Night Tremors

by Matt Coyle

  The hands spun me around. Sarah stood between the dark outlines of two mountains. Both had beards. One had a gun pointed at me. Sarah flicked one of my business cards at my face.

  “Sarah, I’m working a case. Trey Fellows isn’t a friend, but the rest is true.”

  “Fellows is where you made your mistake, Rick. You said he and Steven were drunk.” An inhale. A smoke ring. “Trey doesn’t drink.”

  The kind of research I didn’t have to do when I was sticking cameras through motel windows. I missed those days already.

  “Did he send you?” The one with the gun asked. His voice, twelve miles of gravel road.

  “Who? Fellows?”

  The gun sliced through the night and the butt smashed against my forehead. It staggered me against the dumpster, but I stayed up. A warm trickle rolled down against my brow and leaked past my eye.

  “One more try,” the mountain holding the gun said. “Did he send you?”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about. Nobody sent me.” I put my hands up like it was a stickup so I could block the next blow. My head pounded and I fought to stiffen my wobbly legs.

  “I’m working a worker’s comp fraud case against Fellows. Going to his known hangouts, talking to friends. That’s all. Call my agency and talk to Bob Reitzmeyer. He’ll tell you.”

  “What’s Steven got to do with it?” Sarah said.

  “He’s listed as a friend of Fellows.” I looked at Sarah, but checked the gun in my peripheral vision. Out of reach and too risky. “Look, it’s a crappy little comp case. I’ll quit it tomorrow, and you’ll never see me again.”

  “Here.” Sarah reached my wallet out to me and, just as my hand touched it, the gun came down on my temple.

  Concrete.

  Black.

  I awoke to a gun barrel in my left eye. I fought the instinct to go fetal and beg for my life. If they’d wanted me dead, I’d already be there. I studied the figure bent over me with my right eye. Long dark hair and bushy beard. Black in the shadow of the night. A scar bisecting his left eyebrow. The man who’d been studying me in the mirror before I walked Sarah out. I’d remember him. Not for a description to police. For next time. When I’d be the one to come up from behind.

  “Something’s not right about you, Cahill.” The gun stayed in my eye. “I don’t believe your bullshit little story. You send word back to him that we’re onto him. We know his game. And we’ll settle it when the time comes.”

  The gun left my eye and a boot exploded into my ribs.

  By the time I got my breath back, the man was gone. I crawled on all fours to the dumpster and used it to pull myself upright. Rotting food, stale beer, and blood filled my airways. The blood was mine. It rolled down my face and splatted onto my shoes. My head felt like someone was inside it using a sledgehammer to get out, and my ribs grabbed at me with each breath. I didn’t know if I needed a doctor or just a new job. Or, maybe, my old job back.

  I snailed past a row of Harley Davidsons to my car, wondering what had happened to my simple witness-check case and who the hell “he” was.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Halfway home, I vomited out the window of my car. The pain in my head almost closed my eyes, and I had a hard time steering the car in a straight line. Every breath felt like a left hook to the ribs. I rubbed my hand over my temple and felt a mushy lump. A hematoma. Probably a concussion. A couple miles from home, I made a right instead of a left onto Genesee and headed for Scripps Memorial Hospital in La Jolla.

  It was a quiet night in the emergency room. No one was moaning, and I was the only one bleeding and walking sideways. After filling out forms and waiting forty-five minutes, a doctor finally stitched me up, iced me down, and delicately probed my ribs.

  Concussion. Bruised ribs. Seven stitches.

  Treatment: a lot of ice, Tylenol, and an alarm clock to wake me every couple hours.

  The doctor insisted I shouldn’t drive, so the nurse called Kim, an ex-girlfriend, to come pick me up. She was waiting for me when I came out from my curtained-stall consultation with the doctor. She wore jeans and a sweater that only hinted at the curvy, athletic body beneath. Her green eyes and mouth made “Ohs” when she saw me. Not the good kind. I thought I was doing just fine, but I couldn’t seem to keep my hand off the wall as I walked.

  “Rick!” She hurried over and wrapped an arm around my back and got her shoulder underneath my armpit. “My God! What happened to you?”

  My groan stopped her. My stitched forehead was visible. My ribs were not.

  “I’m sorry!” She backed away from me like I was a quail egg teetering on the edge of a nest. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  Most women never do.

  “How can I help?” Her hands were open at her side, palms outward like she was defending against a bounce pass or waiting to catch me when I fell out of the nest.

  “Other side would be great.”

  She delicately assumed her earlier position, now on my right side.

  “What happened, Ricky?”

  “Short story.” I let her take some of my weight and it felt good. “I’ll tell you later. Sorry you had to come pick me up.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  We shuffled outside and Kim leaned me up against a “No Parking” sign and went to get her car. She drove up in a BMW 335i convertible. On warm days when she dropped the top and let her blond hair fly in the wind, she looked like just another beautiful daughter of privilege. That is, until you looked a bit closer and saw the intelligent gleam in her eyes. I slid into the leather seat and my ribs hurt. But not as much as if I had sat down onto my own car’s seat.

  When I first met Kim five years ago, she’d been a bartender at night and learned the real estate biz during the day. She’d learned well and now sold homes in La Jolla. Even in a down market, the leased Beemer hadn’t been an extravagance. Easier to sell homes when you look like you belong in the neighborhood. And now, with her success, she did. Much more so than on the arm of a restaurant manager, where she’d been until I broke her heart.

  The first time.

  But that had been three years ago and she had rebounded well. Dating the top realtor in La Jolla. He smiled at me from bus stop benches all over town. A grin saved just for me. “You screwed up, pal.” I couldn’t argue.

  “Take the 5 south.”

  “I know the way to your house.” She patted my hand. “I was your real estate agent. That concussion must be really bad.”

  “We’re not going home yet.”

  “Why?” Her voice rose in concern. “Where are we going?”

  “To talk to a wannabe Rastafarian.”

  On the drive over to Fellows’ house, I told Kim only that I’d been on a case and had been jumped outside a bar. Not what bar. Not what kind of case. Not that I’d had a gun barrel stuck in my eye. I trusted Kim with my life, but clients trusted my discretion. Besides, I didn’t want to make her worry even more.

  We circled Fellows’ street and ended up back in front of the house he lived behind. No motorcycles in sight. I had to find out if Fellows had set me up. And, if not, I needed to know who the “he” the bikers thought had sent me was.

  “Just drop me a couple houses up and park where you can find a space.” I pulled the bag of ice the nurse had given me from my head and dropped it onto the car floor. “Wait in the car. I won’t be long.”

  “You should be home in bed. Can’t this wait a few days until you’re better?”

  “Five minutes, tops.” I held up my hands.

  I slow-motioned out of the car. Walking had been easier with Kim under my arm. The vise squeezing my head cinched down another notch. My ribs throbbed with each wobbled step.

  Maybe I should have listened to Kim.

  I made it back to Fellows’ cottage. His bicycle was still out front. No motorcycles. I crept to the door and put my ear to it. The murmur of a TV, nothing else. I took a deep breath that hurt like hell and knocked on the door.

&nb
sp; Fellows didn’t have a peephole, so I’d get a chance to read him when he opened the door.

  Muffled footsteps, then the doorknob twisted and the door opened, exposing a triangle of light.

  Adrenaline pushed all my pain aside and I stood up straight, chest out.

  Fellows’ red-rimmed eyes went round. Genuine surprise. His eyes stayed on me, up to my jagged forehead then back down to my face. No side glances or eyes to the ground.

  “Dude! What happened to you?” Sincere.

  If he’d set me up, he should move to LA and start auditioning. Still, I needed to be sure.

  “Mind if I come in?”

  “Yeah, no problem.” He stepped back and swung the door all the way open. “You don’t look so good, bro.”

  I stepped into the studio and got the marijuana ambience. The bong and weed were still on the table, but there wasn’t any smoke in the air. There didn’t need to be. It was in the furniture, the curtains, his clothes. I made sure I didn’t bump into him on the way in so I could avoid a contact high. A flat screen in the corner was paused in mid-Housewife. Orange County, Beverly Hills, or Miami. Some city where reality was as fake as the boobs and hair color.

  “I met some of your friends tonight.” I found the loveseat I’d sat on earlier and pretended that my body didn’t hurt like hell when I lowered myself down into it.

  “Who?” A confused smile. He sat down in the recliner.

  “The Raptors.”

  “What?” He stood up. Terror took the place of the smile. “You didn’t talk to Steven, did you? Tell him what I said?”

  “No. He wasn’t there, but his sister and his friends were.” I pointed at my stitched forehead.

  “What did you tell them?” He was pacing now.

  “That I was checking you out for worker’s comp fraud and wanted to talk to some of your friends.”

  “Why’d you have to do that?” His eyes ballooned. “They’re not my friends.”

  “Then why do you hang out at their bar?”

  “I like to shoot some stick and have a beer every now and then.” He kept pacing but hid his eyes from mine.

  Sarah Lunsdorf, the bartender who orchestrated my beating, had said Fellows didn’t drink. Someone was lying. I stood up and almost broke a molar hiding the pain caused by the movement. Fellows stopped pacing and let out a little breath as if the inquisition was over and he could get back to his Housewives. I walked toward the front door, then made a quick left and into the tiny open kitchen. Fellows moved toward me when I whipped open the refrigerator door. No beer bottles. Just some milk, fruit, veggies, condiments, and a couple to-go containers.

  This seemed to put the lie on Fellows. I started to shut the door, then stopped. The gold lids of nine or ten large mason jars pushed behind the produce and milk on the bottom shelf caught my eye. I took Fellows for a bit of a nature boy, his TV taste notwithstanding, but I doubted he canned his own preserves.

  “What’s up, bro?” Tiny quake in Fellows’ voice. “Do you need something to drink?”

  I could feel his breath on my neck.

  Fellows had a surfer’s body, lean, long ropey muscles, and skin too tight to pinch. If he had the heart and the know-how, he might present a challenge. I doubted he had either, but I was already battling a concussion and bruised ribs.

  I turned to face him, and deliberately put my hand in my bomber jacket pocket where my .357 Magnum had been at the beginning of the night. “Go sit down, Trey.”

  He looked down at my pocket, then up at me. His eyes were a question mark. Mine were certain. He let out a “Dude,” then went and sat down in the loveseat.

  I bent down, swallowed the pain, shoved my hand behind the fruit and veggies and came out with a mason jar. Full of marijuana buds. I set the jar down on the kitchen counter. Fellows stood up, but didn’t make a move toward me.

  “Medical, bro.” High pitched. Nervous. “That’s medical.”

  “Only if half the glaucoma patients in San Diego live here.” I pulled out the other nine jars and put them on the counter. “There has to be over four or five pounds here. Possession with intent to sell. Even with California’s ever-changing weed laws, that’ll get you jail time, bro.”

  “Dude, I can’t…you gotta give me a break.” He edged toward the front door. “I can’t do time.”

  “Sit back down.” I pointed my pocketed hand at the loveseat. “Let’s talk about this.”

  “Whatever you want, man. I can cut you in. Whatever.”

  Two years ago, another drug dealer had offered to cut me in on his business. I flushed his stash down a toilet and broke his nose. Back when I had a temper. And thin skin.

  “So you deal weed for the Raptors. That’s why you hang out at The Chalked Cue and how you know Steven Lunsdorf.”

  “No…I…” He shook his head and his eyes blinked like hummingbird wings. “They’re not…I don’t deal with them.”

  “I used to be a cop, Trey. I got friends on the force.” I lied. About the friends part. “You want to talk to them or me?”

  A pause like he was actually thinking about it. “You, I guess.”

  “You lie to me again,” I pulled my cell phone out of my jeans. “And I’ll have a couple narco detectives here in five minutes.”

  He gulped and nodded.

  “I don’t care about the weed. I just need to know how tight you are with the Raptors, and if your Lunsdorf murder story is bullshit.”

  “It’s all true, man.” Whiny. Like a kid alibiing to his parents.

  “Uh, uh.” I pursed my lips and shook my head. “The Raptors have you scared shitless. No way you’d rat one of them out without a better reason than you just being a good citizen. The assholes who jumped me thought somebody had sent me. Somebody who wasn’t you. Is that who put you up to this? This mystery man the Raptors are scared of?”

  “Nobody put me up to anything! I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He sounded like he was about to cry.

  “You’re lying, Trey.” I held up my phone and slid my thumb across the screen to unlock it. “Time to talk to the police.”

  “No!” He jumped up. “I’m telling the truth! You gotta believe me.”

  “Okay, okay. I believe you.” I didn’t, but put the phone back in my pocket anyway. He was going to hold onto his story, and I had no intention of calling the police. “Just sit back down. Take it easy.”

  Fellows did as told. He put his head in his hands and shook it back and forth. My own head was wobbling a bit. Nausea crept up my throat. I couldn’t break Fellows. Not tonight in my condition. Maybe not ever. Could he be telling the truth?

  “How long you been dealing for the Raptors?” I still needed to tie up a few loose ends.

  “They just supply me the gange.” He pulled his head from his hands and glanced at the wall opposite him. “I don’t really deal for them. I do this to make a living. I can’t live off disability for the rest of my life.”

  “Call it what you want. How long?”

  “About four years.”

  “Three and a half years before you went on disability.” I said that just so he knew I wasn’t buying all his bullshit. “How did you get hooked up with the Raptors?”

  “One of them used to work with me at UPS.”

  “Name.” I put my hand on the counter and tried not to show that my legs were shaking.

  “I can’t give you his name!” His eyes went round. “You don’t understand, dude. These guys will kill me!”

  My ribs and head made me a believer. The room started spinning, sweat pebbled my forehead, and bile shot up my throat. I stumbled over to the kitchen sink and puked into it. Then the ceiling crashed down on me.

  “Dude!” Fellows stood over me, his dreadlocks spiraling down.

  “I’m okay.” I wasn’t. I reached a hand up to grab the counter, and Fellows grabbed my arm and hoisted me up until he could get his shoulder under me. My ribs screamed, but I managed not to.

  “I’ll take you to the emergen
cy room, dude. You’re messed up.”

  “No.” I tried to straighten up on my own but still needed his shoulder to stay upright. “Just help me outside. I’ve got a ride waiting for me.”

  Fellows and I did a drunk shuffle-walk out to the street. He held tight, and never once tried to grab the phantom gun in my jacket pocket. Kim’s Beemer’s engine revved on, and she pulled away from the curb where she’d parked when she’d dropped me off.

  I broke away from Fellows and stood on my own. “Thanks.”

  “Be careful, dude.” He turned and went back to his tiny cottage just as Kim pulled up.

  As I opened the car door, a thought spun around my already gyroscoping head. Maybe this guy was a Good Samaritan. Could he really be willing to risk his life just to do the right thing?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Kim helped me upstairs to my bedroom. The banister worked as a crutch on one side, Kim on the other. Midnight wanted to help, but all he could do was walk up a couple steps, then look back and wait until I caught up. My head throbbed constantly, and each step up the stairs was a kick to the ribs. We finally made it, and Kim shuffled me over to the edge of the bed and eased me down until I could sit.

  “Bedtime for Ricky.” She took off my shoes and socks and then my pants. When we were together, Kim had undressed me before bed a few times. Usually, right after I’d undressed her. There wouldn’t be any reciprocation tonight. Or probably ever again.

  She delicately removed my jacket and slowly pulled my shirt off over my head.

  “Oh.” She gasped.

  “What?”

  She stared at the scar on my shoulder just below the clavicle. Residue from the bullet shot through me by the dead man in my nightmares. Kim and I had both almost died that night. She credited me for saving her life. A hero, I wasn’t. My bad decisions had put her in danger, but somehow hadn’t gotten her killed. She’d been the lucky one.

  “I’ve never seen it before.” Emerald-green eyes. Beautiful. Delicate. Sad.

  We were long past seeing each other undressed when I took the bullet. For me, the scar was a reminder of actions I’d taken and hadn’t taken that resulted in people dying or being scarred for life.