Orange County Noir (Akashic Noir) (39 page)

"But Miss Winkler told me she testified against these
guys."

"She must have meant the prelim, hon, and that's a good
thing. Every prelim has a transcript. Would you like me to get
you the file?"

As he sat and read the transcript, Fred understood why
Angel was so frightened, why she changed her looks, why
she wanted his name. She'd even hinted about buying a new
house, and that fit too. It was her witness self-protection. But
why hadn't she told him?

On the night in question, according to her testimony,
Mitchell Hoffman and Danforth Green asked her for a ride
but gave no indication that they planned to rob a jewelry
store. "At the strip mall," she said, "I saw both of them leave
the car carrying guns. I overheard them agree they wouldn't
hesitate to shoot-including me, if I got out of line." She'd
been terrified, and when she heard shots from inside the store and saw them running out with their guns, she fled for her life.
No, she said, "I didn't know an old man was in there that got
shot and he would have made it except for the heart attack it
gave him."

No, she didn't know what became of the guns when the
men ran from the store and when they were apprehended hiding five blocks east thirty minutes later. Yes, she understood
that both claimed-immediately after being taken into custody,
in separate interviews where they could not collaborate-that
the whole thing was her idea, that she'd put them up to it
and given them the guns, and that she'd driven away and left
them high and dry. Well, the only explanation she could think
of was that those interviews must have come from "them
cooking up some story ahead of time to pin it on me if it all
went sideways."

After the prelim, Fred learned, the two men had taken
pleas rather than face trial, each getting twenty years for the
death of the jeweler, including enhancements for their previous criminal records and for the guns used in commission of
a crime.

Fred let out a low whistle. Sometimes the safest place to
be was in prison. Those guys could have friends and family
outside settle the score. Even though Angel told the truth,
had knowingly done nothing criminal, and had to serve time,
she'd made mortal enemies.

But maybe they didn't know about her early release yet,
and there was still time.

Fred went straight to a sporting goods store to buy ammunition and a cleaning kit for his dad's old revolver.

As soon as he got home, he told Angel that he had found
out what she was scared of.

She looked at him blankly, guarded and waiting.

"First, sweetheart, Gordie coming over here all the time is
dangerous. He's making a perfect beeline to you. All anyone
has to do is follow him. Gordie has to start hanging out at his
own place. We need to list the house, and as soon as we're
married I need to get some life insurance, that's for damn sure,
because I may have to defend you."

"I can't believe how brave you are." Angel's smile was
hard to read.

Fred went to a shooting range. He hadn't been in a long
time. The manager didn't give a shit, just showed him how
the targets worked, gave him the earphones, and left him
alone.

Fred started with a bull's-eye target and practiced, aiming carefully before each shot. The first two went wide, one
not even hitting the target surface, the other making a neat
hole in the upper right corner. Some internal pressure shot
up, a kind of embarrassment where he didn't feel like a man
should feel when he was learning how to protect his home
and wife-to-be. He took a deep breath and started over, adjusting his stance, checking to see if the desk guy was watching, but he was looking at his computer screen.

Fred shot again, and hit the outermost circle. He shot again
without moving, and hit just above the previous shot. He liked
the heavy feel of the handgun now. He was learning.

The manager changed the target to a graphic, a large line
drawing like a poster that depicted a bad guy using a terrified,
busty hostage as a shield, holding a big butcher knife to her
throat.

Now this was the real deal. Defend and protect. He adjusted and readjusted his aim, finally squeezed one off-and
hit the girl's shoulder. Just a graze, but still, what a dumb shot. Fred's knees quivered a little when he got ready again, but
something stopped his hand. The week before, he'd been explaining to Angel that the salad/dessert forks and the dinner
forks were to be neatly stacked with tines facing the back, in
the two adjacent sections of the wooden silverware tray in the
drawer by the dishwasher. He pointed out that if she would
only load them into the dishwasher in the correct baskets, the
rest of the job would be foolproof.

She'd given him a sharp watchful stare much like he'd
seen on Mother's Day, but back then he'd thought it was cute.
This time it was anything but-hard, he'd have to call it-like
she was thinking, Foolproof? Who are you calling a fool, fool?

She'd said, "Maybe I know a way that's even better than
yours. Maybe you can learn something from me." He'd let that
go, just pointing at the drawer again and then leaving for work
without kissing her.

He stood there with the gun in his hand. What about the
prelim transcript, when the two guys' stories matched completely? Fred watched those crime shows all the time, and he
knew that cops said-Manny had agreed with this view-that
it was always easier to tell the truth because you just said what
happened. When you lied, you had to make stuff up as you
went along, and then you'd forget what you'd put into one
version and screw it up the next time. Each version would be
different. The truth was always the same.

He needed to ask her directly why the guys' stories didn't
vary, how that could have happened, just to stop this nagging
feeling. At last Fred aimed and squeezed, and the bullet flew
just over the villain's head, so he immediately lowered the aim
a fraction and shot again. He gasped.

He'd shot her through the heart.

This terrible doubt was interfering with his concentration. He needed to get home where he could talk it out with her, be
sure she wasn't lying about anything, and if she was, find out
why, get her to share her fears and let him help.

As he pulled up, Fred muttered Son of a bitch when he saw
Gordie's truck parked in his driveway. He couldn't even get
to his own garage.

What was that asshole doing here in the late afternoon, anyway? Fred had made it clear to Angel that it was dangerous-and
here the truck was, like a big neon sign pointing right at her
for anybody with a grudge. In fact, who knew what else might
be in there? He could be walking into a firefight. He parked
at the curb, got out, retrieved the gun, and stuck it into the
back waistband of his khakis. He was supposed to take out the
unused rounds but he had been so anxious to get home that
he forgot. Or so he told himself.

Fred turned his house key silently, glad that his maintenance schedule included quarterly lubrication of door hardware and locks. The afternoon sun came from the side of the
house, so at least there would be no silhouette or illumination
through the glass. He turned the knob and slowly opened the
door. The living room and the kitchen-what he could see of
them-were empty.

Then he heard Angel whimper. God, was it possible that
Gordie was one of the bad guys? Or that they'd both been
taken hostage? Why would Angel let them in? He had to do
something. The sound was coming from the end of the hall,
where the home office and master bedroom were. He tiptoed
soundlessly on the soft carpet. The next thing he heard came
from the master, the unmistakable rhythmic thumps, the
squeaky bedspring syncopation.

She spoke tensely. "Did you hear something?"

"No," said Gordie. "Don't take forever, darlin', or I'll pretend I'm Fat Rick Freddie again."

Fred didn't move or breathe, though his pulse beat in his
ears. The squeaky noises started up again. He crept to the
edge of the open door-they hadn't even thought to close
it!-and slowly moved far enough over to see. Gordie was on
top, and she was kicking her feet and snorting like an animal.
On the floor not far from Gordie's reach was a handgun.

Fred backed up several steps, his legs trembling. What
could he do? He reached around to get the weapon. His shaking hand jerked, loosening the waistband, and the revolver
fell down his pants leg, making a dull thud on the carpet. Not
loud. Almost silent.

That's when she started to scream.

Gordie didn't get it, saying, "What is this? I thought you
liked this- Hey, what are you-? That hurt, bitch."

"Help," she shouted, "he's raping me!" And kept screaming
as Fred picked up his gun and returned to stand in the doorway.

Her stricken face peered over Gordie's shoulder. "Oh,
thank God! Fred-help me, he's hurting me-"

Something changed as Fred recognized the first honest
emotion he'd ever seen on her face: sheer terror. She'd just
noticed the gun in his hand. She dropped flat in a split second, out of the line of fire.

Gordie started to get off her, but Fred took two quick steps
and fired at his naked back. Flipping over, face red from exertion, Gordie stared at the gushing red coming from his welldeveloped right pectoral. He winced as the pain came and
said something, although the shot had made Fred temporarily
deaf. Then he heard Gordie babble:

"Don't do it, man. Please. Just don't do it. Ain't what
it looks like here-we're just-it don't mean nothing. And this," he clutched his left hand over the blood on his chest,
"why, this is just a flesh- Aw, shit!"

It must hurt pretty bad. Maybe the man had learned his
lesson. Fred glanced over where Angel was still hiding under
the covers-just like her to do something that immature, like
if she closed her eyes, nobody could see her instead of the
other way around.

Except for the noise Gordie was making about his wound,
saying "Oh, shit" over and over, it was quiet. The man wasn't
even thinking enough to reach for the handgun only inches
from his drooping hand-maybe his muscles weren't working
right.

Thank God the situation was contained. Fred grabbed
Gordie's gun and put it out of his reach on the dresser.

Then he followed Gordie's gaze to where Angel lay.

Fred walked over and pulled back the bedclothes. The
bullet must have gone through Gordie and straight into her
heart. Almost no blood. She looked scared and beautiful. It
couldn't be. Fred couldn't have done this. Not to her.

Gordie's feverish voice cut in: "Fred? It was an accident,
right? Everything will be okay-"

Everything okay?

Fred turned and shot him twice in the chest. Gordie hit
the headboard and remained sitting until his head slumped
onto his hairy chest and he fell to one side.

For a long time, Fred stood there in a world gone blank.
Finally, he felt the gun in his hand. He set it down and walked
out of the room, down the hall, out the front door, and across
the street. What was he going to tell Manny?

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BARBARA DEMARCO-BARRETT'S first book, Pen on Fire:
A Busy Woman r Guide to Igniting the Writer Within, was a Los
Angeles Times best seller and won a 2005 ASJA Outstanding
Book Award. Her articles and essays have appeared in many
publications, including Orange Coast Magazine, the LosAngeles
Times, Westways, and Poets & Writers. She has taught creative
writing at UC, Irvine Extension, since 2000, and also produces
and hosts a radio show, Writers on Writing, on KUCI-FM.

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