Hard Bite (16 page)

My first contact is a humble, brown-skinned man from a country south of the border—Mexico or El Salvador, Columbia or maybe Peru. I haven't really picked up the distinctions, the discerning eye and ear it takes to know which Latin accent goes with which region. We're sitting in The Organic Egg and it's unlikely that Ruben, that's his name, will know anybody who frequents the place, because he's driven a hundred miles down the coast in his battered Ford to meet me.

Ruben lets me know that his immigration status is on the same level as my driving: illegal. It's a motivating factor to run from the scene of an accident because when you hit somebody with your car, deportation is on the list of consequences. Let me put that another way. The first consequence is a manslaughter charge and after that registers in the head while hightailing it away from the scene, a lot of people choose to self-deport. It's kind of what happened with Ruben here, but not the way you think.

He relates, in halting English, what happened. It was all a mistake. Yeah, that's what they all say. It happened in Tijuana so he fled and jumped the border into the States. Ruben speaks slowly.

"The coyote show me where to climb the fence an' then he throw me a bicycle over."

"He smuggled you and gave you a bike. For how much?"

"Thirty bucks. The bike was extra."

The hit-and-run in Mexico takes me back a step. I expected to hear about a California hit. Here's my chance to avenge a hit-and-run not just in another state but another country. International vigilante status. Quite a leap. A thrill rakes my scalp.

I'm hooked, I have to have this guy. I happily shell out $150 cash on the table and tell Ruben he'll get another $150 at a follow-up interview. I need a little time to make notes and formulate questions before we get together again. He folds my money carefully, puts it in the frayed pocket of his shirt and buttons the flap. We leave The Organic Egg and he gets into his Chevy while I roll across the street, whistling.

***

Cinda lets herself into our motel kitchenette, rustling paper sacks of food. She has the contented look of a woman freshly shopped out. It's like sex to women, I'll never understand it. But I do understand that after unwrapping all the food items and eating a good meal with a few glasses of merlot, Cinda will be ready to make whoopee. So I look absolutely delighted that she's been shopping.

Instead of unloading the food like I expect, she goes right to the TV and turns on TMZ, the celebrity gossip show. The lead story comes up: Actress' Body Found in Tuna Canyon. Because Miss Hastings learned lines from old Three's Company episodes and possessed good hair and teeth, her death rates fifteen mintes of fame on a celebu-tard gossip show.

Cinda points at the flickering screen. "On or about July 2
^nd
they said. Isn't that the day you took Sid up to Malibu?"

A look of sheer innocence crosses my face. "Might have been. Why? What would you like to know."

She blinks slowly. "I wouldn't."

"Good then," I counter. "They just said there's no sign of foul play."

"Yet. No sign of foul play yet."

"Why don't you turn that thing off and we can have a good meal?" I give her a winning smile. "Afterward I can get to some good eating."

Sid jumps up and down at my clever joke. She shuts the TV down and opts for the radio.

While I drink a protein shake, it's a great pleasure watching Cinda get busy in the kitchenette. She throws chicken in an organic vodka sauce with basil, garlic and oregano while she sips wine and throws tidbits to Sid. It was me who introduced Cinda to fresh herbs and the delights of specialty grocery stores. What else would you expect from a town with a restaurant called The Organic Egg? Before we met, Cinda was a chain supermarket kind of gal. Canned spaghetti and chocolate ice-cream for dessert, nothing more exotic than that. I nudged her toward Italian sauces, fresh produce and gelato. On the tip of my tongue is all the buzz about Ruben, but I know it'll worry her and the moment is so light with the local bluegrass radio station playing, and our monkey boy chirping happily and diving for treats, that I just settle for watching them. The northern California sun sinks into the redwood forest, and I savor the happy moment.

***

The best thing about The Organic Egg, besides the home cookin', is NO HANDICAPPED ACCESS. In rural California people still have to lend one another a hand. Call me old-fashioned but I like that way. A couple of burly mountain men passing by see what needs doing and step up to hoist me inside. Cinda and I thank our good Samaritans as they pat me gingerly and move on. We settle at our favorite table and I listen to voicemail on the cell while she studies the menu.

"Mister Drayhart, if I do not hear from you by the end of today I cannot file your health report with your insurer. If I cannot file, you risk an interruption of disability payments. This is Marcie Blattlatch and this is my third message."

"Cinda, I have to meet with Marcie."

She looks up inquiringly from the "Bon Jour Breakfast Hi-lites" menu. "The one who threw my thong in the trash?"

"It was pretty funny at the time…"

"So call her. Tell her the vacation is great."

"I need to meet with her so she can sign insurance papers. My provider needs convincing this is a healthy move. Fresh air, country sunshine. I need Marcie's help to get benefits redirected up here. We can't live on credit cards and cash advances forever."

"I'm not staying overnight."

"We can't drive nine hours to LA and turn around and drive back."

"Just one night."

"Just one."

"Not going to your apartment or anything."

"Nope."

"Nothing else."

"No."

"I don't want to go back. It's not safe."

"What choice do we have?"

***

Goodbye redwood forest. Goodbye Redwood Rest-a-While. Goodbye Ruben, I'll have to kill you later. The Firebird charges the Golden Gate Bridge hell-bent for Hayward, Alameda, San Joaquin and down, down the 5, the ass-numbing 5. Ten hours later, we pull up at Cedars Sinai.

"Where you meeting Blattlatch?"

"Klanski's office."

"Need any help?"

"Cedars is crip-equipped, babe. Why don't you go find a hotel?"

"Call me when you're done."

***

Klanski's office isn't busy, the reception area is empty. His receptionist explains that it's High Holiday week and I've been squeezed in as an afterthought. She asks to be excused for a moment and politely wonders if I mind. I don't mind at all as I watch her shapely butt leave the area.

I'm attracted to the computer on her desk. Do you think she'd mind if I checked my social networking page? Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission? Yup.

I roll around the desk and the screensaver hasn't locked up access to the browser yet. Click once, click twice, I'm in.

CASH FOR YOUR STORY!

Crime writer offers paid interviews for hit-and-run stories. Is this you? Privacy and anonymity guaranteed. All payments in cash.

Dang, I've had 72 responses locally. They all look so juicy I feel a pang of sadness. Why did this fun have to end? Surely it won't hurt to look over a few emails… Get this one, he doesn't leave a name, but mentions this week as a good time to get together. That's not going to happen, but I can have fun, can't I?

Dear Respondent,

I showed your inquiry to my editor and we are interested in further contact. Please call me direct.

I give my cell number and sign as Dave Smith, Crime Writer. Ha!

The hall elevator dings and Blattlatch trots into view. "Mistah DRAAYYY-hart. How arrre you!?

"Did you miss me as much as I missed you, Blattlatch?"

"Oh YES." She plants a big one on my cheek. This close, she smells like Ivory soap and baby powder. Dear Blattlatch, she's telling the truth, and you know what? I am too. A big fuss ensues with Sid and he's all over her—squeaking and chirruping and whoring himself for an ear rub.

Klanski appears—already sporting a yarmulke in preparation for sundown. When we're settled in his office, he takes on the tone of an undertaker. He's even got the hands clasped behind his back to make sure I grasp the import of what he's about to say.

"Your realize moving so far away to Humboldt County, so far from this hospital, may hasten the progress of your condition?"

I waggle a finger. "Promises promises, Doctor K. Nurse, bust out the paperwork. Let's get the ink moving."

Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. Finally they are out of arguments. Klanski looks at his watch, checks the afternoon light outside his window. Blattlatch admits the forms are with the receptionist. "I'll have her print a set," she says and bustles out.

Cinda rings on my cell and Sid helps me pick it up. "It's my girlfriend," I say to Klanski who looks a touch jealous as I take the call.

"Just got a text from one of my old regulars. He wants to see me."

"Take it."

"What will you do?"

"Maybe Miss Blattlatch can drop me off. Did you get a hotel?"

"The Pasadena Motor Court."

"Leave a key for me at the desk."

Blattlatch returns waving the forms. They sign. I'm free.

***

In the elevator Blattlatch is her chatty self. She tells me all about the weather I missed while gone and is again recounting one of her favorite topics: the varied and valued benefits of a rectal flash-flush when my cell buzzes again. The number isn't Cinda. I let it go to voicemail, because I already know who it is, and what I'm going to do. Nonchalantly I say, "Miz B, think you could drop me and Sid down at the beach? We want to watch the waves one last time."

Inside the Cripple Coach it only takes one side of Marvin Hamlisch playing on the MP3 before we are looking at the sand. Blattlatch grasps my shoulder with affection. "I'm going to miss you Mister Drayhart. And you too, Sidney." Sid waddles across her soft lap and grovels for a petting. Shameless toady.

"Goodbye Miz Blattlatch. Thanks for everything. We really appreciate it."

Silly, softhearted Blattlatch. She tears up and hugs me. Okay, enough. Get me outta here.

As soon as Blattlatch is out of sight I return the call to my social network respondent. His name is Marty and he's available for an interview. How can a little talk hurt? Some enjoyable conversation til I hear from Cinda. No harm in a little fun, now is there?

Rolling along the Venice boardwalk—after 6 P.M. on a bright summer's evening. It's like the 1960s keeled over at Venice Beach and decided the era was too exhausted to move on. At an open-air kiosk selling flip-flops and incense, I hear the news over a cheap radio chained to a folding table:

"The mystery of Sherryl Lynn Hasting's death took a dangerous turn when it was revealed the budding actress had a fatal hit-and-run accident a week before her body was found. Hours ago her home was searched and computer seized for forensic analysis."

Wow, those PD flatfoots are really putting two and two together. So the "budding starlet" finally got outed as a murderess. And it came out because I killed her. A flush of satisfaction goes through me as human flotsam and jetsam streams by—bicycling, rollerblading, jogging, surfing, skateboarding past colorful vendors and entertainers, contortionists, jugglers, snake charmers—and one singing guitarist on roller-skates dressed in flowing white robes and a turban.

That must be him—my mark, waiting stiffly beside the basketball court, eyes darting around the crowd.

I roll up and extend my good hand. "Marty?" I say in a pleasant, manly tone. I can still muster a tone that supercedes my appearance. Some of the time, anyway.

"Ah! Uh, Dave the reporter, that's you?" he manages. He gawks at Sid. Not an animal lover, I can see.

"The same," I throw back at him, careful to keep the contempt out of my voice because that's something I really have to work at when I'm face-to-face with these lowlifes. A runaway basketball nearly clops Marty in the face, and we stop conversation while a skinny kid wrangles it back onto the court.