by Lee Bellamy
"Are you kidding?" He threw back his head and burst into laughter. "Someday I'll tell you the story of my life."
"Do it now," I said impetuously. I was really curious about Perez, not that I'd let him know I was anything more than faintly interested. "Give me the condensed version."
"I'm overwhelmed at your interest," he responded wryly. "Condensed, huh? I was born in Nuevo Laredo. That, for your information, white girl, is a little town in Mexico. Life isn't easy in Nuevo Laredo. When I was fifteen, my older brother Juan and I decided to—ummm, let's say, relocate to the States. We walked the scenic route—three hundred miles of thirst, hunger, heat, rattlesnakes and the Border Patrol. When we reached the Rio Grande, we swam across, only—" he stopped for a fraction of a second, a muscle quivering in his jaw "—only the water was high that day, and Juan was not a swimmer. My brother drowned."
I opened my mouth to say how sorry I was, but Perez swiftly raised his hand. "Don't say it. It was a long time ago. Anyway, my family's here now, my dad, brothers and sisters and I. I'm not illegal anymore, in case you're wondering."
"I wasn't. But after you crossed the river—?"
"I came to California to work the crops. Picked in the fields for a couple of years. My first real job was in a slaughterhouse in Livingston, don't ask me for details. My second job was slinging crates in a packing shed near Merced. Then I got some education, started working for a detective agency, and I've been doing it ever since. So in answer to your question, no, you don't scare me. Nothing scares me."
He left a lot unsaid. I was still curious, but I knew when to switch tracks. "How did you ever get hooked up with Barnicut?"
"He was a cop. I was a P.I. We've known each other a long time." He shrugged dismissively.
"He's...strange." I picked the word carefully.
"Barnicut's a prick." Perez smiled disarmingly. "But an up-front prick. He's so bad there's a negative kind of charm about him, maybe because he knows how obnoxious he is and he doesn't care. I suspect he works at it. It's refreshing in a way. You always know where you stand with Barnicut because you know he doesn't like you. He doesn't like anybody. He's brilliant, though. We get along fine. Just every now and then I make a point to let him know he can't fuck with me."
"How subtly put."
"You want finesse? You've got the wrong guy."
Well, that was for sure, I thought, reviewing what little I knew about Guillermo Rivera Perez. Shrewd, yes; trigger-fast mind, obviously; and he was oddly appealing with his humor and charming smile. And yet that uncompromising toughness of his kept surfacing, despite his easy style. There was a stubbornness about him, mixed with a reckless, I-don't-give-a-shit attitude, as if he'd gone through his share of rough times, and nothing could get through to him now.
"Got any kids?" he asked.
I described Ashley, brightening as I talked. "She's all excited. Tomorrow I'm going to take her to the zoo." Perez listened intently. I didn't want to be a bore, though, rattling on too long about my kid. "So tell me about the porn king. What's he like?"
He broke into his crooked little grin. "You'll recognize Milo right away. He's shifty-eyed and leers a lot. When he sees a pretty girl—the younger the better, naturally—he breaks into a lecherous smirk." Perez pointed to the corner of his mouth. "Then this little trickle of drool starts from here and runs down his chin."
"What? No fangs?"
"No fangs—" He broke off suddenly, looking towards the door and waving. "Milo! Over here!"
With more than mild curiosity, I turned for my first glimpse of the porn king of the San Joaquin Valley. He wasn't what I expected. Not that I thought drool would be dripping from his chin, but he really surprised me. Headed for our table was a tall, well-built man of about fifty, gray at the temples, with friendly brown eyes. He was impeccably dressed in a well-cut three-piece gray suit, looking more like a distinguished lawyer than a sleazy seller of porn. Perez rose to shake his hand. "Holly, meet Milo Archibald. Milo, this is Holly Keene, a private investigator. She's working for Barnicut & Perez."
Pretty smooth introduction, I thought, for a man who swam the Rio Grande and got his start in a slaughterhouse. I reached out my hand. "Hello, Mister Archibald. Thanks for meeting me."
Shaking my hand with a firm grip, he told me to call him Milo. He sat down and ordered a cup of coffee. We chit-chatted. I found him witty. I also found myself revamping any left-over Old Fig notions I might have about pornography. "Women are turned on by words, men by pictures," Milo remarked. Wasn't that the truth, though! "A man will devour the center-fold in Playboy, but as for a woman—give her a steamy romance novel any time." Exactly right.
Finally I asked, "Tell me truthfully, Milo, there isn't such a thing as a snuff movie, is there?" I took a sip of my Black Oak porter, sat back and waited for the porn king himself to confirm my belief that snuff movies didn't really exist.
A shadow fell across Milo's face. He fingered his coffee cup thoughtfully. "There's a sick world out there. The mere idea that a life could be sacrificed for the sake of a movie is so shocking it may appear to border on fantasy. But it's true. I've seen them, though I've never allowed them in my stores. Snuff movies do exist."
"That's so hard to believe."
"I know. It's mostly foreign children they kill. In this country we value life highly, but a child from Mexico, or Central or South America, who fits the specific requests of a wealthy pedophile, can be packaged...delivered...sold deep within this country in no time."
"In America? Land of the free? That's incredible."
"Yep, right here in the good old U.S.A. Sometimes they're passed around from pederast to pederast. If they're lucky, they're eventually discarded and sent back home. But sometimes the child falls into the hands of a sadist, and then his fate—or her fate—is pretty bad. These sadists get their kicks through torture and infliction of pain, or—the ultimate thrill—murder. Sometimes the results are filmed...or taped now, and there's your snuff movie, worth a fortune when it's shown around to the rest of the sickos. Then afterwards...well, you can see that a poor Mexican youngster with no ties is easier to dispose of than an American child."
I thought of Ashley, so sweet, so innocent. "But it's so sick. How could anybody get away with such a horrible crime?"
"Easy. An American youngster has a school record and a family. But if a child has been taken off the streets of Guadalajara or Acapulco, who's to care? Even if they've got parents—there are thousands of these nameless, faceless children whose parents have been told the child is going for adoption. The parents agree because they want their child to have a better life than they had. So here's this guy in a shiny new Cadillac who looks nice. He gives them some money. They never hear from their child again."
"But in the movie I'm checking on, it's not a child who's killed, it's a young woman."
"Sure, that happens too. Prostitutes, runaways, druggies, same thing. Society's throw-aways."
Perez asked, "Where do they make these things?"
"Mexico...South America...anywhere, including right here in the San Joaquin Valley. I've never seen Virgin in the Pines, but I've heard of it. Taped near Huntington Lake they say."
So it was real, not Rudy Rio's imagination. I took a healthy slug of my porter. "Where can I get a copy?"
"I don't know." With undeniable candor Milo continued, "Sorry, Holly, I can't help you there."
I managed a feeble smile. "Guess I can't put it on my Netflix queue."
He chuckled politely. "No you can't." He checked his watch and took a final swallow of his coffee. "Anything else? I've got to run."
After he left, I sat silent for a moment, absorbing Milo's grisly discourse amidst the sound of tinkling glasses, the chatty murmur of the after-work crowd.
Perez broke the silence. "So where do you go from here?"
"I'm stuck. If the Porn King of The San Joaquin Valley can't get his hands on Virgin in the Pines, how can I? Without it, what can I prove?"
"Hey! You've
only just begun." Perez reached across the table and laid his long, strong fingers lightly on my arm. "Don't be discouraged. You've got people to interview, haven't you?" Quickly, he withdrew his hand, as if it had acted without his own knowledge or consent.
I sat up straight and nodded briskly. "I'm not at a dead end. I can talk to her friends, Gussie Kerkorian and Joy Daniel. Oh yes, and that reminds me..." I slipped my cell out of my purse. "I was supposed to call Velia Champion and get Joy's address."
I went outside where it was quiet, found the Champions' number and dialed. Velia's hello sounded strange.
"Hi, Mrs. Champion, this is Holly Keene."
"Holly?" A vagueness filled her voice, as if she was distracted and couldn't place my name. "Holly, of course, I'm sorry. It's just..."
"Velia, what's wrong?"
"Mother Champion passed away last night."
My heart sunk. "Nevada?"
"Yes."
"I'm so sorry. I only met her once, but I liked her very much."
"She died in her sleep. We're all stunned."
What else to say? "You must be shocked," I managed. "Maybe she was ninety, but she seemed so spry...so healthy."
"But she wasn't, you know. She was blind and deaf and senile. The doctor said natural causes. I feel so sad, but God knew it was time. He called her home."
God could have held off a little longer, ninety or no, I thought, but no point in saying that. "Is there anything I can do?"
"No, not really. Oh, you wanted Joy's address and phone number, didn't you? I found them. Hang on."
When she came back on the line, she gave me Joy's new address and number, and I jotted them down. "Thanks," I told her, "and about Nevada...again, I'm terribly sorry."
"Thanks," she said with an audible sigh. "There's only one good thing about Mother Champion's passing."
"What's that?"
"Jay is on his way home. He got an emergency leave to attend his mother's funeral."
Again I struggled for words. "I'm sure you'll be awfully glad to see him, despite the sad occasion."
"Oh, yes!" Velia's voice suddenly came to life. "My darling's coming home, if only for a little while."
"Maybe I'll get the chance to meet him while he's here. I'd like to ask him about Crystal."
"Jay arrives tomorrow. The services will be held on Tuesday. I don't suppose you'd want to, but—"
"I'll come to the funeral."
"Oh, could you?" She sounded pleased. "I would love for you to meet Jay."
"What time?"
"Two o'clock. It's going to be a graveside service at the Clovis Cemetery."
"I'll try to be there." Only death or a deep coma could keep me away.
When I pressed the end button, a cloud of gloom descended upon me. She had a lot of spirit, that old lady. She wanted to live to a hundred and see men on Mars, only now she wouldn't, and it wasn't fair. Death was not fair.
Back at the table, I told Perez. "She was frail, but she was still enjoying her life."
"She was ninety," Perez responded, not unsympathetically, "and when you're ninety—"
"You can go any time," I finished, getting even gloomier.
Perez regarded me critically. "Hey, lighten up. You can't take every case personally. You're beautiful, Holly, but not when you frown."
"That's a sexist remark." I sounded sullen. I didn't care.
"What is? That I called you beautiful? Oh, shit!" Perez burst into laughter again. Just wonderful, how I always seemed to amuse him. "If it's sexist to admire a pretty girl, then I'm fucking well guilty."
The man could be really annoying, deliberately, it seemed to me. I was in no mood for his sewer mouth and male chauvinist behavior. "I'm not a girl, I'm a woman. Also, I don't like hearing that word."
He raised his eyebrows at me. "Oh? The Fig Garden princess is offended?"
"I've heard the word before. It's just not..."
"Suave? Is that what you're trying to say? You want suave, no problem. I can fucking well give you suave."
He had crossed the line. I swept my purse from the table and stood up. Rigidly calm, I told him, "You're baiting me. I don't like it and I don't think you're funny. Take me home. If you don't care to, I'll call a taxi."
"I'll take you home, M.T." If he was sorry, he didn't look it.
Outside the restaurant, we climbed back on the Harley. It was dark and the fog was rolling in again—suitable for my foul mood. Perez took off down Moroa like an escaping bandit. Sheer fear made me keep my eyes squeezed shut most of the way. I almost forgot what I was mad about. He wasn't going to know it though.
My knees were freezing cold by the time he let me off in front of Mother's. I said an ultra-polite, "Good night," adding archly, "it's been fun, Charlie." I waited for him to eff off again.
He sat there solemn faced, shaking his head. "You're a pain in the butt, Keene. I've never—" He stopped abruptly.
"You've never what?"
"Nothing. Call me if you need me."
"I won't."
"Oh, yes you will," he told me and roared away.
Good riddance to him. Forget him. I went inside, telling myself I should spend my time on more important things, like Nevada's death which had put me in a rotten mood, let alone Milo's confirmation that snuff movies do exist—that he'd actually heard of the obscenity called Virgin in the Pines.
This case was sick. Why was I involved in such perversion? Snuff movies—my God! And why was I getting involved with a man who used offensive language? And I was getting involved, I knew that, because I kept thinking about the warm feeling I got when I pressed against him on the motorcycle.
I was tempted to tell Barnicut to go find Crystal himself. And keep the fifty thousand himself. Maybe I should quit B & P. Then I would never have to lay eyes on Perez again, which would be none too soon.
Chapter 8
After a nice Sunday morning breakfast with Mother and Ashley, I got out my laptop and set it up in the den. I hadn't checked my bank account in ages. Normally I checked every day, but these were not normal times. I entered my user name and password, then sat stunned at what appeared on the screen. My checking account with the United Bank of San Fernando Valley was overdrawn! I gasped a horrified, "Oh, no!"
Mother came rushing from the kitchen, eyes wide. "Holly, who died?"
"My Visa and MasterCard checks both bounced." I showed her the screen. "My God, look at those overdraft charges!"
"Didn't you have enough money in your account?"
The truth dawned. My financial settlement with Tom was done, except for one five-thousand dollar CD that had come due in January. He was supposed to cash it and deposit the money to my account. Fool that I was, I assumed he had. "Tom didn't deposit the money. That bastard!"
I rushed to the phone and dialed the number of the dumpy little apartment in Reseda where Tom had moved. The phone rang and rang. My palm grew sweaty as I clutched the receiver, willing him to answer. At last a click and Tom's weak, slurry, "Hello?"
"Tom, where's my money?"
He jacked around for ten minutes with his stupid excuses. For the thousandth time I wondered how I could have married such a loser. Finally the truth. Vegas again. One of his buddies gave him this great, can't-lose blackjack system, so instead of depositing the CD...
He planned to put it back, of course. More, in fact, from all that money he was going to win.
The money I'd counted on was gone—tossed across a Las Vegas Blackjack table. I tried to control myself—about as possible as staying calm in the middle of a six-point-zero earthquake. I was about to lose my credit rating. Collection agencies would soon be pounding at my door. No, correction, Mother's door.
Tom could provide no solutions. All he could do was whine. Men. How could I ever trust one again?
Mother got her licks in after I hung up. "Why on earth didn't you cash that CD yourself, Holly? Good grief! You knew you couldn't trust the man."
I could hardly focus on an answer. "You're rig
ht, I should have, but I was so busy—moving out of the house, getting Ashley and me to Fresno...and he promised. I never thought he would sink this low."
"Ah, well, sweetheart, don't feel bad. It's always easy to look back and see what you should have done."
Miracle. Mother actually backed down and acted sympathetic. She's not the kissie-huggie type at all, but she surprised me with a big, warm hug. "I know you're in debt," she said. "What I could do is get a second mortgage on this house. You could have the money."
I was so surprised—and so touched—I didn't know what to say. I wanted to shout no, but that would hurt her feelings. I couldn't accept her offer, though. It wouldn't be fair to her. And if I did accept, there would go the tattered remains of my self-esteem.
"We'll see," I said. "Maybe in a few days I'll have some money coming in."
Oh, sure. All I had to do was find a copy of Virgin in the Pines, track down who made it and who killed her. I would also need to discover where and how they disposed of poor Crystal's body, and the fifty thousand—correction, twenty-five thousand—would be mine.
Was it only yesterday I was thinking of giving up the case? Not anymore. I had to try.
I went out to the garage, wheeled out the old power mower, and mowed the shaggy winter lawn, not caring if my rows weren’t even, tooling around like a maniac, as if I had a vendetta against all tall grass. Mother appeared once at the window. I waved blithely. She looked relieved, like, well, she's out there mowing the lawn so she must be okay now. I wasn't. When I finished tossing the plastic bag of clippings into the dumpster, I didn't feel much better than before. But at least, for a little while, I'd got my mind off the bills.
Early Sunday afternoon, Mother took off for a bridge tournament in Sacramento. I called both Gussie Kerkorian and Joy Daniel, but neither was home. To heck with it, I decided. I'd promised Ashley, it was time to take her to the zoo.
They say Fresno's Chaffee Zoological Gardens is the best small city zoo in the country, but even so, most Fresnans won't go in the wintertime. We didn't care. Ashley, dressed warmly against the nippy day, adored the animals. We ooed and awed our way past the hippo—the monkeys—the adorable tiger cubs. We wandered through the tropical rain forest and the computerized snake house. A few young couples and their children had braved the winter crispness—happy families having fun.