P.J. Morse - Clancy Parker 01 - Heavy Mental (22 page)

I very nearly giggled. It was clear that whoever wanted to get me out of the picture was a cheapskate and had hired amateurs who preferred finishing their supper to getting the job done right. I almost felt bad for them.

But not entirely. By the time they left the room, I was thinking about giving them a little taste of their own medicine. They walked the twenty paces back to the door and slowly pulled it shut. They bickered the entire way about who was hogging the soy sauce packets and how the delivery guy didn’t bring enough of the hot mustard.

I knew I’d have to be quiet in order to get out of there. Being quiet wasn’t my strong suit, as I was accustomed to amplifiers and guitars. I also didn’t have much time to waste. Even though they were indecisive about putting me out, they could certainly change their minds, and I had to make sure I was either out of there or ready for them.

I blinked and waited for my eyes to adjust again to the light. The pain was still brutal, but I could make out the dim shape of a ceiling fan on the ceiling above me. I tried to raise my head and nearly passed out from the hurt, which further strengthened my resolve. I now officially held a grudge against Jorge, Travis, their chloroform, and whoever hired them to use it.

I stiffened my spine and imagined a crane tugging me upright. The sheet fell down and I was relieved that I was still in my clothes, and the same ones at that. Sitting up got my blood moving, but I felt dizzy. Resting for a moment, I turned my head to absorb what I could from the room. The wall was covered with a light-and-dark striped wallpaper that had flowery patterns in the light spots. Crown molding lined the tops of the walls. A musty scent mixed in with the Chinese food, and the floor was bare. Wherever it was, it was an old San Francisco building, and it wasn’t Dr. Redburn’s office.

As I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, I realized it was more of a sofa. One by one, I lowered my feet to the floor and pushed the blanket back. I tried to stand, but my legs were so rubbery that I let myself collapse to the point where I could crawl.

I kept crawling along the edge of the room until I reached the door. The cold knob was narrow and ornate, carved like in all the old San Francisco homes. I wondered if I could make a break for it if Jorge and Travis were immediately on the other side. And, if they had my pistol nearby, were they quick enough to get off a shot?

The slurping and eating noises gave me cause for hope. Greasy fingers and guns don’t mix. When I turned the knob and pulled the door, I prayed to the gods of WD-40 that it would stay quiet. I created just enough space to crawl through.

I got lucky—I found myself on all fours with Jorge and Travis’s backs to me. They were watching
Cheaters
on the television set, which meant it was late.
Cheaters
wasn’t exactly prime-time programming. Those two were absorbed in the story of a woman who was being followed by a camera crew as she canoodled at a mall restaurant with a man who wasn’t her husband. At that moment, I wished I were involved in something as simple as a stakeout at a mall.

Jorge and Travis were sitting on folding chairs with two large brown bags of Chinese food and my pistol between them. Judging from the slurping, they were at the soup stage and getting ready to move on to the main course.

I finally had a better idea of what Travis looked like. He was twice Jorge’s size and completely bald. All muscle, no brains, I hoped.

“Kinda sucks that you got fired,” Travis said, mid-slurp.

“Eh, you got the girl,” Jorge replied. “That’s gotta count for something.”

“When we get the money,” Travis said. “We’re going to Orlando. Always wanted to go there.”

Jorge’s mouth was full, but I heard him say, “Gotta sell the necklace first, man.”

“Fuck that,” Travis said. “We find it ourselves, and we sell it. I know people.”

“You know people?” Jorge asked. “Whatever.”

Gotta sell the necklace? Then who was going to buy it from Jorge and Travis? Sabrina said Dr. Redburn was going to auction it, but I doubted that it involved Sotheby’s. Travis didn’t seem like a Sotheby’s guy.

I focused on my slow crawl. I saw an open door with a stairway just outside. If I could make it there, perhaps I could outrun them to the street.

I also saw a shovel propped up against the door frame. It had a little dirt on it. I thought these guys were buffoons, but I began to take them more seriously when I realized they might have been digging my grave.

Alas, even more basic bodily functions than fear kicked in at just that moment. The smells of sweet and sour soup and egg rolls were more than I could take, and my stomach released a plaintive growl.

Jorge looked at Travis. “That you?”

Travis looked back. “No.” Then he turned around and saw me. “Dammit!” He stood up and promptly spilled hot soup all over his thighs. “Dammit!” he roared a second time, bending over and instinctively trying to pull his pants down. The gun was on a side table, but Travis was far more concerned about his steaming pants. Jorge was flapping his arms, completely adrift when Travis was out of commission.

The gun was out of my reach, so, despite my rubbery legs, despite my headache, I sprang for the shovel. Travis, really mad, lumbered toward me, with his pants around his knees and clutching his scalded crotch. He was wearing a pair of boxers with hot dogs printed on them.

I could have run, but I had unfinished business to accomplish. I opened my eyes wide and imagined I was Clayton Crespo receiving the pitch of his life. I screamed, swung that shovel toward Travis’s bald noggin, and hit a home run, sending him to the floor.

Jorge finally wised up and tried to reach for the pistol, but I managed to nail him in the side. That was
my
pistol. And that Chinese food was going to be
my
supper.

Jorge tried to regain his balance, and he groaned. He went for the pistol again, but his arm was useless. “I’m not through with you, Jorge!” I screamed, aiming the shovel right for his arm. I’d shatter his arm before he could touch my pistol and my food.

Instead of facing an irate, hungry, drugged woman armed with a shovel, Jorge chose to break for the room where I’d been drugged. I was tempted to go after him, but I let him slam the door behind him. I thought he should cower away like the chicken he was. Then I ran out the door after grabbing the pistol, the bag of uneaten Chinese food, and the shovel for good measure.

Once I was outside, I read the street signs and realized I was in the Sunset district. Hardly anyone was out, but I managed to flag down a cab driver with the shovel. I explained my plight to the driver, a hippie who was grooving on KPFA, Pacifica’s community radio station. He told me, “You’ve been on a long, strange trip, sister. This ride’s gonna be free.”

Back at the apartment, while sitting at my kitchen table, I looked at the clock on the microwave. Two a.m. I lingered over Jorge and Travis’s beef with broccoli and drank several glasses of water to drain my system of the drugs. I kept spilling the water because my hands were still slightly numb, and I couldn’t believe I had the strength and the rage to take down two men with a shovel. Then again, those two deserved a segment on
America’s Dumbest Criminals
.

After finishing the beef, I emptied the plastic Chinese food bag of all its contents. I had a fortune cookie and a receipt. I decided to crack open the cookie. The message inside made me giggle. It read,

In your life, you will meet many interesting and artistic people.

“I guess that’s not the case tonight,” I laughed.

Then I read the receipt for the food. At first, I assumed that Jorge and Travis would have used cash, but that was giving them too much credit. A name and an entire credit card number was printed on the white paper. I got lucky—not all restaurants had caught on that they weren’t supposed to print those numbers. Jorge Vazquez had a Mastercard. Even though a lump was throbbing on the back of my head, I was left feeling that the night was a triumph.

CHAPTER 30

DOUBLE AGENT

W
HEN
I
WOKE UP,
I
started researching Jorge Vazquez. If I could find him, then maybe I could find the necklace. At the very least, I’d be a lot closer to it.

I did some digging on the Internet and found a phone number and address for the Jorge Vazquez who had a Mastercard with the same digits. When I saw where Jorge was from, I clapped my hand over my mouth and immediately pushed myself away from my computer. Standing up to tell Harold the big news, I tangled my left foot up in a computer cord and wound up on my face.

I didn’t care. I bolted down the stairs and cried out, “Harold!”

Harold staggered out of bed, his wiry hair sticking out all over the place. “Where’s the fire?” he asked.

“You know what I found out?” my hands were flapping, and I was jumping up and down.

“Wha?”

“Jorge Vazquez lives in Sacramento! Sacramento!”

“And that means what? He has a long commute?” He wandered into the kitchen for some cereal.

I felt a little deflated. “It means that he might work for Sabrina’s husband
.
Mr. Buckner! The UC chancellor! And he worked for Dr. Redburn. He’s a double agent!”

“I hate to tell you this,” Harold called from the kitchen, “but I don’t know who Jorge Vazquez is.”

“That’s why I need your help!”

Already eating out of his cereal bowl, Harold headed for his breakfast nook. “As long as I don’t get hit by an ice-cream truck.”

I realized that Jorge Vazquez and the man driving the ice-cream truck had similar small builds. “I think I made the person who drove the truck very sorry last night.”

“How so?”

I smiled. “I hit him with a shovel.”

Harold set his bowl down on the table and applauded. “Now that perks me up considerably! If you find him, can I have a crack at him, too?”

I took my own bowl and began helping myself to cereal. “If I’m right, you’ll have plenty of chances for schadenfreude. Wanna see the shovel?”

“Uh, okay,” Harold replied, scratching his head.

I ran upstairs and brought down my prize for the evening. “Look! It’s blood!”

Harold jumped back, and some milk dribbled down his chin. He peered closer at the blood that had crusted on it. I added, “It’s either Jorge’s or Travis’s blood.”

He gulped. “Is your dad right? And who is Travis? Is your job getting dangerous?”

“Maybe a little,” I said. “Can you help me? All it would take is a phone call, and I would listen in.” I shoved my business card with Jorge’s number scrawled on the back of it Harold’s way. “Just ask whoever picks up if he’s Jorge Vazquez. Tell him that you have his Mastercard number and you want to give it back. He knows my voice, so I can’t do it. Jorge knows my voice, so I need you to do it. It’ll be fun. Please?”

He stared at the number. “916. Sacramento.” He went to get his kitchen phone while I stationed myself in his living room so I could pick up. I sat on Harold’s sofa, next to an old rotary phone.

Harold brought his more modern wireless phone into the living room and punched on the keys while I watched. I held my breath, snapped up the receiver, and held my hand over it. It rang three times, and I prayed that someone would answer.

Eventually, a young woman picked up. “Hello?” I asked. I could hear emo music in the background. I thought that was strange. If I were to make a playlist for Jorge Vazquez, it wouldn’t have included emo. Crunk, maybe. Reggaeton, maybe. But not emo.

“May I please speak to a Jorge Vazquez?” Harold asked formally.

“Are you a telemarketer? Like, I’m not putting you through if you’re a telemarketer.” The girl spoke louder as the song reached the chorus.

“I’m not a telemarketer. I need to speak with Jorge Vazquez.” He paused for a moment, and I could tell he forgot what I told him to say. “It’s about a shovel.”

I guess that was good enough for the girl to pass the phone to Jorge. She yelled, “Jorge! It’s some old guy wanting to talk with you about a shovel!”

“Huh?” a surprisingly young voice answered. The phone rattled a bit, and a voice that was quite clearly not my Jorge Vazquez said, “This is Jorge Vazquez.”

When my mouth dropped open, Harold wasn’t sure what to do. “Uh, hi, Mr. Vazquez, I have your Mastercard, and I want to give it back.”

“Give it back?” The Real Jorge sounded angry. “Are you the guy who bought all that shit at Boxes Galore on my card? My mom’s gonna kill me! My credit rating is, like, shot to shit, dude!”

I began mouthing, “It’s not him! It’s not him!” Harold pointed at me and frowned, so I dropped the pretense of eavesdropping. I started talking on my line. “Mr. Vazquez?”

“Who is this?”

“Clancy Parker, private detective.”

“I didn’t do anything! I don’t have to pay that bill! I filed a police report! I have friends who are pre-law!” His voice veered toward the screechy side.

“Jorge, listen to me. I think you just got charged for some Chinese food last night.”

“What? Dude, I don’t even like Chinese food! I don’t even know where this Boxes Galore place is!”

I felt terrible. Here was this kid who happened to be named Jorge Vazquez who was dealing with a loose credit card and I had just scared the hell out of him. “There is no way you will have to pay that bill. In fact, I’m pretty sure that the other Jorge Vazquez is going to be in some serious trouble with the law for other things. But, do you mind if I ask who you are?”

“Look, I’m just a student. I have a big paper coming up, and I don’t want to deal with this.”

Then something clicked. Just because this kid wasn’t the same Jorge who kidnapped me didn’t mean he wasn’t important to my investigation. “Do you happen to go to school at the UC in Sacramento?”

“Wait. Dude, how did you know? Are you Sherlock?”

“I don’t know a lot of people over 25 who actually like emo, for starters.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Harold mouth, “Who’s Emo?” I continued, “And there probably aren’t a lot of emo-lovers in Sacramento who aren’t high school or college students. Do you know anyone else who is named Jorge Vazquez?”