Hear the Wind Blow, Dear... (Vic Daniel Series)

by David Pierce

  About ten minutes later there was the muffled thump of a minor explosion from the direction of the logging road, then a brief burst of flame.

  'What the fuck was that?' Dell wanted to know.

  'It sounded like someone tossed a match in a gas tank,' I said. 'Probably kids. Lucky for them the woods are wet so there's no chance of the fire spreading.'

  'Yeah, real lucky,' said Dell.

  And that was it as far as conversation went for the next two hours and twenty minutes. Biff had passed out and Dell had finally realized it might be smarter to keep his mouth shut, so he did. And that was fine by me. I listened to the wind in the treetops and the friendly gurgle of good bourbon sliding down an appreciative throat and watched the stars come out to play. My arm burned and sizzled for a while, then stopped.

  All too soon, almost, in a strange way, there were lights, sirens, cameras, action. There were sheriff's men, an ambulance, a portable lab, a dog handler and God knows what other backup forces just waiting for a call. A male nurse with a heavy beard called Cyril gave me a local anesthetic and laboriously dug out nine, it turned out, pieces of shot from my arm. Cyril wanted to know if I wanted to keep them as a souvenir.

  'No thanks, Cyril,' I said. 'I'd rather keep my arm.'

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Ricky and I spent most of Wednesday in and around Carmen Springs doing what we had done the night before until five thirty – answering questions. Well, answering the ones we could without making even more trouble for ourselves.

  We had prepared a fallback position designed to protect ourselves as much as possible but especially to protect him; if it came out that he had been feeding and giving shelter to an illegal alien on government property, the least of his problems would be finding a new job. He might blow any pension he had accumulated and of course his free medical. So we'd come up with the following:

  Some time ago, a Mr Lupinez (name chosen at random), biologist and naturalist, had applied to Ricky for official permission to make wildlife studies in forestry land. (Samples of his work on request.) In view of the department's official policy of maintaining good relations with the public, limited permission had been granted, in writing, by Ricky. (A copy of said permission to be produced by Ricky as soon as he had typed one out, pre-dated it, and signed it.) Mr Lupinez's credentials, now unfortunately no longer to be found, seemed to be completely authentic. Mr Lupinez had informed Ricky early in January of his discovery of illegal activities taking place on forestry land, to wit, the growing of illicit substances, to wit, weed, and a lot of it. Suspecting that a fellow officer of the Forestry Service, who was also a friend, might be involved, and thus not wanting to call in official aid unless and until it was absolutely necessary, Ricky had asked one V. Daniel, an old acquaintance and skilled investigator, for his assistance, which had been freely given, V. Daniel being the good citizen he was.

  Their investigations had led them to Carmen Springs, where the suspicious behavior of Dell and Biff (family name Redman, it turned out) had attracted their attention. During a routine surveillance, the investigators had discovered to their surprise and horror the brothers digging up a body that turned out to be that of Mr Lupinez. The gunfight that followed was described to investigating officers from the Sheriff's Department as it happened, except that I took the credit for shooting Biff, to get Benny off the hook.

  So that was our simple story, and we planned to stick with it up to and including the trial, whenever that would be. We didn't think anyone would believe for a moment any foolish ramblings the brothers might make about epilepsy and brothers-in-law and electronic experts and beepers and punk daughters. And anyway, not being completely stupid, the brothers would probably refuse to say anything at all because there was nothing that they could say that would help. And when Ricky was questioned for more details about his friend and fellow officer who might be involved, he merely said politely that he would be able to give a fuller statement the following day after he'd had a chance to speak with his superiors. And what that did was to give me a day to set up Tommy DeMarco, because if he and the boys did keep their mouths shut, he was free and clear.

  The boys, of course, had had it. One murder count, because even if the law couldn't match up the bullet that killed Chico with Dell's gun, the boys would have a fairly difficult time explaining what they were doing digging up a corpse in the middle of the night in the woods; how did they know it was there if they hadn't put it there? And why would they put it there if they were innocent? And in California, as in many states, if a murder is committed during the course of a felony, all parties to the felony are considered party to the murder, double something it is called. See, reading does pay off. They also had an attempted murder rap against them – mine. Also, it was odds on Dell's hand gun wasn't licensed. And how about illegal possession of little items like hand grenades and who knew what else? Let alone the Garden of Eden.

  The boys in blue and various other colors finally let us go that evening after we'd signed innumerable statements and promised we wouldn't leave the country without letting them know, and we also swore we would be available for the trial if called. Then we had to deal with a swarm of reporters who jumped us at Tim's when I popped in to say goodbye; I said I was sworn to secrecy, had one for the road, and we took off, Ricky driving, in the Jeep.

  I had a thought on the way home.

  'Remember those groceries Tommy gave you?'

  'Sure,' Ricky said. 'Still haven't touched the ham.'

  'What about the carton, would that still be around?'

  'Knowing Ellena, it is,' he said.

  'Want to drop it around to my office tomorrow morning?'

  'Sure,' he said. 'Handling it carefully, I presume.'

  'You presume correctly,' I said. We didn't say much during the rest of the drive, but once in a while would look at each other and laugh.

  Getting home was a solid pleasure. I didn't bother to unpack the camper, which was parked out front waiting for me, I went straight up to the apartment, opened up a couple of windows, had a soak in the tub, made myself somewhat clumsily two baloney sandwiches and took them and a glass of buttermilk and myself to bed. I called up Mom and had a word with her. Then I phoned Evonne and had a lot of words with her, including a few, but not all, lovey-dovey ones. The ones that weren't lovey-dovey covered the old familiar territory, why didn't I ever tell her exactly what I was doing and how come she never met any of my friends, she introduced me to all her friends. Then I took two Mogadons and went to sleep.

  *

  Thursday, 22 Jan. (I am tempted to put the remainder of this account in free verse, but good taste prevents me.) At the office. Arm in an eye-catching sling made from one of Mom's 'Souvenir of Oahu' scarves. Called the messsage service to demand the instant appearance of Willing Boy. The girl said he'd be here in a jiff. Called Parson's Crossing and ascertained without arousing suspicion that Tommy had showed up for work and was out in the field. Called a sleepy Benny and told him to expect Willing Boy in the next half hour and to please have the package ready for him. Had a quick visit from Ricky, who gingerly handed me the vegetable carton, shook hands, then left. Had a coffee next door. Came back to find Gorgeous sprawling in my visitor's chair. Sent him over to Benny's. Checked the mail – there was one inquiry, about my fees from a lawyer in Century City that looked promising and several bills, including one from Wade, that didn't.

  When Gorgeous returned he had ten Ks of the boys' home grown in a shopping bag tucked under his arm, although I hoped he didn't know it. I sent him for a walk while I repacked the weed into the carton, then threw in for good measure a rusty but still serviceable Remington .25 I'd come across in my travels and put away in the safe for a rainy day and also as an extra added bonus I chucked in four glassine envelopes of heroin, part of the stash I'd found in Dev Devlin's kitchen the year before. All right. That should take care of Tommy's social life for a while, say, one to three.

  I phoned Tommy's house to make sure no one, like a
cleaning lady, was in. No one was. I put my head out the door and whistled for Gorgeous, who was leaning against a tree watching the girls go by. I reminded him of Tommy's address, gave him the package, told him to handle it with much care, and then when he found there was no one home, to leave the carton in the garage, which Sara had told me in one of her loony reports wasn't kept locked.

  'When you have finished your little chore, you might be kind enough to telephone me and tell me so,' I said. 'Got a dime?'

  'I do,' he said. 'Do not worry, Chief, have I ever failed you?'

  We settled on a fee and off he went. About half an hour later he called in to report that all had gone smoothly and that the carton was now safely stowed under a workbench at the rear of the garage. Not only hadn't he seen anyone remotely interested in him, he hadn't seen anyone at all, which was a Good Thing. I know I've done it before, planted evidence, and I'll do it again, often the old tricks are the best ones, as the actress said to the octogenarian. And I didn't like Tommy. He was fresh-faced, young and good-looking. I suppose there were other reasons.

  Then I put in a call to my favorite midget policeman, one Lieutenant Conyers, a pint-sized clothes horse who'd been around during the previously mentioned Dev Devlin affair and who worked out of LAP D Central. As he was not only a policeman working out of Narcotics but had an only son who was, or who had been back then, a hop-head, his position on drug peddlers was somewhere to the extreme right of J. Edgar Hoover's.

  Lieutenant Conyers was in.

  'This is a well-meaning citizen who wants to remain nameless, Tiny,' I said.

  'Oh, Christ,' he said. 'You again.'

  'Please!' I said. 'No names. If you want a nice substantial drug bust, listen closely.' I gave him Tommy's name and address. I knew the lieutenant couldn't legally enter a premise without either a warrant or due cause, so I gave him a due cause: not only was I a nameless, well-meaning citizen but I was a nameless close neighbor of Mr DeMarco's and I had seen suspicious activities in his garage a couple of nights before, activities centering around a medium-sized cardboard box.

  He sighed heavily.

  'Sure you did,' he said.

  'You might also check with the phone company about any calls he's made to a number up north in dear old Carmen Springs,' I said, and gave him the number of Tim's Tavern. 'I have information that he has been in regular contact with two brothers from up there who were arrested yesterday on about a thousand counts, including one murder, that of a Mr Lupinez, and one attempted murder, that of a brave and selfless investigator from down here in the Valley somewhere.'

  'Anything else?'

  I'd check the box for fingerprints, if I were you, thank God I'm not.'

  'Sounds familiar,' he said. 'Anything else?'

  'You might say thanks,' I said, 'if your Napoleon complex will let you thank a man twice your size. Or is it three times?'

  'Up yours,' he said, and hung up.

  Friday, 23 Jan. Took Evonne to meet one of my close friends – Harry, the night barman over at the Three Jacks.

  Saturday, 24 Jan. Received, at the office, delivered by hand, yet another lengthy report from Agent S. S., punk detective, covering our recent adventures up north in timber-wolf country. I will quote only one line here: 'Wonderful trip back to LA with Agent B. (name on request). Sang the whole time.' I'm not surprised, with at least ten kilos of grade-A sinsemilla riding unprotected with them.

  Monday, 26 Jan. Chico's body was released by the coroner's office to one Enrique Castillo, as no one of the deceased's family had come forth to claim it. Later that day he, his wife and myself attended a mercifully brief ceremony, if that's the word, at the Peterson Bros Funeral Home, down in Inglewood not far from the Castillos' home. The three of us sat in folding chairs listening to recorded organ music for a while, trying not to look at the coffin which was on a long table to our right. When I finally did look over at it, it was eerily moving down the table until it disappeared through a curtained opening. Fifteen minutes later, in the anteroom out front, an attendant handed Ricky a clay urn containing all that was left of pobre Chico.

  And later still that day, Ricky and I retraced our footsteps one last time out past Parson's Crossing and through the woods to Chico's cabin, now empty and stripped of all traces of Chico by Ricky on his return from Carmen Springs, as I had suggested. Ricky had brought along one of those collapsible entrenching tools you often see in the windows of war surplus stores and with it, just at sunset, he dug a hole and put in the urn of ashes, then filled in the hole again. Then Ricky quietly said something in Spanish while I quietly thought something in English. Then we went home.

  Tuesday, 27 Jan. At the office. For want of anything to do I was leafing through the local rag, a weekly that came out every Friday, to see if my small but discreet ad had been published, one that I had paid for in advance. I found it; it looked quite impressive, I thought, tucked in there under 'Services' between 'Madame Clara – Clairvoyante – In The Privacy Of Your Own Abode' and a two-line ad for a school of dentistry.

  The paper had strictly local news, if news is the right word for bowling league results and scoops like 'J. D. Armstrudder, Vice-President of Oswego Metals, Ltd, was the guest speaker at Wednesday's Rotary Luncheon held as usual in the Admiral's Room of the La Salle Hotel. "Jake" Armstrudder gave a forceful address on the topic, "Muddled Thinking in Middle Management".'

  There were also the usual lists of local church services, the police report, all the garage sales in the neighborhood and a short list of people who were 'In' or 'Out', meaning in or out of hospital, and in the 'In' column there was the name of Mrs Kevin Donovan, whom I had completely forgotten. So I locked up and walked the few blocks over to the Palmettos, guilty as a small boy with a new BB gun who has just taken a highly forbidden snap shot at a bird and actually hit and killed it.

  I went up to the second floor and knocked on the Donovan door. After a few moments it was opened by old hole in one himself. He was wearing an apron and was holding in one hand, his left hand, I noticed, one of those squeegie things on a stick with which people wash floors.

  'Hi, pal,' I said coldly. 'Remember me, or are you the new au pair?'

  He looked at me through pale blue eyes, then turned away without saying anything and plodded back down the hall. I followed him. When I caught up with him he was washing the kitchen floor from a plastic bucket full of soapy water.

  'I saw your wife was in the hospital,' I said, leaning against the door jamb. 'Read it in the paper.'

  He still didn't say anything but went on methodically going over and over a patch of linoleum that already looked clean to me. Maybe it was displacement activity. Maybe it was penance. Maybe it was role reversal. Maybe it was just something to do between drinks.

  'What did you do to her this time,' I said after another while, 'hit her with a sand wedge?'

  Silence. Well, what did he have to say, anyway? For that matter, what did I? I watched him for a few more minutes, then said, 'So long, keep your head down,' and headed for the front door. As soon as I closed it behind me, I heard him start to sing 'The Rose of Tralee'. You figure it out.

  Two weeks later Benny phoned to tell me it looked like the gold deal was going to happen, so I called Mr Lubinski at his brother's back East in freezing Philly and told him the good news, that it looked like he was off the hook.

  'What kept you?' he wanted to know.

  And one week after that Lubinski, Lubinski and Levi celebrated its reopening with a small after-hours party at the store for a few selected guests. It was a catered affair.

  I'd seen the girl who was bartending at similar affairs in the neighborhood before. She was a pretty, not so young anymore actress between engagements, as they say in her profession. Good luck, they say in mine. Poor old thespians, if they're not up to their hips in waterfalls or acting as bear meat, they're pouring drinks for the likes of me and my friends.

  Having taken to heart, or at least pretended to, Evonne's recent comments about a cert
ain thoughtlessness in my behavior in certain areas, I had invited a considerable number of my close friends for her to finally meet. It served her right, was what I thought about it. Benny was there, in a dark-blue double-breasted number I'd never seen before. Elroy my office landlord and millionaire was there in his usual garb of wraparound shades, disgraceful jeans, ragged T-shirt and torn flip-flops. J.D., ex-pro bowler and proud prop of the Valley Bowl was there, handsome as all get out in his Valley leisure wear. Wade and Suze were there, smashed out of their skulls and devouring everything in sight including the cream-cheese-filled celery sticks. My mom was there, tossing back a Manhattan cocktail and chatting animatedly with Mrs Martel from across the street. Ricky was there, in a white tropical suit, but Ellena had stayed home as she was going through a queasy period in her pregnancy. Jim the barman from the Two-Two-Two was there, I'd never seen him in a suit before, but Harry from the Three Jacks was working that night. I'd somehow forgotten to invite my brother.

  Olivia the llama-lover was there, so was Emile Douglas, the one who chatted to God. They were at the rear of the store chatting together about something vulgar like crossbreeding. And of course Mr Lubinski and Mr Lubinski were there with their wives, also several friends of theirs, plus a quiet, well-dressed elderly gentleman whom nobody seemed to know but who nodded politely in my direction from time to time. Oh, I forgot Mr Lowenstein, Evonne's boss, and his wife Ethyl. Needless to say, Evonne, my sweetheart, was there as well, elegant in basic black and high heels with a black bandeau around her curls. And, finally, also needless to say, Ms Sara Silvetti, poetess and nerd extraordinaire, had condescended to attend. She was, for her, modestly attired in a tatty lace nightgown worn over a flesh-colored body stocking, with contrasting accessories – a tin lunch pail as a purse and one elbow-length black evening glove. To complete the ensemble, around her slim neck hung a huge lei made of plastic flowers.

  After a pleasant hour of imbibing, mingling, introducing, imbibing and munching, Mr Lubinski took me aside, told me how much he liked my friends – funny, Evonne had said the same thing – told me how much he'd hated Philadelphia, his brother Mort and their three spoiled brats, asked me what I thought of the new necklace his wife was wearing, then asked me, 'Got a watch?'