Tell No Lie, We Watched Her Die

by Richard Sanders

  “Her aunt.” Hugo curled forward on the desk, giving it some thought. “She was very close with her aunt. The woman raised her after her mother was sent away.”

  “That’s right. And?”

  He half closed his eyes. “Very close. They were very close.”

  Quinton was staring at me, though he never stopped popping those cherries.

  Hugo’s lips were moving, like he was saying a silent prayer. “Renee. Aunt Renee. She’s buried here. The family couldn’t afford a decent funeral. Amanda had her Aunt Renee buried here.”

  “Very good. You know your Estonology.”

  “I know my dreams, Mr. McShane. I know what I’m dreaming, and I know I have the energy to make it real. My energy is quite large. Let’s talk money.”

  “Why not?”

  “Where does it stand right now? How much is Real Story bidding?”

  “Twenty million.”

  Just a tiny exaggeration.

  “Twenty.” Hugo turned his head to the open bay door, looked out at the industrial night. “All of us, I’m sure, are uncomfortable with beggars. I’ll go to 25. Is that agreeable?”

  “That’s 2.5 million to you,” said Paloma.

  “Sounds good.”

  “Excellent. Finer words can’t be said.” Hugo nodded to Paloma and Marvin. “Now let’s work out some details. Let’s settle what we can at this point.”

  He glanced again at the open bay. “That door is making me nervous. Quinton, would you close it, please? Let’s have some semblance of privacy.”

  With a superbly sullen attitude, Quinton spit a pit, got up from behind the desk and went for the door. I watched him as he walked, though not out of any intrinsic interest in him. Just curious. Why close the door now?

  That’s when I saw the black gleam at his feet. He was wearing a pair of black patent leather lace-up boots. I’d seen them before, in the parking lot in Santa Monica, at the mythical 317 Emory Road. When I was hiding under a Suburu Forester and taking a worm’s-eye view. And he was wearing a multicolored ski mask.

  How many pairs of those boots can there be?

  That’s how I knew. This was a set-up. This was no negotiation. It was an ambush, a trap.

  Quinton took hold of the pendant switchbox hanging by the door and pushed a button. The bay slowly began to close.

  Hugo was saying something about unregulated cash transfers.

  “I have one more question,” I said.

  “Of course.”

  “Do you know who you are?”

  Silence. Just the door settling down, the electrical generators humming away.

  Hugo didn’t know whether to smile or not. “Pardon?”

  “Do you know who you are?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “What’re you, what’re you talking about?” said Marvin, he and Paloma both during a nervous shuffle.

  “I’m serious. Do you know who you are?”

  “Of course I know who I am.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know.”

  The door was closed. Quinton started heading back.

  “But who’s the you who knows?”

  Hugo was looking a little less contented now. “I’m not getting it.”

  “Think about it. Are you the you who knows, or are you the you who knows you know?”

  “You’re making scant sense, Mr. McShane.”

  “Or are you the you who knows you know you know who you are?”

  Quinton was glaring at me, evidently not appreciating this line of questioning. He reached inside his jacket.

  I pulled the Glock out from under my hoodie and shot him right above his crossing arm, right in the dead center of his chest.

  As he was taking his last tumble I swung the Glock around on the other three. Too late. Marvin already had a gun out and was aiming at me.

  What happened next combined the most confusing and chaotic elements of rush hour at a Times Square subway station, a fire alarm in a psychiatric unit and rats running riot in a shithouse.

  I ducked behind my crate as Marvin’s spitfire ripped its edge to splinters. Dropping down, I crawled to the other end of the crate and went to fire. A tsunami of bullets drove me back. Three guns. They were all armed.

  I ran back to the other end of the crate and fired blind into the warehouse. The second, stronger wave of the tsunami hit, gunfire coming from three different directions, shots ricocheting off the steel shipping containers and the old metal desk, everything echoing off the walls. It sounded like a gunfight in a tunnel.

  More shots, then a small popping explosion, a small ssss. One of us had accidentally hit one of the generators. I could hear it fade out, a dying drone, like a muezzin having a heart attack in the minaret.

  The overhead lights went off. The whole warehouse went into deeper darkness. The only light came from those dim mesh-covered bulbs on the walls, which practically speaking was no light at all.

  This was good and bad. They couldn’t see me. On the other hand, I couldn’t see them.

  I crouched in the shadows, trying to see figures moving in the dark, hearing running footsteps, somebody slipping on the poles on the floor, struggling to get to his or her feet, hard rounds of shattering gunfire. This was like being caught in a guerilla skirmish.

  I kept moving from crate to crate. But so were they. I could hear them working their way around me, cutting me off.

  “Keep your, keep your head on,” Marvin yelled to me. “Put that thing down, everything, everything will be cool.”

  Sure it will.

  I could just make out the bay door, at least get a vague sense of where it was. I began moving that way, soft stepping. The old tap dancer I’d interviewed had showed me how to do the soft shoe. Brush the ground with the balls of your feet. Swipe with the balls, not the heels, as you go forward.

  At the wall I felt around for the pendant switchbox, hoping it still had power, was hooked into one of the still-running generators.

  I pressed the up button and ran like hell. As the door started to lift a whole fucking fusillade of bullets pounded the space where the switchbox was hanging.

  I took cover on the side of my rental. They were still firing at the switchbox, at where I’d been, when I opened the passenger door and slid inside. I stretched across the seat, keeping the door open, keeping my head below window level, groping for my keys and somehow managing to crouch underneath the steering wheel. It was as cramped as the inside of Sputnik.

  Ignition. Gear shift. Gas pedal. All systems go.

  The car coasted a few feet then lurched into speed. Yelling behind me, shattering window glass, gunshot thumps shuddering into the back of the car.

  Still in a fetal position, I raised my eyes just above the windshield rim and steered for the opening bay door. A thought occurred to me as I reached the night. Our happy, happy shirts were worn to shreds.

  >>>>>>>>>>>>

  CHAPTER 6

  LISTEN CAREFULLY

  I THINK I SEE SOMETHING

  A bunch of staffers were huddled around a monitor in the bureau’s photo department. Much excitement. Last night’s pap photos of the actress Kiki Ross had just come in. She’d been in rehab and hadn’t gotten herself seen in a while. I was interested. There were a lot of parallels between Kiki Ross and Amanda Eston. Both had become famous in their early years, both had gone through the gauntlet of well-publicized drug and drinking problems.

  Kiki did look good. Everyone agreed.

  “She hasn’t looked this good in years,” one of the staffers said.

  “She looks good for her age,” said another.

  I just up and snapped. “She looks good for her age?” I said. “She’s 21 fucking years old!”

  Okay, I was in a lousy mood.

  I went back to my temporary office. Pouring rain outside, mists swirling up here at the 19th-floor level like clothes on tumble cycle.

  Yes, the weather perfectly matched the state of my head.

  I
’d put up with all that shit last night, and had I come any closer to the truth? Not by a fucking millimeter. It had all been one totally piss-shot try.

  What made me feel a little better an hour later was getting a call from Pear Wicinski. I genuinely liked her. I was glad to hear from her.

  How was her back?

  Getting much better. She was rubbing hot chili sauce on the afflicted area, an old remedy they’d used on the wrestling circuit.

  But Pear wasn’t calling to chew the fat.

  I’ve been looking at this awful thing again, the video. I think, I think I see something. I hadn’t noticed it or hadn’t seen it before, but I’m seeing it now. I think I’ve found something.

  “What is it?”

  I’ll be honest, I’m not comfortable talking about this on the phone. It’s a…it’s not something I care to discuss over the lines. Do you mind coming over?

  “Not at all.”

  I need another set of eyes. Maybe you can look at it, put a little gummy on it and stick it all together for me.

  “When’s good?”

  Now. Now would be best. I might…right now would be best. This is something, it really shouldn’t be mentioned on the phone.

  Man, everybody’s getting paranoid.

  >>>>>>

  I KNOW WHAT YOU’VE SEEN

  The rain fell so hard you could see it bouncing off the stone of Pear’s Huntington Park building. I ran for the front door, hoping for a quick buzz-in and some dry shelter. Wasn’t happening. I pressed, I pressed, I pressed. No answer. Strange—she’d specifically said right now.

  Time for a mass pressing. I mashed down on all the buttons. The door opened with a snippy click.

  Everything in the hallway was the same—the bare bulbs, the old sprinkler pipes, the pee and tobacco infusion of the wood. A child was crying in one of the upper floors. I caught the sweet smell of someone doing laundry.

  A9—I rang the bell, I knocked. No sounds from inside. Worried? Yes.

  The lock was a decades-old make. Nobody was in the hall. I took out my laminated Real Story ID card—nice and flexible—slid it into the doorframe and a minute later let myself in. The tap dancer could tell you, old skills are never forgotten.

  Pear was gone. Nothing had been disturbed: The crush of furniture, the belts and medals—everything was in place. But she wasn’t here. How much sense did this make?

  The big red bottle of Kriss-Mist still sat on the coffee table. Next to it, a glass of the all-natural laxative had already been poured. The ceiling fan had been left on. Wherever she’d gone, it was in a hurry.

  A small nesting table stood under a poster giving The Wild Wicinski top billing. The phone on the table was blinking—a message she hadn’t erased.

  I hit play. The voicemail had clocked in 16 minutes ago. An old man’s voice came on.

  I know what you’ve seen. I know all about what you’ve seen. I want to tell you about it. I have information you’ll need. It won’t take long. You’ll know where to meet me. Listen carefully. You don’t want to pass this by. You don’t want to see anyone shop it around, and you don’t want to hear it second hand. You don’t want to see it sold again. After all that’s happened, you don’t want to see it resold. Do you understand? I’ll be waiting—it won’t take long. But I can’t promise I’ll wait forever. So hurry.

  I played it again, only this time I made a copy on my cell. Of all the strange calls I’d heard over the last few days, this one had to rank right up there.

  >>>>>>

  I studied the tape in my car, rain drenching the windshield, listening to the thing over and over. Who was the old man? Ken Hagler, the father-in-law? Fuck do I know?

  I just kept replaying it, especially the you don’t want to part. This was the strangest section of the tape. There was just something randomly rhetorical about it.

  You don’t want to pass this by. You don’t want to see anyone shop it around, and you don’t want to hear it second hand. You don’t want to see it sold again. After all that’s happened, you don’t want to see it resold. Do you understand?

  What did it mean? I mean, I had a general sense of what the old man was telling her—get it now—but why was it so weirdly worded? The repeated, insistent you don’t want to sentence structure was bothering me. Particularly since it followed him saying, You’ll know where to meet me. Listen carefully. Could it be some kind of code? A coded message that she’d understand? Or was I trying to read too much into this?

  You don’t want to see anyone shop it around, and you don’t want to hear it second hand. You don’t want to see it sold again. After all that’s happened, you don’t want to see it resold.

  I remembered something. Pear and I were walking along the streets, passing stores that sold liquor, take-out, herbs, religion, and at one point we went past a second-hand clothing called The ReSouled Shop.

  You don’t want to see anyone SHOP it around.

  You don’t want to hear it SECOND HAND.

  You don’t want to see it RESOLD.

  It was on her usual route. Every day she’d pass it by.

  Do you understand? Fucking A.

  It’s true, there really is no cure for the common code.

  >>>>>>

  RESOULED

  Traffic in the downpour was a slow-go both ways. Three blocks from The ReSouled Shop I finally decided to fuck-it park and get out. I couldn’t see or hear anything, but something already felt off.

  I ran through the wet haze, the winds carrying the stink of gasoline off the Harbor Freeway. A crowd had formed on the side of the shop.

  The next store over sold Mexican handicrafts and cell phones. A tiny yard separated the two buildings. I wedged through the bystanders.

  The yard was a dirt packed square of land with a grand total of one tree. The surrounding walls were covered with peeling paint and the spiders of overgrown vines. If forgotten angels needed a place to congregate, they’d hang here.

  Blood had splattered against one of the walls and left a trail to the body on the ground. I could see the broad shoulders under a pink floral raincoat. I could see blood and a bullet gouge on her broad face. Pear’s cane had fallen a few feet away.

  My heart fell to the bottom of my stomach.

  A man stood next to me wearing a ReSouled T-shirt. I asked what happened.

  “No idea. I was next door, heard shots. Ran out, found her.”

  Radio static popped behind us. A policewoman in a slicker told us to clear out. “We need to rope this off. Everybody get back.”

  I stood with the crowd. The whole city was a stunned wet white. There was a furious need, a desperate electricity in the soaked air.

  Enough. Enough, enough, enough. I was tired of waiting for the truth to come to me. I had to go after it. I had to go to the source. I knew that now with the conviction of a clenched fist.

  Gold help me—and I mean that literally—I was going to do it.

  >>>>>>

  CORRIDOR VII

  It was getting dark by the time I landed in Reno. I rented a car, took Interstate 80 and parked a quarter-mile away from the white granite mountain with the house mutating at its base. I changed my clothes in the night. Black pants, black T, black soft-soled shoes, black utility belt. The belt I stocked with the goodies bought on the shopping spree I’d made before leaving LA.

  Time to crash over the edge.

  I walked slowly along the high, gapless granite wall that guarded the front of the house, doing a midnight creep—or a 10 p.m. creep—until I reached the far end. The area by the entrance to the tunnel was lit now by a field of floodlights. Only one way to get it done—I ran for it, weaving through the shadows cast by the floods until I got to the mountain wall.

  I slid along the stone, getting closer to the entrance, eyes searching every inch for hidden motion detectors. Nothing. So far this was as smooth as a new razor.

  The barrier at the entrance was down. No cars approaching, no guards around. I ducked under the barrier and, sta
ying double-bent, slipped up against the inside wall.

  Here it all was again—the maze of passageways carved into the bottom of the mountain, the eerie light of the high bays, the khaki-uniformed guards with their holsters at their sides. I counted six on duty, two watching the flashing lights of display panels, the others laughing and fucking around. All of their lapel-attached walkie-talkies were silent. A quiet night in the cave.

  I moved along the wall—balls of my feet, the old soft shoe—edging toward the tunnel I’d taken my first time here. I saw now that the passageway had an official designation: Corridor VII. Roman numerals—so pretentious.

  A hundred and fifty feet of baptismal white granite stretched in front of me. The tunnel’s lights were low, dim gray. I continued my wall creeping, breathing steady, concentration full but relaxed. A calmly alert attitude in a situation like this was as important as the Glock in the back band of my pants.