The Girl at the Deep End of the Lake

by Sam Lee Jackson

  “Tell him,” Blackhawk said to me. Nacho reached for the remote and turned the volume down. I told him the same as I told Blackhawk.

  “Seventh Avenue Playboy Diablos?” He shook his head. “I think I’ve heard of them, low grade punks. Hang out in a condemned warehouse. Cook some bath salts, do some Molly, methamphetamines, cook it, sell it, smoke it.”

  “They MS13?”

  He laughed, “Shit no. MS13 would eat them up.”

  “The girl said some wore MS13 tats.”

  “Trying to be bad. Not even in the same league.”

  “You know of a cop name of Mendoza, Mike Mendoza, or a guy runs a half-way house, a Father Correa?”

  “Know’m both,” Nacho said. “Mendoza put me away for a couple years. Good guy. The Father takes in girls. Usually with babies. Got nowhere to go.”

  I laughed, “Mendoza put you away and he’s a good guy?”

  “I was the bad guy. He did the right thing. Straight shooter, keeps his word.”

  I looked at Blackhawk and he gave me that inscrutable bemused look. “Nacho was a bad man, now he’s a pussy cat.”

  “A regular pussy cat,” I said.

  “Meow,” Nacho said.

  11

  We took Nacho’s Jeep Cherokee downtown because Blackhawk’s Jag and my Mustang were too small in the back for a big man. Nacho drove and wove through the city streets like he did it every day. Maybe he did. He found the parking lot to the police headquarters and got lucky that a truck was pulling out as we were pulling in. We got out of the Jeep and Nacho pulled a Glock 19 from the back of his belt and slid it under the front seat.

  “Got a metal detector in the lobby,” he said by way of explanation. Blackhawk unstrapped a .38 Smith and Wesson that was velcroed to his ankle. I slid the spring loaded knife with the four-inch blade and pocket clip from my front pocket and slid it next to Blackhawk’s weapon under the back seat.

  “Traveling light?” Blackhawk said.

  “Ain’t much danger of a carp attacking me.”

  We followed Nacho across the lot and up the steps. Sure enough, inside the massive glass doors we were met by a security station set up like a mini airport. I set the alarm off and had to take my belt off.

  Once through, Nacho started down the long hallway toward some large opaque glass double doors. We followed. “Where you get that shit-kicker belt?” Blackhawk grinned.

  “At the shit kicker store. They didn’t have a pimp store at that particular mall.”

  “Too bad,” he said softly as Nacho opened the glass door and ushered us in.

  There was a uniform behind a long counter. Nacho walked up to him and said, “We’d like to speak with Mendoza.”

  “Lots of Mendozas,” he said, his eyes shifting from Nacho, to Blackhawk, then to me. If we worried him, he sure didn’t show it.

  “Sergeant Mendoza, gangs,” Nacho said.

  The officer studied him for a long moment, his eyes going to our hands and our belts. “It’s Lieutenant now. What is this about?”

  Nacho looked at me.

  “There’s a young girl missing,” I said.

  The uniform was looking at me now, his eyes completely non-committal. “Like he said,” he said nodding at Nacho, “the Lieutenant is in Gangs. You’ll want Missing Persons.”

  “I believe it is the gangs that have her.”

  “The Lieutenant is probably busy, I can get you a detective.”

  Nacho leaned forward, “Would you please tell Lieutenant Mendoza that Ignacio Pombo is in the lobby and would like a word.”

  The officer studied him a moment, then turned and picked up a phone.

  “Pombo?” Blackhawk said.

  Nacho looked at him, “What is your real name? Senor Blackhawk Eaglefeather Yellow Tail Pussy Catcher Jones?”

  Blackhawk just laughed.

  “Pombo is a real, upstanding, honorable name,” I said. “Even if it did come from a Disney cartoon character.”

  “Fuck you, Super Boy.”

  The officer turned back. “Have a seat, he’ll be down.”

  There were straight backed chairs lining the wall. We sat. Blackhawk and I had learned the hard art of waiting a long time ago. We sat motionless. After a while Nacho began fidgeting. He stood then sat back down.

  “I don’t like this place,” he said. “Bad memories.” Blackhawk and I just looked at each other. It was another twenty minutes before a door opened down the hall. There was an exit sign above it and I surmised it was a stairwell. A man stepped out and Nacho stood again. I could tell from Nacho that this was Mendoza. The best way I can describe the man is with the word compact. All the parts fit together perfectly. He wasn’t tall, but he exuded physical power. The suit he wore was immaculate, the tie all the way to the top. His salt and pepper hair was cut so close his scalp gleamed through. His shoes were black and buffed. They must have rubber soles. He made no noise as he walked toward us. His jacket was unbuttoned and the way it rode, I could tell he was heeled and it was on his right hip.

  Blackhawk and I came to our feet. He stopped three paces from us, looking at Nacho. I knew he had taken me and Blackhawk in with a glance. He didn’t offer a hand.

  “Nacho, long time.”

  “I’ve been out three years now.”

  “I haven’t heard your name, so you must be staying clean.”

  “I’m a tax paying, responsible citizen.”

  “Good to hear. How can I help?”

  Nacho indicated me, “This is Jackson. He’s looking for a girl.”

  He turned to me. No wasted words, no wasted movement.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  I told him the story the same as I had told the Colonel, Blackhawk and Nacho. I was getting good at it. When I finished, he gave no reaction. He turned to Blackhawk, “And you, sir?”

  “I work with Nacho and I am a friend of Mr. Jackson’s.”

  Mendoza nodded, “I see.” He turned to the uniformed officer behind the counter. “Have Detective Boyce meet us in my office.”

  “Yes, sir,” the officer replied.

  “Follow me, gentlemen,” Mendoza said and turned on his heel.

  We followed him.

  12

  Mendoza went up three stories of stairs at a rapid pace with no apparent effort. On the third floor, he held the door for us. We stepped into a large room filled with desks, phones and cops. Some of the cops were talking with civilians. Or maybe they were civilians just for now. Mendoza led us across the large room and held open the door to his office. None of the cops gave us a glance. The back of the office had a window that opened to the outside; the rest was surrounded by plexiglass. The better to see you with, Grandma.

  The room had a desk facing front, two file cabinets on one wall and two chairs facing the desk. There was a coffee pot on one of the file cabinets. It was still a third full but the on light was off. As he came in behind us, he snagged a chair from an empty desk and brought it in. He moved around the desk and sat, indicating with a small gesture for us to join him.

  As soon as we sat, the door opened and Detective Boyce joined us. Detective Boyce was about five seven, a hundred and thirty pounds, and had long dark hair to her shoulders. She too was compact, moving easily inside her own skin. She didn’t appear to be wearing much in the way of make-up. She moved to the side of the door and leaned against the plexiglass, arms folded across her chest.

  Mendoza looked at me. “Let’s go through this all again for the sake of Detective Boyce.”

  Blackhawk and I nodded at her; Nacho said, “Ma’am.”

  I took out my camera and turned it on. I found the pictures I’d taken of the girl and handed it across to the Lieutenant. He took it and moved it from picture to picture, studying each one thoroughly.

  “I live on a houseboat at Pleasant Harbor,” I said.

  “Where’s that?” Boyce asked.

  “Lake Pleasant.”

  She nodded.

  “Two nights ago I was sleeping up top
when two guys dumped the girl, wrapped in plastic, off the end of the dock.”

  “What did they look like?” Mendoza asked without looking up from the camera.

  I described them. “But it was night and there is a low watt light at the end of the pier,” I said.

  “Then what?”

  “It looked like a long plastic package, but when it hit the water it moved and I knew it was a person. So I went in and got lucky.”

  “Lucky?”

  “They had weighted the girl down and she was dropping fast.”

  Mendoza was studying me now. He handed the camera to Detective Boyce. “Sounds like it was the girl that got lucky.”

  “That too,” I nodded.

  Detective Boyce went through the pictures. She looked at Mendoza and shook her head.

  “So the girl was alive.”

  “After CPR.”

  “But she’s missing.”

  “A woman on one of the other boats helped me. After the girl spit up half the lake and could talk, she insisted we not call the police. All we got is that her name is Lucinda, she is sixteen and was on the streets staying with what she said was the 7th Ave Diablo Playboys. Headed up by a guy named Roland. She was hooking for him. She stayed the rest of the night and all the next day with the woman on the woman’s boat, and then this morning she was gone.”

  “Who is the good Samaritan?”

  “I’d not met her before. She said her name was Grandberry.”

  “Name of her boat?”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Name of your boat?”

  “The Tiger Lily.”

  I could see Blackhawk shake his head out of the corner of my eye.

  Mendoza smiled, “Really?”

  I nodded, “Yeah, really.”

  “That make you Peter Pan?” asked Detective Boyce.

  Nacho snorted.

  “Just a lost boy,” I said, looking at her.

  Detective Boyce said, “I’ll take this,” indicating the camera, “and download the pictures, get us some hard copies.”

  “Can I have one?” I asked.

  “Sure, I’ll make several.” She opened the door and shut it quietly behind her.

  “So, you think the Diablos dumped her, then came later and got her?” Mendoza asked.

  “She couldn’t believe her best friends could do such a thing. I think she called them from the marina store and then they came and got her. I can’t say for certain that the two that dumped her were Diablos.”

  “Back to the lion’s den?”

  “That’s why I’m here. You know the Diablos?”

  “Small time. Meth cookers, crackheads mostly. Petty stuff. Hang out in an old warehouse on Lower Buckeye. We roust them once in a while just to let them know we’re watching. Small time stuff. Some of the girls are hooking but I’ve not seen this one.”

  He looked at me, leaning back in his chair. “You know this is probably a fool’s errand. We get a thousand runaways a year. Most of them end up on drugs and hooking. Most of them don’t want to be saved. They just want the next hit.” He picked up his phone. “I’ll put a black and white in there. See what they find.” He punched some numbers then spoke into the phone. When he hung it up he said, “What makes this one so special?”

  “She was dumped off my pier,” I said.

  A moment later Detective Boyce came back in with a folder. She took an 8 x 10 head shot of Lucinda and handed it to me. “I’ll check with Missing Persons. Do you have their numbers?” she asked Mendoza.

  “Just his,” he said, indicating me. He looked at Nacho, “Nacho?”

  “You can reach Nacho and me at the El Patron, where we work,” Blackhawk spoke up.

  “Durango?”

  Blackhawk nodded.

  “What’s your name?” Mendoza asked.

  “Blackhawk.”

  Mendoza didn’t look surprised, “Of course,” he said.

  Blackhawk smiled. Nacho was smiling.

  Detective Boyce had another photo in her hand which she handed to me. It was a Hispanic male thirty-plus years old. He was caught in the photo slouched back against a wall. He held a cigarette up close to his face and smoke was coming from his mouth like he had just taken a drag. His slick dark hair was combed straight back and went to his shoulders. He wore a white tee shirt and his neck and arms were covered with tattoos. His right bicep had a very striking tattoo of an eagle. I couldn’t make out any MS13.

  “Roland?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “This mine?”

  She nodded again.

  Mendoza said, “Well, Mr. Jackson, Detective Boyce will be in touch if we find anything.” He stood. The meeting was over. “Nice to see you again, Nacho. Especially without handcuffs involved.” He put his hand out and we took turns shaking it. Detective Boyce didn’t offer. She was watching Blackhawk. We filed out.

  Down at the Jeep, Blackhawk said, “Well, Kemo Sabe, what now?”

  I looked at Nacho. “You think you could find this warehouse?”

  “Sure,” he said. “It’ll be the one on Lower Buckeye with the jackwad crackheads sitting out front.”

  We found it not because of the jackwad crackheads but because a black and white was sitting out front with the lights flashing.

  “Ain’t gonna be no one home,” Nacho said. He pointed up. “Always got a lookout up there. Any black and white pulls onto this street, they clear out.”

  “Drive around,” I said. “I want to get a look at this place.”

  Nacho pulled past the black and white and took the next corner.

  “What you thinking?” Blackhawk asked.

  “I think the girl has to be here. Where else is she going to be? I say we go in hard and see for ourselves.”

  “When?”

  “They spooked now,” Nacho said. “Wait a while. Wait for them to get…you know?”

  “Complacent,” Blackhawk said.

  “Yeah, that,” Nacho said.

  Blackhawk nodded. “You ready for that firewater yet?” he asked me.

  “Yeah,” I said craning my neck to see the back of the building, as Nacho made another turn. Looked like a warehouse.

  “Good,” Blackhawk said. “Hey, I’ve got a question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What you gonna do with her when you get her?”

  13

  It was after ten and we were sitting at the bar in the main room of El Patron. Blackhawk was treating me to a tequila tasting, and I was currently sipping on Arta, a silver agave tequila. Very smooth and very deadly.

  The place was jammed, and Blackhawk, Nacho and the bartender from earlier whose name I learned was Jimmy were working the bar. The band had started and the dark-eyed girls were immediately on the dance floor, starting with each other, knowing it would be a few drinks before the men would join them. Earlier I had wandered down to the two other rooms and each was only about half full. One had a long, tall skinny guy doing Waylon Jennings and the other had some kids thrashing their guitars like they had been bad and needed punishment. El Patron was the first joint I had been in that had a suit-your-musical-mood venue.

  I was enjoying the lively music in the main room. The band of men in broad sombreros and fancy suits all alike were on the stage. One had a guitar the size of Madagascar. The singer was a striking young woman with flowing black hair and bright skirts, and she held all the single men in the room in the palm of her hand. Probably the married men too, but they dared not show it. They watched her, knowing the wives were watching them. The place had a good vibe, all familiar and comfortable.

  Then I noticed the singer watching the back of the room. The men against the wall had all turned their heads.

  A phalanx of young men, white and black, had come through the double doors. Jeans, sleeveless ASU football jerseys cut off at the midriff. The really big guys had some bellies but the skinny guys were rocks. The white guys had mostly close-cropped hair. The blacks had long, braided hair. College
jocks. My side of the bar was mostly empty so they sat down along it, laughing a little more loudly than necessary.

  It was a very large young man that sat next to me. His tee shirt bulged with his pectoral muscles. There were prominent veins along his biceps. Weightlifter and did a lot of it. He had to be fifty pounds and two inches on me. He exuded the self-confident swagger of a man that gets whatever he wants. Even with the tequila in me I could smell the whiskey on him. He put money out on the bar. Nacho came down and gave me a look, then politely took his order. Shot and a beer. Nacho asked him for his I.D. This irritated him, but he struggled it out of his jeans and Nacho made a point of looking it over.

  Nacho looked at me again, then turned to fill the order. I noticed that Blackhawk and the other bartender were checking every I.D. Satisfied, they started setting beers on the bar. Nacho brought Big Bubba his drinks and he downed his shot and half the beer and let out a long protracted belch. He turned and studied the dancing women. He must have sensed me looking at him. He turned and gave me the long hard stare that made most men pee themselves. I tried to hold on.

  “What you looking at?” he said.

  “Nothing much,” I said.

  Not sure what to say to that, he glared at me some more, then turned and went back to studying the women. Now some of the men had joined them, and the band had the dancers really moving. I finished my tequila and set the shot glass on the bar. Blackhawk looked at me and I shook my head. I had a long drive back to the boat.

  I slid off the stool and headed for the men’s room. I was impressed. It was spotless. I finished, washed my hands and came back out. The music had stopped. All the jocks were bunched behind Bubba and the dancers were grouped across from them. Between them was Nacho. He was talking to Bubba.

  “You boys can sit at the bar and have your drinks. You will leave the ladies alone, or you can get the hell out of here.”

  Bubba was doing his best to save face, but it was obvious to me he wanted no part of Nacho. After a protracted moment, one of the other jocks said, “Fuck it Bobby, bitches ain’t worth it.” Bobby stood and stared at Nacho long enough to prove he wasn’t afraid. The others slowly began to sit down. Finally, as the last man standing, saving face, Bobby turned and sat down. Nacho signaled the band and the music began again. I stepped up to my stool and laid a five on the bar. Blackhawk wasn’t charging me but I wanted Jimmy to get a tip.