emptied.
I grabbed the belt he had been using on the girl and wrapped it tightly around his broken arm, securing it with tape. My makeshift cast wasn’t much aesthetically, and if it wasn’t removed soon, would cut off the circulation, but that wasn’t my problem. I helped Mr. Frankel to his feet and shouldered him to the Harley, warm piss running down his legs and onto the toes of a two-thousand-dollar pair of black and tan Luccheses.
It took a couple of tries to get him to straddle the Softail, but eventually he was aboard, and I could tape his legs to the frame and put a loop around each hand on the grips. I also gave the roll several winds around his thighs, anchori
ng him firmly to the seat. His head lolled a couple of times while I worked, but I squeezed his bad arm, and he came right back.
When I was sure he was secure, I hit the starter, and he did exactly what I’d hoped—woke up and gunned the throttle. The brain remembers repetitive functions with extreme clarity and can often go about its business even when its owner isn’t all there. That’s why, once you learn, you can always ride a two-wheeler. And why you can sometimes drive for miles and not recall anything about the trip.
Byron Frankel revved the Rocker a few more times, then popped the clutch and roared out of the room. I walked outside and watched him turn away from town toward the freeway. Eventually, the night air would penetrate his drug haze, and he’d realize that if he tried to stop, the bike was going down. Hopefully, while he was reasoning it out, the CHP would notice he wasn’t wearing a helmet and motion him over. Maybe even find his stash jammed somewhere in the expensive steel or tucked into the top of a boot. Too bad there wouldn’t be pictures.