by Lee Bellamy
"Sure, Rudy. So why did you run off today? I wasn't finished with you."
"Ah... I didn't have anything more to say, you know? So I left."
I crossed my ankles and took a sip of Bud. "You were telling me about a snuff movie. I wanted to hear the rest."
"Ah, you didn't believe that crap, did you? I was making it up."
"No you weren't. I want to hear more about that snuff movie." I held my breath. He could break down and tell me, or he could shut up tight.
He grinned again and shrugged—a shrug that said the world could self-destruct tomorrow and he wouldn't give a damn. "What do you want to know?"
He was going to talk. I kept my face straight while I quickly got my questions in line. "For openers, I'm wondering if you know anything else about Delphine. You said you didn't know her last name?
"Nope, just Delphine. I talked to her before they started filming. She said she'd been in a few porn movies, but nothing special, you know. She wasn't a big star like Sasha Grey or Jenna Jameson."
"Did you know anything else about her?"
"She worked in Vegas for a while, but I don't know what she was doing. Other than that, all I know is she came from Fresno."
"When was this snuff movie filmed? How long ago?"
"Hmmm..." He clutched his chin and gazed at the ceiling. "Jeeze. I can't remember exactly. Maybe five or six years ago, somewhere in there."
"So that would make it around 2005?"
"Whatever...yeah, I guess so. Maybe around April."
I went for the jackpot question next. "So who made the movie? And who was the masked man who killed her?"
He rolled his eyes and shifted uncomfortably. "I don't remember."
"Come on, Rudy."
"I don't remember," he repeated sullenly. His mouth snapped shut, and he shot me a look that said drunk or no, he wasn't going to tell me anything more.
I finished my beer. We talked of other things, mainly—as if I already hadn't heard—about the shrewd wit, fantastic generosity, and keen intelligence of his great and good friend, Jay Champion. They'd been friends for years and "worked in the same business down in L.A." Four years ago, when Rudy was down and out without a penny to his name, he'd come to Fresno. Jay gave him this trailer to live in and the night watchman job. "Just until I get on my feet, you understand. I'll be getting back into show biz pretty quick now."
Before I left, I dug one of my business cards out of my purse and scratched off my old home phone number. The cell number was still good, but not for long, I dismally reflected. No way could I make my next payment to T-Mobile. "Here's my name and cell number. If you remember anything else, give me a call."
Rudy took a key from a hook beside the door, walked me to a side gate and let me out. I got back to my car wondering what, if anything, I'd accomplished. I was almost sure Rudy was telling me the truth, but not positive. Could I go to the police with what I knew? Would anyone believe there was really a snuff movie called Virgin in the Pines?
They'd laugh their heads off.
I headed home.
***
Never do I get tired of driving through the beautiful streets of the Fig Gardens. Like wine, Old Fig gets better as the years pass by, with its magnificent eucalyptus trees and oleander bushes, lush flowers and foliage, and gems-of-architecture homes dubbed "Spanish Renaissance," or "Lombardic Influence," by the Fresno Historical Society, or "Classical Revival," or "Picturesque Tudor Cottage," and so on.
When I grew up, my father owned two successful hardware stores, so of course we lived in the Fig Gardens. In 1996 he died unexpectedly of a heart attack, leaving practically no insurance. Worse, he'd mortgaged the stores and was deep in debt. Mother lost the stores and had to go to work for the first time in her life. She took up real estate but never sold much, maybe because she couldn't bear to give up her afternoon bridge club. Thanks to Prop 13, though, her taxes stayed low, so she managed, just barely, to keep living in her Monterey Revival. In the heart of the Fig Gardens, it has four bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a football-field front yard that used to be tended weekly by a mob of little dark men who didn't speak English very well. Now my brother Dennis comes over and mows the lawn once in a while when he thinks of it.
It needs mowing now, I noticed as I turned into the circular driveway. Tomorrow I'd get out there and cut it myself. I parked beneath a weeping willow tree, and went inside.
***
"Holly, is that you?" Mother called from the living room. "Ashley's had her dinner. Did you find a job?"
"Thanks for feeding Ashley. Yes, I found a job. How was bridge today?"
"Just marvelous. I got a small slam. Come here and I'll tell you."
I called, "I'm in a hurry," and headed to my room. I didn't want to hear about small slams right now. Mother tended to dominate the conversation. She tended to dominate, period. She would make all my decisions for me if I let her, so there was a lot about my life she didn't know. If she suspected I was broke, she didn't say. So far, I'd been able to chip in enough money for our keep. There went that clutch of anxiety in my chest again. I had to get more money. Before I mooched off Mother, I'd pick cotton in the fields.
By eight o'clock, I'd read Ashley a story and put her to bed. When I tucked the covers around her, she looked up at me and said, "I love you, Mommy. I wish Daddy was here."
My heart wrenched, hearing her say that. Tom had been a good father, if nothing else. "I love you too, baby. You'll be seeing Daddy soon." I didn't know when, but I'd make sure she did. The worst part about divorcing Tom was how our split-up hurt Ashley. Even though I hardly had a choice, I felt terrible about breaking up the family. Ashley sensed my guilt, I was sure of it, and mostly kept her feelings to herself. She was only six, but she had a depth of understanding beyond her years. She amazed me. I had assumed that any daughter of mine would be a little hellion like me when I was growing up. Instead, I had a blonde, rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed angel who was spunky but sweet; bright, but not a brat. We were very much alike in one way—both survivors. We coped, no matter what. All the same, on those occasions when Ashley asked about her daddy, I wanted to cry.
Back in my bedroom, I put on my idea of what every biker girl should wear and did a spin in front of the mirror to check it out. Tight jeans (screw Barnicut and his little tight mini-skirt), red tank top, short jean jacket. Blue eyelids and a ton of mascara. Hair blonde and wild, tumbling loose about my face and shoulders.
Hey, not bad for a biker girl!
Mother called, "Holly? Are you going out again?"
"I'm going out on a case, Mom."
"Where are you going?"
She had to ask. I might be thirty-one, and have lived an independent life for years, but I was still Mother's little girl. "I'm going to Rosie's. It's a biker bar."
She appeared instantly in the doorway and flinched when she observed my outfit. "Is that entirely appropriate?"
"Tell you later, Mom." I got out of there fast.
Swinging the Camaro out of the driveway, I felt a leap of excitement. For the first time in a lot of dreary months, something upbeat was happening in my life. Holly Jane Wallace Keene, licensed private investigator, was about to tackle her first case.
***
When I pulled into Rosie's, I saw a row of motorcycles parked in front of a low, ramshackle building. I drove around the packed parking lot until I finally found a spot clear at the back beneath some Eucalyptus trees. Inside, I had to pause while my eyes adjusted to the dark and cavern-like interior. When they did, I saw a long bar, jukebox, pool tables at the back, and a small, crowded dance floor. Lady Gaga was singing "Born This Way."
I found one stool vacant at the bar and slid onto it fast, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.
"Well, hellooo, baby."
Not fast enough. The greeting came from the hulk on my right who was leaning towards me, getting his jollies leering at my breasts jutting out of my tight red top. He looked like Mountain Man. Acid dyed jeans—black Harley
Tee—a red bandanna knotted around his head—his long hair wild and tangled, as if he'd ridden through a hurricane. An untamed, bushy beard covered his face. Only his forehead, beady eyes, and flat nose were exposed. He continued his charming dialogue with "Wanna beer?"
"No thanks, honey, I'm buying my own." Be careful. If I acted too aloof, I'd look suspicious. If I got too friendly with Easy Rider here, or anyone else in this dump, who knew where I might end up? I flung my hair back and fired my best defense: "I'm waiting for my boyfriend."
"Oh yeah?" He scratched his head and kept on staring. "So what's his name?"
For a second my mind drew a blank. Then I got an inspiration. "Moose."
Mountain Man grunted, and shifted the other way.
I ordered my own beer and settled in to do my job, occasionally checking my watch, the door, and then frowning. Moose was late.
Three bartenders worked behind the counter, but the one I was supposed to watch was a fat, bald-headed fellow named Al. He was a jovial guy, always laughing, but half an hour was all it took to confirm that the owner was right. Jolly old Al was skimming a bundle off Rosie's Bar with a scheme both neat and simple. If you weren't watching for it, you'd never notice.
The regulars at Rosie's paid $3.00 for a bottle of beer, $3.50 for a well drink. Al, however, maintained a special price structure of his own. If you were a stranger—say, you just got off Highway 99 for a short one—Al charged you $3.40 for a beer and $4.00 for a well drink. He would put the money in the cash register, but naturally needed a way to keep track. His method was simple: toothpicks and shot glasses. Every time he overcharged a beer, he moved a toothpick from a box beneath the counter into a little pile. For the well drinks, he moved a shot glass from one shelf to another. At the end of the evening, all he had to do was count toothpicks and shot glasses, and deduct that amount from the till. The books balanced, and Al walked away with an extra hundred or so in his pocket.
Just about the time I figured out his scheme, Al got suspicious. He kept looking over at me like, what are you looking at, girlie? Time to go. I started to slip off the stool just as Mountain Man grabbed my arm.
"Let's dance," he said.
"I can't. I'm waiting for—"
"Moose?" Mountain had a skeptical look in his eye. "Your boyfriend's real late, isn't he honey? Let's go."
It was no time to draw attention to myself. I'd dance one dance, then split. Toby Keith was singing when we got out on the dance floor. Tall though I am, Mountain towered above me. The guy was at least six-feet-six. He wrapped his arms around me tight and started a clumsy two-step. It was like dancing with an over-friendly gorilla. Shuffling around the floor, I nearly smothered. He whispered something in my ear, but Toby's voice boomed so loudly that all I caught was, "go outside."
"What? I didn't hear you."
He whispered again. The music still blasted, but "California Gold" came through loud and clear from his lips.
That did it. When the music stopped I said a fast good night and left him standing on the dance floor. I hurried out of Rosie's and across the parking lot. When I got to my car, I reached in my purse and fumbled for my keys, wishing I hadn't parked on the dark, far side of the lot. Suddenly, I sensed someone behind me.
"Why'd you run off for?" Mountain asked. He gripped my arm.
"I'm going home. Moose stood me up." Damn! Where were my keys?
"Sure, baby." Mountain started crowding, backing me up against the car.
My heart started pounding. "Hey! Get away from me, buddy."
In answer, he pressed harder still. He stuck his hand beneath my chin, forced my head up and kissed me, a hard, vicious kiss that left me breathless and alarmed. He pulled his lips away. I gasped for air, my face stinging from his scratchy beard. He slapped his hand over my mouth. "Scream and I'll kill you." My knees went wobbly. Mountain knew how to get his point across.
Hand still covering my mouth, he started dragging me towards a grove of Eucalyptus trees at the back of the lot. It was time to use my purple-belt Karate, all twelve months of it, but how? His huge, hairy arms held me like a vice.
The first thing they teach at Buddy Quan's Rising Sun Karate School is whenever you are attacked, you must not strike unless you are ready. I was not ready. I couldn't even move.
Sheer desperation hit me as we got closer to the trees. Mountain wasn't planning any picnic in there. If I didn't want to get raped—knifed—strangled—God knew, I'd better act fast. By now, my adrenaline was raging. I managed to pull one arm free. I swung it around and bashed him in the nose with the heel of my hand. It worked! He grunted with surprise, half-way loosening his grip. Encouraged, I cut loose with the heel of my hand again—"to the cup" they said at Buddy Quan's. "To the balls" they meant. It worked again. With a pained, outraged roar, Mountain let me go. I took off running and headed back for the bar. Before I got there, Mountain closed in on me again. He wrapped his arms around me from behind. I bent forward, brought my head back hard and knocked his chin with a tremendous whack! That was supposed to take his concentration off his hands so he would let go, or so they promised at Buddy Quan's, but it didn't work. He yowled, but his grip tightened. I jabbed an elbow to his stomach. He hardly winced.
We resumed our sentimental journey towards the Eucalyptus trees. This was bad, I realized. This was desperation time. I started panting in terror; there was nothing I could do.
"Get your frigging hands off her."
Mountain stopped abruptly. "What the hell?"
A man stepped out of the shadows. He wasn't very big compared to Mountain. In fact, the big hulk could have made two of him. A cry of relief broke from my lips when I saw it was Perez. But against Mountain, what could he do?
"Get your hands off her," Perez said again.
Mountain let me go. "This is Moose?" he asked with a nasty laugh. Not waiting for an answer, he grabbed Perez by his T-shirt, held him away and brought back his fist. "You looking for trouble?"
Without a flinch, Perez looked up at him. "Let go, asshole."
In the faint moonlight I could see that the hulk was not amused. He must have decided he'd had enough repartee because his giant fist shot out towards Perez's chin. It never arrived. Perez blocked the blow with his right hand. With his left, he seized the back of Mountain's collar. He spun him around, stuck his foot behind him, and pushed him, off-balanced, to his knees. Mountain let out an outraged roar. Perez waited unconcerned as the big man staggered to his feet and charged again.
"Want more?" With lightning speed Perez executed a spinning wheel kick to Mountain's head that made him stagger but didn't bring him down. Perez grabbed Mountain's right wrist, pulled him forward, and pivoted. With a chopping motion of his right hand he brought him flat to the ground. Following Mountain down, Perez knelt beside him. With one hand, he pinned Mountain's wrist firmly against the dirt. With the other, he ground his knuckles into the point directly between Mountain's eyes. Mountain let out one anguished "Aaaheee!" then lay there moaning. He didn't appear likely to get up and fight again.
Perez got up and brushed at his jeans. "Are you all right?" His Spanish accent was suddenly a lot thicker.
"I'm fine." With an effort, I kept my voice from shaking.
"Did he hurt you?"
"No." I'd dropped my purse and keys. I bent down slowly to pick them up, and to give myself a little time. I didn't want Perez to know how nearly panicked I was, and how embarrassed he had to rescue me. Thank God, I hadn't screamed. Finally I straightened, finding myself looking directly into his concerned brown eyes. He was just a teeny bit taller than I, although why I should notice that frivolous fact at that particular moment I didn't know. "Thanks for your help." My words came out stiff. "You came along just in time."
"No problem."
"Seems you know Karate."
"Yeah, well...I mess around with Marshall Arts from time to time."
"You're not bad." What I really meant was, you're terrific, Guillermo Perez. You're Jackie Chan—Chuck Norris—Br
uce Lee, all combined. Why I didn't flat-out say so, I wasn't sure. Maybe I sensed he wouldn't want a lot of lavish praise. Or maybe I wanted to conceal how overwhelmed I was at the spectacular way he'd saved me.
Mountain painfully got up, dazed and moaning, and stumbled back inside.
As I watched, I suddenly realized... "How come you're here? What were you doing, checking up on me?"
"You're the Berkeley grad, you figure it out. Come on, I'll walk you to your car." When we got there, Perez took the keys out of my hand and unlocked my car door. He opened it and motioned me to get inside. "Better get out of here. Your boyfriend might come back with his buddies."
"Oh, funny. You're a scream, Perez." I climbed into my car. "You'd better get out of here too."
"I can take care of myself."
Yeah, for sure he could. I was feeling better. My pulse rate had almost returned to normal. "Look, I'm really grateful—"
"Forget it." He reached into the car and squeezed my hand, just briefly, but I enjoyed the warmth. "Get out of here, Holly. Give us a report in the morning." He dug in a pocket and handed me a card. "Call me when you get home. So I'll know you're all right." Without another word, he turned and walked away. I tossed his card on the seat and drove out of the lot.
There was a lot to think about on the way home. I could not figure Perez out, for one thing. Had he really been checking up on me? I guessed so—why else would he be there? Mainly, though, I pondered upon my great career as a private investigator. Nearly raped the first time out. Oh, nice job! Where was I going with this, anyway?
Chapter 5
The next morning I sat at the kitchen bar hunched over my coffee, still in my robe—a sure sign of my depressed psyche because I am never still in my robe at ten a.m. I had gotten Ashley off to her new school and had just finished relating last night's adventure at the biker bar. Mother listened, sipping coffee across from me. She looked pretty good for fifty-five—silvery hair, neat figure, dressed in a glitzy white beaded pant suit, all set for a bridge luncheon with her Fig Garden lady friends.