Point Doom (11 page)

“No problem. I’ll FedEx tomorrow morning before twelve, L.A. time.”

I could hear Carr thinking—pausing—on the other end. “I always wondered what happened with you,” he said finally. “You just dropped off the fuckin’ map. . . . So, how’s business out there? You still workin’ alone?”

I was looking down at my Charter Arms .44. It was a decent piece at less than twelve feet but I needed something better, something repeating with fire power at a distance and one-shot kill capability. “I need Danny’s number too,” I said. “I need a clean Glock or a SIG and a box of hollow points. Should I call Danny myself or will you call him for me? I need to get hooked up.”

“Clean SIGs and Glocks ain’t cheap, JD.”

“You owe me, Carr—that arms deal in Chelsea that time. You know you owe me.”

“Hey, brother, that was years ago.”

“Yes or no? Don’t fuck with me on this. You know me and you know how I work. Do we deal or not?”

There was another several-seconds pause, then: “Yeah. Okay. You got it. I’ll have the samples run. Then we’re even. Deal?”

“Deal. What about the gun?”

“Forget Danny. He’s out of the loop these days. But it so happens I know a guy. Wait, lemme get my book. Hold on.”

Carr was back on the line in twenty seconds. “Ever hear of a place out there by you called Canyon Country?”

It brought a smile to my face. “Yeah—NRA Central. Yeah, I know Canyon Country.”

“There’s a guy lives there. Mendoza. We do favors for each other from time to time. Mendoza’s your man. I’ll make the call tomorrow.”

“Make it now and get back to me. I need to move on what I’ve got going here. Give me an address to send the samples.”

After I got the information I hung up.

FOURTEEN

A
t six-thirty
A.M
. my cell rang. I was sitting on my flip-out couch watching the TV news, drinking instant coffee. I’d slept off and on for two hours and smoked up all the half-smoked butts in my ashtray. In my dream I’d seen the faces again—they were covered with blood while they laughed and talked to each other.

I clicked the green button on the phone’s face to On. It was a 310 number. “Who’s this?” I said.

“Detective Afrika. Good morning.”

“What’s up, Afrika? I’m getting ready for work.”

“We’ll be in your neighborhood in about twenty minutes and we wanted to drop by to double-check a couple of things about your recollections. That okay with you?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Afrika chuckled. “Not really. We’re just fact-checking is all. Just routine stuff. Or you can come down to the office.”

“Okay, I’ll be here,” I said. Then I hung up.

MY MIND WENT
immediately to the freezer compartment of my refrigerator and my friend’s penis. Jesus! Afrika and Archer in my apartment! My bet was that an apartment toss would go with their fucking routine questions.

I went to the window and looked down. Outside, in the tiny backyard of the building, were a line of half a dozen sad rosebushes, a patch of lawn, and a flower bed of no more than twenty square feet that contained geraniums of different colors.

It was a workday and only two cars were left parked in the carport. I decided, fuck it! Now or never. I wasn’t going to get jacked up over my friend’s detached cock. Not today, anyway.

I OWNED ONE
wooden salad spoon and I found it in an unopened moving box beneath the kitchen counter.

Downstairs in the small garden, between the geraniums, the dirt was still moist from the last watering. After looking around to make sure I wasn’t being watched, I dug my hole, then upended the plastic bag and let Woody’s penis fall in.

Looking at the gray chunk of meat lying there in the shallow hole, I thought of my friend and his big salesman’s grin. Woody had been a good guy. A decent guy. But now the clock was ticking.

Back upstairs, sitting on my couch after washing my hands and my wooden dick-hiding spoon, I made another cup of instant coffee.

WHEN ARCHER AND
Afrika walked in, Archer immediately began nosing around my kitchen, while Afrika sat down next to me on the couch.

“Got a cigarette?” I said.

Afrika removed a pack from his coat pocket and put it on the table with his lighter. “Sure, help yourself.”

“I will,” I said, lighting one up, then stuffing two more in my shirt pocket. “Thanks.”

Special Forces Archer went into the bathroom first, looked inside, opened cabinets and drawers, then returned to the living room. He then searched the closet for a couple of minutes, opening and closing my cardboard boxes, seemed satisfied, put the stuff back, then closed the door. Then he opened the fridge, saw it was almost empty, and finally made his way to the freezer compartment. He looked at the frozen vegetables, took them out one at a time, and examined each bag closely, eyeing the one that had been torn open. That done, he put them back, then closed the fridge door.

“Just move in?” Archer wanted to know. “You’ve still got boxes.”

“Yeah, I’m a new tenant. What’s up, guys? I’m late for work.”

“Want us to call them for you? We can do that,” Afrika said. “A service of your local law enforcement professionals.”

“C’mon, let’s get to it.”

Archer was staring at me. “Anybody ever discuss an attitude adjustment with you, Fiorella?”

Afrika chimed in before my mouth could start in on his partner. “Your friend’s house keys are missing, JD. Maybe one or two other things too. Can you help us out there?”

“Sorry, Detective. I don’t know anything about any keys.”

In one of the two side pockets of my jacket hanging on the back of my only chair were Woody’s house and car keys—five feet away. In the other side pocket were my own keys. In my craziness about re-hiding my friend’s cock, I’d forgotten to stash his keys. That cock and my absurd stupidity about it had caused me way too much trouble. I was beginning to hate that cock.

“Mind if we see your keys?” Afrika said. “Let’s have a look. Where are they?”

I knew not to hesitate. “In my jacket pocket,” I said. “Over there on the chair. I’ll get them for you.” Then I started to get up.

“Sit tight, no problem. Archer’ll do that. Sit where you are.”

I had no choice. I sat back down.

Archer walked to the chair, stuck his hand in the left-side jacket pocket and came up with
my
keys. He held them up. “These the ones?”

“Correct, Detective,” I said, trying not to expel the air I’d been holding in my chest. “Outstanding police work.”

“You’re a smart-mouthed little prick, Fiorella. You’re starting to piss me off. I’m beginning to dislike you.”

“Look, guys, like I said, I’m late for work. I’d like to go now?”

Archer walked to my front door, located its key on my ring, stuck it in the lock, then flipped the tumbler. “Yeah, asshole,” he said, “you can go to work now.”

AFTER THEY’D GONE
I stood with my back to the closed door. I’d just dodged a bullet. Stupid. I’d been very stupid. And careless. Leaving Woody’s keys in my jacket pocket had almost cost me my ass. And I hated that buried, dead cock. Enough was enough!

I went back down to the garden, dug up Woody’s penis, brought it upstairs, then flushed the damned thing down my toilet.

I ARRIVED AT
Sherman Toyota just as the big showroom wall clock clicked to 8:10. I was forty minutes late.

Fernando and Vikki and the other three new salespeople, Walter and Benny and Sheeba Perry, a tall, pretty black woman with a shaved head and hoop earrings, were collecting their paperwork at their cubicles and getting ready to head toward Max’s office for the daily sales meeting. All carrying coffee cups. Three days earlier I had been the one to give Sheeba the tour of the car lot and then spent two hours showing her how to do the Sherman Toyota paperwork. We’d had lunch together at Jack in the Box and gotten along okay. She was a nice woman with a pretty smile and a spunky attitude. About thirty-five. I’d figured her for ex-civil service somewhere, but decided not to ask about anything personal.

As Sheeba passed by my desk she stuck out her hand. “Mornin’, JD,” she said with a sincere smile. “Hey, I sold one after you went home the other day. Third day on the job. You gave me some good tips. Not too bad for the token Negro at a Santa Monica car dealership, right?”

I had to smile back. “You’re smart and you’ve got style. I’m a believer,” I said.

In the coffee room, before going in to the meeting, I grabbed a quick cup, spilled some when my fingers wouldn’t cooperate, then headed for Max’s office, having forgotten to go back to my desk and pick up my call-back sales tracking notebook.

As I walked into the room the other salespeople nodded good morning. The air was still chilled outside and Vikki and Sheeba hadn’t taken off their coats. Vikki didn’t look up. Her eyes were fixed on her own fat sales folder.

Max set his cup down on his desk. “You folks go over your call-backs with each other for a few minutes,” he said. “I need to meet with Mr. Fiorella, privately.”

Outside Max’s office he closed the door, then turned to me. “Sorry, Max,” I said. “Sorry for being late, too. I had something I had to take care of. Jesus, and I forgot my tracking book again, too.”

His expression was strained—nervous and tentative. “I assume that you heard about Woody,” he said.

The bad news had traveled fast. I looked down at my shoes before I answered. “Yeah,” I said, “I did.”

“A terrible thing. A shit deal. A goddamn tragedy. O’Rourke was a good man. It was all over the news last night and this morning. They found his body. I know you guys were good friends.”

“Yeah, we were. And yeah, it was a lousy deal.”

Then Max’s face darkened. “So, you lied to me,” he said.

“What?” I said, not knowing what turn the conversation had taken. “Are you talking about Woody?”

“No, not Woody. Woody’s gone. God bless the poor son of a bitch. I’m talking about your arrest record, Fiorella. Apparently, you were once charged with murder and assault. Tell me something, why was that information not on your job application?”

I hadn’t been ready for the curve ball. “I don’t understand,” I said. “That was a long time ago. It was thrown out. Dismissed.”

“Yes or no? Have you or have you not been arrested and charged with numerous felonies?”

“Yes, is the answer. I was. But being charged with lame bullshit is one thing—a lot of people who do what I used to do get charged with things. Call it the cost of doing business. Being charged and being convicted are two very different computer screens.”

Max sneered. “Then, it’s a no-brainer. You’re fired, Mr. Fiorella. Effective immediately. You can pick up your paycheck tomorrow. I’ll have someone drive you home.”

“Did that arrest come out in my background check?”

“A lie is a lie, sir, especially on an official job application. Go clean out your demo and your desk. We’re done.”

“Answer my question, Max.”

“You have twenty minutes to get off this property.”

HALF AN HOUR
later, my belongings from the trunk of my Corolla demo and from my desk were in a cardboard box. Vikki walked up to me wearing a tight gray sweater and matching skirt. She was flipping her key ring in her hand. She wasn’t smiling. “I guess I’m your designated chauffeur,” she said. “Shall we go?”

“Swell,” I said. “Exactly perfect.”

WHEN MY STUFF
was in her trunk, including the DNA samples from under my demo’s hood that I’d transferred to a box in my backseat and we were on our way toward the freeway on Lincoln Boulevard, she turned to me. “Look, JD,” she said, “I’m sorry, okay?”

“Because I got fired?”

“No, not that. I came off like a double-barreled bitch last night at my place. You didn’t deserve to have me jump your case like that. Then, this morning, when I came in to work, I heard that Woody was . . . dead. Jesus! Did you know?”

“Yeah, I knew,” I said. “It was a bad knock. I didn’t take it very well and I didn’t want to bring it up last night.” I had no intention of telling this girl that I had been there and found the body.

“Woody and I were good friends,” I said to end the subject. “But hey, about last night, I was probably over the line. So, forget it. You owe me zip. Drive the car.”

Vikki wasn’t smiling. “Listen to me, okay? After you left I realized that I was treating you like I talk to my ex. Call it a conditioned reflex or something. I mean, for sure, you were pushy, but I completely overreacted. So I’m really sorry. Okay?”

I smiled for the first time that day. “You mean you really will have my baby?”

Vikki rolled her eyes. “You’ve got balls, Fiorella. I’ll give you that.”

Now she looked away and said the next few words to her windshield. “Can we try again?” She half whispered. “Maybe a real date or a reasonable facsimile?”

“Sounds like a plan to me. A very nice plan.”

Then I realized I needed to make a stop. “Hey,” I said, “can you do me a favor. I have to stop off at FedEx in the Marina. It’s on the way. Just keep going on Lincoln.”

“Sure, I know where it is. Behind the IHOP. FedEx, here we come. What’s so important?”

“Just an errand.”

“JD Fiorella, man of mystery.”

“That’s me, lady.”

STOPPING AT THE
next red light, she turned toward me again. “So, what happened back there with you and Max? It looked to be fairly quick and deadly.”

“I was arrested in New York City years ago. But, trust me, I’ve never been convicted of anything important.”

“You? What did you do?”

“I used to be a private detective. In that line of work, well, you know—things happen. You take your lumps. I was popped for something that didn’t stick.”

Now she was staring. “You were a detective? For real? I mean—who are you, Fiorella? Some kind of bad-boy tough guy?”

I shook my head as the light changed to green. “It all depends on your definition of the word “bad,” as one former president might say. I’ve made my share of mistakes and stupid decisions. But that was before I met you, blondie.”

Vikki gave me her hundred-dollar grin. “Gee-zus! What else have you done?”

“Me? A telemarketer; a high-end car rental agency owner in the Marina; a poet, and you know the rest; a newly shit-canned car salesman with a dead friend.”

“A poet! Really? Geez, I’m a big reader—at least a couple of books a week. I hate TV. What kind of stuff do you write?”

“I don’t write anymore. It was just a phase.”

“C’mon, Fiorella!”

“Okay, I did write a book of poems.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Just a weak-ass collection of nonsense.”

Vikki was smiling again—a strobe-light Hollywood-movie-premiere smile that filled her car. “Hey, look,” she said, “I’d really like to read something of yours. Really.”

“I guess that could be arranged. But what I’m interested in right now is that tight sweater you’re wearing. Is it okay to say that, now that we’re friends again?”

The pretty girl shook her head. “Jesus,” she whispered. Then: “So, what’s happening with FedEx?”

“Something’s come up that I need to deal with.”

“Something about Woody?”

“Why would it be something about Woody?”

“Just a guess. You guys were friends and now you’re telling me you were a detective.”

“You read too much Michael Connelly, kid.”

WE HAD REACHED
Washington Boulevard. Vikki caught the light and turned left, then made a quick right at the next block two hundred yards from FedEx.

She pulled up in front of the building.

“I’ll be right out,” I said.

“I’ll be right here, boss, just as I said; at your service. Oh, FYI: I told Max I had a dentist appointment. I’m off for the next four hours.”

INSIDE FEDEX I
used my credit cards for the last time. After this my plan was to go completely off the radar.