CHASING THE DOPEMAN
by Robert Crisman

1

A win is good however it comes. And seeing as you’re in the game win or lose, you might as well have fun while you’re at it.

The Seattle P.D. put a salt-and-pepper homicide team to ferret out who killed the Mexican in the motel. Rayfield Martin and his partner Mike Schindler were both tough, smart cops.

Martin, 45, stood 6’1” and weighed 235, around 25 too much. He’d been on the force close to 22 years, the last 12 in Homicide. His dark brown face, round as the moon, had eyes that looked like they really believed all the lies people told him—which encouraged the liars to keep right on lying until they tripped over their tongues.

What was left of his hair was as gray as his mustache and almost the same shade as the baggy-ass suit he always had on.

Schindler looked like a comedian, except for those gotcha hawk’s eyes that told you he knew you were lying. He played the bad cop knotting the noose as Martin fed you the rope. Schindler was 39, 5’10”, 190 or so, with a start on a basketball gut and big, meaty hands that hurt when they hit. His hair was thin, in need of a trim, and the color of old, chewed-up gum. His suit, rumpled gray, was another disaster.

On December 18, Martin sat warming himself in a little café on Lake City Way not far from his house. They’d been out at the Tiki Motel on Aurora that morning and hadn’t had time to kick the killing around.

A cold, gray mid-afternoon, a quarter past three.

Schindler came in, shaking the cold, and slid into the booth. Martin grinned. “Cold out?”

Schindler said, “Shit,” and blew on his hands.

Martin said, “You’re looking a little stressed out.”

“Ah yeah, no, I can’t complain.” Schindler shrugged. “At least when I’m out of the house. When I’m there, the old lady’s doing enough for the both of us.”

He looked around for the waitress. Right on the button she came with the coffee and menu. She poured Martin a refill, handed Schindler the menu, poured him a cup, and walked off.

“So, catch me up,” Schindler said. “How do you like it out here?”

“I like it. I didn’t think I would, but Arlene convinced me and the price was right and the place kind of grows on you. When’re you gonna get out of where you’re at?”

“Ah, man. Joanne likes it out there. I think it’s about the only thing she does like, you know? We’re just not getting along, Ray. This fucking vacation. Shit. I’m back a day-and-a-half, and I feel like I’ve been grinding, you know? Two weeks in Vegas, she bitched the whole time, just wanted to stay in the room. ‘No, Mike, you go. I’ll just stay here and read.’ Reading in Vegas…” Schindler shook his head glumly. “What she was really saying was, ‘Go check out the hookers. I shouldn’t’ve come.’ Which was true. She should have stayed home, seeing as soon as we’re out of Seattle, she started the music.  Belinda and that…”

“That one’s forever.”

“I guess. I don’t know, Ray, I—what I think is, she’s just waiting for me to pack up and get down the road. And I’m about ready, too.” He shook his head. “Maybe I’ll come and stay in your basement or something.”

“Arlene’d love that.”

“I bet.”

“She loves you and all.”

“Don’t I know it. Especially after Labor Day.”

Martin laughed. “I told her you didn’t mean to spill it, man. It was those 14 beers you had. She forgot all about it.”

“I bet she did. You told her 14, huh? I can’t thank you enough.”

The waitress came over again. Schindler decided he’s stick with just coffee. She smiled, grabbed up the menu, and split.

Martin said, “So how’s Amy in all this?”

Schindler pondered the question. “I don’t really know to tell you the truth. She’s 14, though. What does that tell you?”

“You’re gonna have to start oiling your shotgun.”

“Tell me about it. The creeps’re starting to cluster, too, thicker than shit. All of ‘em with the same damn thing on their minds.”

“Sort of like you and me had when we were 15 and out there scouting around.”

“Uh huh. This one little fucker she brings home, maybe a week before we took off, kid comes slouching on in, got the green hair, the nose ring, the whole goddamn bit. They go up to her room. Kid brought over some CDs. Next thing you know, this awful goddamn noise comes blasting on out of there, man, loud, right? I go up there, tell ‘em to turn that crap down, and this kid, I swear to God, he looks at me like I’m king of the fucking Nazis or something. I wanted to yank that nose ring out of his face and shove it up his ass, Ray. Jesus. That shit sounded like pigs being raped with a crowbar. And the names they’ve got for some of these groups! Snot Rag. Megadeath. Impetigo… What kind of goddamn names are those, anyway? I swear to God, I don’t get it.”

Martin laughed. “Hey, man, don’t look at me. I never understood white people’s music anyway.”

“’White people’s music?’ Hey, man, don’t you go dumping shit on my head now. What about rap? Cop Killers With Uzis and all the rest of that garbage. What about that stuff?”

Martin, still laughing, said, “Hey, man, I quit.” He raised his hands in surrender. “You’re having a bad day, brother.”

“Ah, nothing like that. I get up this morning, pipe in the kitchen sink’s clogged and I gotta wrestle around with that, which I fucking hate doing, for forty-five minutes and change, Joanne giving me the yak-yak the whole goddamn time. Meanwhile, my daughter’s running around with horned toads and lizards and it looks like now I’ve got to go out and price chastity belts or something. And if that’s not enough, we catch this thing, my first day back from my wonderful vacation, I’ve got to run all the way out to Aurora, then all the way back downtown, to finish off that paperwork I didn’t get done before I left—and then, back out here in the freezing goddamn cold just so you can yank my chain about ‘white people’s music.’ I’m having a wonderful day. I can hardly wait for what’s next.”

“More of the same, probably,” Martin said. “Anyway, what do you think?”

“Aside from same shit, different day?”

“Yeah, well, that’s always. But what else? Our dead friend there at the motel?”

“The Tiki Special. Outside of the fact that he’s a male Hispanic, balding on top, and dead as a doornail?”

“Uh huh.”

“The guy had tracks on his thighs.”

“Surprise of the century. What else?”

“None on his arms.”

“Well now.”

“Lester said the guy’d just started banging.”

“No more than a couple-three weeks.”

“Yeah.”

“Interesting. What else?”

“Well, somebody sure stomped the bejesus out of him. Then they put a pillow on his face and plinked him three times. Then the shooter laid the gun on the dead man’s chest. Like wrapping it up with a ribbon or something.”

“Gun was wiped.”

“Absolutely.”

“What else?”

“Nobody saw or heard one goddamned thing. Joint like that, I’d fall over dead if somebody had. Manager’s the original see, hear, and speak no evil kind of a guy. Keeps his shade down, powers the brewskis, stays glued to the TV. Register says the guy checked in yesterday morning under the name Tomas Sanchez.”

“Another Juan Smith. A.k.a. Luis something from the tattoo on his arm. Unless that’s his boyfriend.”

“Yup.” Schindler said. “And from the rest of the artwork, I’d say he’s done time in a state institution or two.”

“Anything you infer from all this?”

“Yup. Dope.”

“You know something? This is the fourth fucking asshole we’ve hauled out of one of those motels up there in, what, two weeks?”

“Something like that,” Schindler said.

Martin looked around, his jaws all snugged up. “You know something, man? This goddamn drug war…”

Schindler settled in for a rant. He’s heard Martin’s drug-war rap, variations and all, some 10,000 times.

“I’ve been reading this book,” Martin said. “Helluva book, about how the DEA got formed under Nixon back in ’73.”

“Uh huh.”

“Yeah, man. Helluva book.”

“What’s the book?”

“Agency of Fear, by Edward J. Epstein. Helluva book. He wrote it way back around then, probably out of print by now. They oughtta be reading this stuff in the grade schools. Book goes through the whole business, man, Nixon’s drug war, and how the whole thing wasn’t about nothing except getting Nixon back in the White House in ’72. You remember any of that shit?”

“Yeah.” Schindler laughed. “Sorta.”

“How about ODALE and all that no-knock nonsense that had everybody thinking the Nazis were coming back then?”

“Well…” Schindler shrugged.

“ODALE, man,” Martin said. The Office of Drug Abuse Law Enforcement. All these hard-charging Gs running around, kicking in doors, rousting folks out of their bed at like four in the morning, sticking guns in their mouth and then tearing the house up—and then finding out it’s the wrong fucking house. Guy who worked at the sewage plant, wife, two kids, spreadeagled naked with guns to their heads on the floor. Gs yelling and jumping around, grandma’s having a heart attack, they’re ripping the walls off and can’t find jack-shit. No drugs! Not a roach, no black, bent-up spoons, and so now, they’re gonna hoist granny up by her thumbs. Heart attack my ass, the old bitch is faking and she’s gonna talk—and then the call comes. Wrong house. It’s over on Millwood, you morons, not Beavertree Lane! And it’s oops, sorry folks, go back to bed. And they gather their shit, take the thumbscrews off grandma, and split. House is a wreck. And just try to get the government to pay for the damage.

“And all of it, man, just so Nixon’d look good to those rightwing nutbags who want to turn everything into Buchenwald West because Black folks are trying to take over or some goddamned thing.”

“So, 40 years of this crap, right? Nixon, Bush, Clinton, don’t matter. And today, man, what do we have? Forty years of search-and-destroy anti-drug wars, and I’ve got to be armed when I go to the store after dark for some two-percent milk, or some fucking rockhead might try and jack me. Don’t matter one lick I’m a cop.

“I mean, what the fuck, huh? And meanwhile, they’ve got a million-and-a-half young brothers in jail, they’re building prisons all over the country, and busting state budgets to do it, and it doesn’t mean squat. Stuff’s still pouring in, people’re still getting loaded as goats, and what do we have? What have we done? Less than goddamned nothing at all.

“I was talking to this old lag downtown the other day. Guy’s been around since before they had dope. I knew him from way back when. He’s maybe 60. Looks like 110. Most of ‘em down there do. Hangs down there on Pike, around Second, just like forever, him and the rest of the zombies. Guy’s got two teeth left in his head and, just…wow…”

He shook his head a little and laughed.

“Guy’s got all kinds of stories, what it was like when he was down there ropin’ the goats, and ripping and running, and all that good shit. Tells me he was there on the corner the night Little Willie John carved up some dude that was giving him grief and—“

“Who’s Little Willie John?”

Martin looked at Schindler like Schindler’d just told him he came from Uzbekhistan. “Who’s Little Willie John? Jesus—Mike, Fever? Peggy Lee? You ever, uh—“

“I know who Peggy Lee is. Fever, right? She sang it.”

“Yeah, well, that’s a start. Little Willie John’s the guy who did the original. He spent time in this town. James Brown called him the greatest soul singer who ever lived. You do know who James Brown is, don’t you?”

“Ah, seems to me I’ve heard of him. Skinny little Black guy, jumps around on stage and screams all the time, right?”

Martin laughed. “Man, you’re hopeless. What kind of music do you listen to, anyway? Elevator music? What?”

“I like Baby Elephant Walk, man. Lawrence Welk. Real toe-tapper. You like, I’ll hum you a couple of bars and—“

“No, that’s alright—“

“No, really. It’ll make you want to get up and cut a rug, swear to God—“

“Man, you start humming on me, I’ll get up and go call Joanne, tell her how much you dropped on that Colts game last month. Give you a new song to sing when you get home tonight.”

Schindler started laughing. “Jesus, you’re cold, Ray. That’s all I need. You win, man. I’ll be sleeping in my car until the divorce goes through and she gets the house anyway. You’re a cold man.”

“Cold my ass.” Martin laughed. “Self-defense, that’s all.” He laughed again. “Anyway… That old dude. Like I say, he’s been around since Jesus smoked his first joint, and he’s telling me what it was like in this town back in the ‘60s and all. It was like, if you wanted a little taste back then, there were just a few places you could go. There was 22nd and Madison, naturally, and down on 14th and Yesler—the ghetto addresses. And the Sahara Hotel down on Third, a couple of spots in West Seattle, High Point, Rat City, and some of the motels on Aurora. And that was it. A little smack, speed, no coke to speak of. Now, hey. A blind man from Kansas could come into town on a Greyhound Bus and walk right outside the bus station and cop in five minutes. Any damn thing you need. Smoke it or shoot it or stick it up your ass. And I know for a fact that it’s true.

“I’m telling you, Mike, the whole thing’s a joke.”

Martin barked out a short, sour laugh. “Fucking Nixon… Here we are, coming on 40 years later, drinking bad coffee in cheapo cafes, one more dead mutt, and plenty more where he came from, and Jesus, I’m tired of this shit.”

Suddenly, Martin looked as tired as a man can possibly be.

Almost gently, Schindler said, “Ray, you figure, this guy this morning, he’s a Julio, he deals. Say that’s the case. He pays for the night, comes time to check out, he’s deader’n Kelsey’s nuts. They stomped him and shot him and stomped him again and, so, who? Customers? Pals? Somebody he burned? Ripoffs got tipped he was holding?”

“Those are the scenarios that leap right to mind.”

“Yeah. With the usual ratfuck variations and stuff. But there’s one thing that kind of intrigues me.”

“Those tracks.”

“Yes indeed. Funny place for a guy just starting out to go bang, don’t you think? Inside of his thighs? He’d been at it, what, couple of weeks?”

“According to Lester.”

“And Lester would know,” Schindler said. “Two or three weeks. But still enough time to build up a habit.”

Martin nodded.

“Now, I was thinking,” Schindler said, “for Julios, lots of times, dealing’s tied in with family, you know? And a lot of those guys don’t use.”

“A lot of ‘em do.”

“Yeah, but a lot of them don’t. The family don’t like it. A junkie fucks up, comes short on the money, gets people busted, however it goes. Sooner or later, something bad happens. And, with these guys, family’s likely the ones getting busted, you know?

“So now, we’ve got what’s-his-name, Luis, or Tomas, whoever, stone cold dead, motel on Aurora, with tracks on his legs and none on his arms. Which leads me to speculate on whether this was a guy who didn’t want his buddies to know he’s been dipping.”

“And who’s had enough time,” Martin picked up the thread, “to start getting stupid or desperate, who fronted himself one bag too many or something and, bingo. His pals got pissed off.”

“You like it?”

“I kind of do. It could be anything still, but, who knows?”

“So? Where’re we at?”

“Find out who his friends are,” Martin said, “and we’ll see.”

2

Two weeks later. No angles, no leads on the killing. They’d had to shelve it. Bodies were stacking up all over town, three of them out at this dopehouse some heisters knocked off Christmas Eve.

Christmas morning, the cops got a call. You want the guys who knocked off that dopehouse? They stashed the loot at this storage place, MLK Way, out south of town. They’re going to be there this evening, 8:30 or so. Be there or be square.

The caller, a woman, neglected to leave an address for the place and the cops didn’t find it.

Two days after Christmas, Martin and Schindler were cruising along out by Greenlake, kicking the clues and conjectures around.

Martin, driving, said, “Where to now?”

Schindler said, “Let’s go up on Aurora, see how the homies are keeping up.”

Martin grinned. “Okay. Stop later at Beth’s?”

Schindler gave him a look.

Martin laughed. “Erika working tonight?”

Schindler, grinning, said, “Fuck you.”

They drove up past Greenlake.

“Anyway, finally,” Martin said, “maybe some good news.”

“I hope so,” Schindler said.

Martin laughed. “Just let me lay it out the way it came down the pike, alright? First, the guy at the house. The house is in Shoreline, guy’s Daniel Mizell. Never been busted. Bellevue boy, daddy’s some kind of higher-up at In-Tel out there. Parents divorced, he went to high school in Ballard. Then a couple years at the U and dropped out. He’s some kind of computer geek or something, or was.

“The woman’s Mona Dayton. Came out from Iowa about six months ago. No friends, no family, no job, no school, no nothing so far as we know, except him. Some schluck probably brought her around for a taste and she decided she’d stay with the bag. They haven’t done the autopsies yet, but it’s obvious she’d been pounding the dope like a champ for some little while. Him, not quite so long or to the degree.

“Okay, that’s them. Lady killed outside, one Kimberly Ann Davison, age 73. Just walking by when Mizell and the heisters threw down on the sidewalk out front. She lived a block down, don’t know why she was out in that weather. She was a widow, lived alone. No connection with any of this that we know of.”

“Wrong place, wrong goddamn time.”

“Sure was,” Martin said, “So anyway, we went knocking on doors, to see who saw or heard what. Not too many houses on that block. Four on Mizell’s side and three across the street, and all of ‘em spaced pretty well away from each other.

“This one guy on Mizell’s side, other end of the block, heard the shots and called in. Lady on the other side, middle of the block, she did too. Lady’s name is Lydia Engelbaum and, Mike, she’s a treat.

“We go over to her place after we finish up at Mizell’s. Go up, knock on the door, and there’s this frail little old lady there, she opens the door—and practically yanks us inside.” Martin laughed. “Frail my ass. And she’s on us like white on rice from the gate. Do we know who did it? Did we catch ‘em? Why not? Why’d it take us so long to respond? And so on and so on. And I’m trying to get word one in and—see, she knew this was gonna happen. All those people, in and out of that house, rough-looking, scummy people, and she’s called in four or five times and nobody ever did squat. Now look what’s happened.

“On and on, a million miles an hour, right at us. She’s all worked up—but, she’s also excited, you know? Wants to know everything, man. What happened, who died, how much did they get, the serial number of the horse they rode in on, and I have to say whoa here. I’m the detective. I think. I’m the one supposed to be asking the questions, alright? So, anyway, I get her calmed down and pretty soon I get some useful stuff out of her.”

“Good. I was beginning to worry.”

“Huh. You should’ve been there instead of out sick. What was it, your Christmas present to yourself, something like that? How the fuck you get sick anyway, you just got back from vacation?”

“That question sort of answers itself, you think about it. It was me and Joanne, remember? Believe me, my man, I wish I’d’ve been there. Which way we going here?”

They were coming up on Aurora. “How about right,” Martin said.

They went past the Sunset Motel in back of the Arco on 85th. Each room held a dopeman.

Two scuts, one white and one black, trying like hell to get well, huddled in front of the place. The white one was counting out quarters and nickels and dimes. The black one kept looking up into the courtyard, maybe with tears in his eyes.

Up five more blocks, to 90th. A couple more clusters of rockheads, one at the bus stop, the other crossing the street, everyone scoping this way and that. Tunnel rats holding their turf behind enemy lines.

“Rain or shine,” Schindler said, “sleet or snow.” He sang, or tried to. “Oh, it’s Christmas time in the city…”

“Man, don’t,” Martin said. “This job is hard enough as it is.”

Schindler barked a dry little laugh. “Not as hard as theirs is.”

“True, true,” Martin said.

They cruised on past the graveyard, 125th, on toward Shoreline.

“Anyway, Engelbaum,” Schindler said. “You say she came up with some good stuff.”

“She did,” Martin said. “Real good stuff as a matter of fact. First thing, she’s telling me what she noticed out there, Mizell’s place, the past few months, like every couple of weeks, generally Wednesday or Friday, late afternoon—I swear this lady takes notes—and anyway, there’s been this exceedingly well-dressed young man coming around there, regular as clockwork. And it’s funny, she sees him drive by on a couple of occasions, but the guy never stops, and then when he does come up and go into the house he does it from around the corner on foot. She finds this intriguing, seeing as there’s always plenty of space out in front of Mizell’s place and all. Why does this young man feel it so necessary to sneak onto the block? That’s the word she used. Sneak.”

“Suspicious old biddy.”

“Like a cop. She’s also struck by the young man’s appearance. He’s a handsome young devil. Well-dressed like I said, generally has on a suit or a sport coat and slacks, shoes always shined, and just, very well groomed. Not at all the way she’d expect a Mexican to look.”

“A Mexican. Well.”

“Bells ring in the distance. And always carries a travel bag of some sort in and out of the house.”

“Uh huh.”

“Yep, and get this. This lady should probably be on the payroll. I think I’ll talk to Samuels and see if we can’t do something about it. See, she knows there’s something wrong with this picture. I mean, what’s a well-dressed, handsome young Mexican doing carrying a travel bag in and out of this house that looks like it’s leased by the Addams Family? Where all these other suspicious and grubby characters are constantly coming and going? Incidently, she says the traffic slows way down whenever he drops by, which, I don’t know, interesting anyway, and—I mean, she knows it’s a dopehouse, for Chrissake. And she’s had her eye on this guy from the gate. And one time he’s there, she goes out and guess what she did?”

“Ah, let’s see… She ambled around the corner and took down his plates.”

“Got it in one.”

“Hot diggety-dog. And?”

“So, she gave it to me and we ran it through and came up with a name.”

“Uh huh. Who?”

“Oscar Rueles, a Yakima lad of some ill-repute and no visible means of support.”

“What kind of car is it?”

“An ’07 Lexus.”

“Little rich for a loafer.”

“I thought so too. And that isn’t the half. But, first on some other good stuff. Keep Oscar in mind, but, bear with me.

“Turns out,” Martin said, “the Mexican guy wasn’t there when the shit hit the fan. He was there, but he split. Engelbaum says he was there maybe 10-15 minutes. He went in with another guy and one more right after, and this, by the way, is a first. He always showed up alone before this. And after he left, they stayed inside. Evidently anyway, seeing as he left by himself.”

“Plot’s starting to bubble.”

“Isn’t it. Now, old Lydia, she saw the other two guys when they came up and parked. Right in the middle of the block, pretty much directly across from her house, and the two guys jump out and start back toward Mizell’s. And just about then, the Mexican guy comes bopping around the corner from Fourth like he usually does, and he sees the two guys, and he stops. And he starts—it’s like he’s pissed off, because all of a sudden he’s pointing at these guys and their car and, you know, stabbing the air, like, move that crate outta here, dumb motherfuckers! And one of the guys goes back to the car and wheels it out and around the corner on Fifth. The other guys keeps walking, and him and the Mexican go into Mizell’s. A minute later the other guy comes back and goes in.

“Now get this,” Martin said. “The guy who goes in with the Mexican guy’s a big motherfucker, 6’5”, 6’6”, and, you know, big.” Martin puffed himself up like a muscleman cartoon. “Like that, you know. And Lydia says, what’d she tell me? You know—Popeye cartoons, what’s-his-name. Bluto. That’s who she said the guy looked like.” Martin laughed.

“Sounds like one lovely person.”

“Yeah, so anyway—“

“She get these guys’ plate?”

“No. Weather and all, she’d been feeling poorly, and… Says now she wishes she’d bundled up and gone out there. All she knows is, the car they drove up in was a big old beater, kind of dented along the side and she thinks silver-colored where it wasn’t all rusted out. American make.”

“That narrows it.”

“Yeah. Anyway, the guy, turns out, we might actually know who he is.”

“Wow. That was quick. How’d you do that?”

“Well, we’ll get into that, but I want to back up a moment, fill some stuff in. First, Oscar Rueles, proud Lexus owner and layabout dickhead. Yakima boy. Like I said, I ran the plates through and I thought for a minute, and I got on the phone and called Johnny Davis, my old YPD buddy. Asked him what he could tell me about Oscar. Turns out, some interesting stuff. Not about Oscar so much, he’s a nickel-dime guy, just hangs around and runs errands and stuff and, just kind of there when the man needs his shoes shined.”

“The man, huh? Who is the man?”

“The man is El Jefe Grande, Ramon Rodriguez, a real estate guy of all things and—an up-and-coming Yakima dopeman.”

“Uh huh.” Schindler laughed. “You say he sells real estate?”

“Yes. Does well according to Johnny. Real gift for sales. And meantime, runs a hot crew, they’re bringing in dope, been at it awhile, about got the town locked up over there, and, Johnny believes, he’s got guys over here on this side as well.

“Runs a tight little ship, too,” Martin said. “So far they haven’t been able to come up with a thing that’ll stick to his ass. They thought they might be getting close last spring when they picked up this guy he runs on old warrants, and they thought they could turn him, but Rodriguez got him a lawyer, bailed his ass out, and, next thing you know, the guy turned up blue in the back of a ’62 Chevy. And that’s it for that. Dead three days, rig still in his arm, they take him downtown, no tracks on his whole fucking body, guy never shot heroin before in his life.

“So, anyway, now, they’re just kind of keeping a close eye, see if Rodriguez fucks up.”

“Okay, so—“

“Oh, one more thing. Johnny says Rodriguez is a stone fucking doll. Quite a handsome young man. Dressed to the nines at all times. Not the way you’d expect a Mexican to dress. Sound like anyone you’ve ever heard of?”

“Oh my, yes, and quite recently too.”

“Yeah,” Martin said. “Now, Bluto. Big man. Johnny thinks he might know him. See—okay now, follow me here, because this, it’s kind of like putting a jigsaw together, you know, fitting the pieces and—“

“Like detectives?”

“Exactly! So, anyway, Johnny tells me they had this thing a couple of years back where they got called to this roadhouse on the proverbial outskirts of town. Big old brawl. Mexican wedding party, turned out. And this bunch of rednecks comes in half-drunk and all-the-way stupid and, fill in the blanks.”

“Big old brawl.”

‘Yep, and the rednecks got stomped. Real bad. Does my heart good. Witnesses said that one of the rednecks got rude with this Mexican girl, bridesmaid or something, and the groom just came over and picked the guy up and heaved him right through a window.”

“My word.”

“My word indeed. And then they mopped up the rest of the dummies. By the time the cops got there it’s over. I mean over.” Martin laughed. “It was something to see, evidently. Cops get there, the rednecks are all in the dumpster, jammed in there, out back of the place. Nobody dead, but lots of bones broken. The groom broke most of ‘em, too. His buddies helped and they weren’t too shabby themselves. And some of the women. Tough fucking crew.

“Anyway, the groom,” Martin said. “I mentioned to Johnny, the big guy up here, old lady saying he looked just like Bluto and all, and that rang a bell and he told me the story. The groom, turns out, big white guy, maybe 6’6”, all muscle, and he does look like Bluto, matter of fact, except he was the one chugging spinach, and… Anyway, they take his name and hope they never see him again. Dennis Mickelson, yessiree bob. Turns out, he’s one bad-news bear.

“Yes indeed. One big, bad bastard. Did two in the Walls, early ‘80s, for killing a guy in a dope deal. Pled it to manslaughter from Second Degree. Said the guy was trying to rip him off. Big doubts about that, they figured it was more likely the other way around, but the guy had a lawyer. You know how it goes.”

“’Deed I do,” Schindler said. “I’d like to have a nickel for every one of those cocksuckers who had one.”

“You and me both.”

They drove for awhile, letting the neon blip by.

3

“So, let’s see,” Schindler said, “We have Rodriguez looking good on this thing, and Mickelson sounds like he sure could be. The other guy. Anything?”

“Nothing so far,” Martin said. “He’s our mystery man at the moment. Only thing Engelbaum said about him was, he was driving the car and he wasn’t dressed for the weather. Car was a stone piece of shit. Went with the clothes. Guy might be some old running partner of Mickelson’s or even one of Rodriguez’s boys. Who knows? I guess we’ll find out.”

“Yeah,” Schindler said. “I guess we will.”

“Uh huh,” Martin said. “Anyway, the squeal we got Christmas, the woman who sent us off in the woods. Thing about it that ties in with this, what we’re talking about now—the broad had an accent.”

“An accent. Aha! Let me guess, Cisco. It’s from somewhere south of the border.”

“Si, Pancho, si.”

“A mysterious Mexican maiden. Who could it be? The Wicked Felina?”

“Possibly, Pancho, but no, I don’t think so. Who it is, well, I couldn’t tell you. But I do have a maybe.” Martin laughed. “Mickelson, our bad boy. The groom at the brawl. His lovely Mexican bride. Her name is Yolanda.”

“The Wicked Yolanda. She got a last name?”

“Mickelson far as I know.”

“Ray—“

“Nee Rodriguez.”

“Well, well. Rodriguez. Familiar ring. Of course, Rodriguez is to the Mexicans like Washington is to the black folks. Where’s she from?”

“Didn’t I say? Yakima, man. I told you—“

“That’s right, you did. Family and stuff over there?”

“Uh huh.”

“Any, uh, brothers or uncles or cousins?”

“Probably hundreds and hundreds.”

“Any Ramons in the bunch?”

“Ah, no more than, say, ten or twenty.”

“Uh huh.”

“But only one of ‘em’s her big brother.”

“Big brother Ramon. My. What’s he do?”

“Last I heard he’s in real estate.”

Schindler laughed. “And doing just fine.”

“Oh yes he is.”

“Okay,” Schindler said, “what do you figure? This is her you think called it in, am I right?”

“Well,” Martin said, “like I said, I don’t know. Could be any one of a million Mexican maidens for all I know. But she’s the only one on the radar right now that has a connection to Rodriguez and Mickelson both, and so… Incidently, after she and Mickelson tied the knot, he brought his lovely bride over on this side of the mountains.”

“Yeah? Where?”

“Burien.”

“Interesting… You know, if she did call, that would raise some interesting questions wouldn’t it.”

“Several. Like, first, why would Mickelson’s old lady dime him and big brother?”

“That one leaps right to mind.”

“Yeah, and, well… Let’s lay some things out first. Starting with what might actually have brought those fuckers out to that place in the first place. Fill out the picture a little, and then maybe we can put her in there somewhere.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, number one, I think Rodriguez was Mizell’s candyman. Second, I think one of two things. First, Mickelson and his buddy, Rodriguez brought ‘em, for whatever reason, but then, he split and they took the guy off on their own. Or, and I think this is likely the way it all went, Rodriguez set Mizell up and brought these guys in to carry the mail.”

“Why would he set Mizell up if he’s selling him dope?”

“I dunno,” Martin said, “besides money. A million reasons. Like I said, Johnny Davis is pretty sure Rodriguez has guys over here. Well, Mizell isn’t exactly one of his guys. He’s selling to him and all, but Mizell ain’t no Mexican and he isn’t his guy, you know what I mean? And I know, Mickelson isn’t Mexican either, but that’s different. He’s an in-law and—anyway, Mizell isn’t… It’s, I dunno…could be anything. Maybe Mizell’s getting too big for his britches. Maybe he found another connect. Now, instead of a customer he’s gonna be competition. Rodriguez decides it’s time for a pre-emptive strike or something. Who knows?”

“Mizell was using.”

“Like a big dog.”

“Well, you know, we were talking about that the other day. A lot of Julios don’t like mixing business with junkies. So to speak. Maybe something there.”

“That could be.”

“Yeah,” Schindler said. “Anyway, I think it was Rodriguez too, set the guy up. He brings the guys to the dopehouse, he leaves… I mean, I can’t see him not knowing, you know? It doesn’t square with the picture I’m getting of this guy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Guy runs a crew, he’s the guy who maps out the action. Mickelson and the other guy, he brings ‘em in and they’re like the guns, but he’s the one who’s really pulling the trigger, you know what I mean?”

“Not a bad way to put it.”

“No,” Schindler said. “So, okay, we’ve got Rodriguez and his merry men kind of placed on the map there. But now we’re back to Mickelson’s old lady. The Wicked Yolanda. Yolanda Mickelson. Jesus. If she did rat the fucker that’s why. Take her name back when we fry him and she didn’t even have to get a divorce.”

Martin laughed. “Couldn’t blame her for that.”

“You know,” Schindler said, “one thing… You think maybe it was just hubby she was dropping the dime on?”

Martin thought about it. “Well, it’s hard to see how bringing the cops in would, you know, Rodriguez being the main guy in this thing and all. I mean, I don’t know, but…” He shrugged. “What makes you think it might be just Mickelson?”

“I don’t,” Schindler said. “I’m just throwing chalk at the blackboard, see what sticks. Like, if it’s just hubby, what? He’s fucking somebody else and she figures, fuck him right back? Or, he’s kicking her ass when she doesn’t put out? Or maybe even, she’s being a good citizen here, shocked and appalled to find out hubby’s a gun-toting ratfuck who kills folks.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Martin said. “The good citizenship thing, I doubt that. Johnny says she was part of big brother’s pickup-and-delivery service over there. And, unless things changed in the last 15 minutes, you’re likely not gonna find too many warm-and-fuzzies in the heroin racket. Plus, she’s been married to that bozo a couple of years now, so I can’t really imagine she’d be shocked or appalled at anything these fuckers might do. Good citizen, uh uh. Domestic troubles? Something like that sounds a whole lot more likely.” He shrugged. “Who knows? You know Floyd, right?”

“Peppermint Patrick.”

“The one and only.”

“Yeah, I know him.” Schindler laughed. “What is that shit he splashes all over himself anyway? I swear to God, Ray, the guy smells like an Altoid.”

“Tell me about it. Anyway, so we’re kicking it around and he comes up with the idea that maybe, just maybe, Rodriguez was dumping his guys. Some deep motive or other, and he gives little sis the dime.”

Schindler laughed. “And, what? Blood being thicker’n Mickelson’s dick she goes and drops it? C’mon.”

“Uh huh. I told him, Pep, Rodriguez is not gonna give up his stash to the cops, for Chrissake. It ain’t gonna happen. If he wants to get rid of his monkeys there’re easier ways than all that.”

“No shit. Patrick must be drinking that stuff he’s got on.”

“That’s what I told him.” Martin laughed. “Of course, for all we know that’s just what he did. Wheels within wheels or something, who knows? Real hard to see but… Anyway, though, what we’ve actually got on any of this you could stick up a parakeet’s ass. With room left over for both of our paychecks. I mean, what do we have? She called or she didn’t. Got that one nailed. Then, was it hubby? Big brother? Who knows? Big brother’s dime? Give me your guess and I’ll give you mine. One question. If she didn’t call, who the fuck did? Lola Montez? And if little sis didn’t call, you think she and bro might hook up down the road? I mean, maybe she’s still got his back. Assuming she has up till now. In which case, maybe, it’d be worth keeping those hawk-eyes we posted out there, waiting to see if Mickelson shows up for dinner sometime you know, keep ‘em posted. See if she gets tired of sitting at home with no one to talk to.”

“Who’ve we got there?”

“Evans and Foley.

“Snick and Snack. Well, good, I guess.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Martin said. “We did kick around going out there, you know? Ask her some questions. Like, hey, what’s the deal? Rattle her cage, see how she jumps. But then we decided against it. Given what’s happened and all. I’d guess Rodriguez is spreading the kitty litter thick as he can on his part in the deal, you know? And Yolanda… Say they’re still tight or whatever. Why let ‘em think that we’ve got a clue? Might scare ‘em halfway to Mexico maybe. Better to let ‘em think that they’ve got some time to do whatever it is they’ve got to do up here.

“Besides, if we did go up and knock on the door, you know what we’d probably get, don’t you?

“I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

“No comprende, senores and chinga su madre, maybe for years. Who wants to listen to that?”

Schindler laughed. “Let’s go to Beth’s.”

4

Schindler opted for fried steak and eggs over easy. Martin stuck with just coffee.

Early evening. Beth’s was half-full and more or less quiet. The jukebox was out of commission. They both breathed a sigh of relief.

Erika took their orders and poured coffee.

“Gracias, senora,” Schindler said.

“De nada, senor.” She grinned and winked. It damn near made Schindler’s day.

Erika, a fine-looking woman. Funny, friendly, and smart with it too. Schindler liked every last bit of it, too.

“Too bad she’s married,” he said as she walked away.

“Just like you.” Martin grinned.

“You’re always telling me stuff I already know. Thing is, her husband, I met him. Nice guy, the prick. If he wasn’t, I could just shoot him. Then she’d be mine, by right of conquest or something. I think it’s a law.”

“If this is 13th Century Europe, I’d say you’re right.”

“Close enough,” Schindler said.

His eyes followed Erika hither and yon as she worked the floor. He took a sip of his coffee.

“Ah well…” he said. “Anyway… Ramon Rodriguez, Yakima dopeman and well-dressed man about town. Nefarious character, isn’t he.”

“He is,” Martin said, “and you know something? I almost forgot. Something else. Rodriguez’s crew. Does the name Luis Martinez, aka Tomas Sanchez, ring any bells?”

“Our friend with the tracks at the Tiki.”

“The same. Davis knows him, turns out. I asked, you know, seeing as it was on our plate too. And Johnny, he thinks he’s the one, says the guy is a longtime k.a. of some of the punks in Rodriguez’s bunch. Hasn’t been seen in the last three or so months. I’d say the guy, Rodriguez puts him in a house over here, he’s working, starts sampling the wares, and gets binked, like you figured.”

“Sounds right,” Schindler said. “Rodriguez… He’s odd, too, you know? I mean, he has guys up the butt for the donkey work, right? And yet here he is, driving around with bags full of smack in the trunk of his car. I assume that’s what we’re talking about in that bag that Engelbaum said he was carrying into the house all the time. You know, and he’s making these deliveries, and he’s there the day they light off the bomb. That’s kind of showing his ass to the world, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Martin said. “I thought that too, but, who knows with these guys? They do all kinds of weird, dumb-ass shit. Could be, maybe he started chippying himself, just like poor old what’s-his-name, Luis, and started in getting careless. Wouldn’t be the first slick motherfucker who did that.”

Martin sipped some of his coffee.

“And then too,” he said, “Johnny says that Rodriguez has been pretty much the Teflon Man over there. Closest they’ve come to him is that guy they found in the Chevy. Guy’s never even been rousted. In Yakima yet. Guys like that, they get cocky sometimes. Get to thinking they’re bulletproof. And, talk about bulletproof, if that party at Mizell’s hadn’t spilled out into the street, who’d’ve known anything about this? At least for awhile. Until Engelbaum sniffed out the bodies or something. He’d’ve probably skated free as a bird.”

“That’s true,” Schindler said.

Martin frowned.

“Yeah…” he said. “Teflon Man. Bullets bounce off.”

“Yeah…” Schindler said.

“Could be he’s right,” Martin said.

“Yeah? How’s that?”

“Well, what do we have? Martin said. “His car was outside the place on the night in question. Well, Rueles’s car, but you know. Anyway, so? And yeah, he was inside the house, but not when the shooting took place. So, what exactly’s the tie-in? Mickelson was there, the brother-in-law—if we can pin it on Mickelson. And still, so what? I mean, all we’ve got on any of this is Engelbaum’s say-so and—“

“But, Ray—“

“No, man. You and me can look and see the connection and know he’s our guy. But a D.A. going in front of a jury… How do you think Lydia’d hold up against some shyster lawyer he’d get?”

“From what you told me so far, pretty good.”

“Well, that’s probably true. But… Okay, Rodriguez’s story. ‘What’s a Mizell? The old lady’s got me confused with the milkman, Your Honor. The car? Talk to Oscar. I don’t know nothin’.’ So what do you do? His word against hers. And his lawyer’s up there and he’s telling the jury, the glove doesn’t fit, you gotta acquit. And they do. They’ve done on lots tighter shit than we’ve got on this.

And, Oscar? We’ll talk to Oscar. If we can find him. He’s probably blue in some Chevy too, like that last guy. They find him, he’s got a note in his pocket. ‘Sorry about the old lady and all. Things, uh, got outta hand.’ And it’s case fucking closed. Rodriguez blows kisses and walks out the door and into the sunset forever.”

“We need to get our biscuit-snatchers on Mickelson,” Schindler said.

“Yeah,” Martin said. “But, then again, say we bag him. Him and his buddy, whoever he is. And, say they talk. What can they tell us? Rodriguez sold dope to Mizell? Thank you, CNN News. He set the thing up? Do tell. How’d he do it? You got it on tape? Film at eleven? Voice-over, music, all that good shit? See what I mean? And meantime, the jury, here’s Bluto up on the stand and he scares all the white folks, he ain’t even black, and they’re gonna believe him? Good fucking luck. You wanna waltz into court with all that? I sure as hell don’t. You know, and, maybe we’ll come up with, say, fingerprints, gun, whatever it is that ties ‘em all in. Though, unless Mickelson and his buddy are two of the dumbest fuckers on earth, I imagine the gun’s in some sewer by now. And even if we found it, good luck tracing it back to Rodriguez. Unless he’s a whole dumber than anyone could possibly be in this life.

“And fingerprints? Shee-it.”

“Well…” Schindler said, “just have to see, I guess…”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” Martin said. “I bet there’s lots he can tell us, and a lot of it’s gonna be good. I think Rodriguez can kiss his little enterprises around here goodbye for one thing. And maybe over there too. I think Mickelson can tell us one hell of a lot about that stuff.”

“I imagine he can.”

“I think so. Of course, that’s assuming he doesn’t just tell us to go fuck ourselves when we finally catch up to his ass.”

Erika came over, dropped Schindler’s steak and eggs off, poured more coffee, tipped Schindler a grin and a wink, and was gone.

Schindler looked happy as man ever gets.

“Man,” Martin said, “that shit’ll give you a heart attack, I swear to God.”

Schindler crammed some steak in his mouth and said, “Mmmmmmmmm!” with a smile. End of discussion on diet and food.

Martin laughed. “Go ahead and die next month, see if I care.”

Schindler laughed and forked in some eggs.

“Anyway, Mickelson,” Martin said. “You ever see a picture?”

Schindler shook his head no.

“I did,” Martin said. “Looked over his priors and made a couple of phone  calls too. And this is one big, mean, rough-tough, kick-ass kind of a dude. Not at all the kind of guy you’d want to go in an alley with if you had the choice. Been around, presumably knows what’s going on, and, if I were Rodriguez, he’d be just the kinda guy I’d want riding herd on the troops. Make sure that guys like old what’s-his-name, Luis, don’t start dipping and fucking things up. Or, if they do, he takes care of the problem. Mickelson’d be just the guy. Plus, he’s the brother-in-law, right? Practically family, all nice and cozy, and, added bonus, Rodriguez has two sets of eyes this side of the mountains, because little sis is watching the watcher.”

“Makes sense to me,” Schindler said.

He paused, stuck more steak in his mouth and washed it down with some coffee.

“You know,” he said, “Rodriguez, I don’t imagine he figures he’s got much time to get things all tidied, if that’s what he’s doing. That old lady they whacked, that’s all you’ve been seeing on Eyewitness News since it happened. “Christmas Massacre,” world war headlines. Town’s burning up for those guys. I was him, I’d be thinking about booking as soon as humanly possible.”

“Where would you go?”

“I don’t know. I imagine, though, he’s thinking, anywhere in this neck of the woods is too close.”

“Probably so,” Martin said. ”Where else do you think a guy like him would go to hide out for awhile?”

“Well, the world’s a big place. Where’s he from? L.A.? Texas? Mexico maybe?”

“L.A.”

“L.A.”

“Yeah.

“Family down there? Old friends and such?”

“I’d imagine.”

“Say it’s L.A.,” Schindler said. “What do you think? Likely he’d fly?”

“Possibly.”

Schindler forked more steak, washed it down with some coffee, then drummed his fingers and thought.

“Be nice to get this guy, Ray.”

“Yes it would.”

“He pisses me off.”

“You and me both.”

“There’s got to be something we can do here.”

“Well,” Martin said, “what do we figure? Knowing our guy, he’s probably holed up somewhere figuring his next move, and…”

“Of course,” Schindler said, “for all we know he beat it the night those people got waxed.”

“Well, maybe, but, you know? I don’t really think so. In the first place, I don’t think he saw this shit coming. The killings. We’ve got a wholesale slaughter out at that house. Heavy shit, especially the old lady outside. You can bet that wasn’t in the gameplan. What does all that get him except tons of heat?”

“More heat.”

“Exactly. The dopeman, his broad, maybe he did know. They’re off the street, or they would have been if Mizell hadn’t gone tearing out with his shotgun. Wasn’t for that and the old lady, chances are good they’d still be inside there and no one the wiser. This way, like we said, the whole town’s after these assholes. I don’t think Rodriguez was ready for that.”

“Well, yeah,” Schindler said. “But, devil’s advocate, alright? Don’t you think it might be all the more reason he just might’ve split? Shit hit the fan like that, man—“

“I don’t think so,” Martin said. “I—if he had something set up, a contingency plan if things got screwed up—and maybe he did but—ah, I dunno. For all we know he might’ve been on his way out of town regardless of how things turned out. Maybe this thing was goodbye to all that. I dunno. But, say that that’s not the case. Then, if this shit hadn’t blown up, well, what then? No need to book a flight to L.A. or anywhere else, am I right? Say that’s how it was. And, okay, now it’s panic, right here in River City. Boom boom boom boom. The whole world is burning, there’s no time to plan, and what’re you gonna do now? I mean look at it, right? This guy, all he’s got going around here, you know he’s got money out hither and yon. Not to mention the product he’s got in the houses. And, somehow, I don’t think he’s a guy to go off and leave it.”

“He might’ve already got it and gone,” Schindler said, “soon as he heard the bad news. And then, there’s his people. Let them mop up.”

“Yeah,” Martin said, “if he’s got people like that he can trust not to fuck things up more or rat his ass out. He’s got to figure we’re gonna be coming up strong on his ass at some point. It’s the logical thing to think. And he doesn’t know who’s said or done what, who’s on first or got tagged and all that. And maybe he figures that his folks are solid, but, thing like this, you got any sense, you’re assuming the worst. And then, Mickelson’s still on the loose and who knows where he’s at? His buddy too. Plus, you’ve got nine billion cops and ten billion snitches, all ears to the ground. Rodriguez has probably taken this into account. Could be Mickelson’s more heat than he wants to get next to. I don’t know. The point is, maybe he figures the thing to do now is, lay low and stay there till things sort of cool down.”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah, maybe. In which case, he’ll still be around somewhere close, either here or over in Yakima there. I think it would take him some time, you know, to gather up his shit. Like I say, I don’t think he was planning on having to do that. And I don’t think he’s gonna feel particularly comfortable hopping around town to make pickups. How’s he gonna know who’s being watched and who isn’t? Who might’ve rolled over? Who he can trust? I can only think of one possible at the moment.”

“The Wicked Yolanda.”

“Yes sir,” Martin said. “I mean, much as we really know about him and that operation he’s got. Could be he’s got uncles and grandmas or saints in the church he can count on. Who knows? But still, going on what we think we’ve pieced so far, she’s the only one I can see for miles and miles. Whether she called or whether she didn’t. You see anybody?”

“No saints, that’s for sure,” Schindler said. “No, I don’t see anyone else.”

“Uh huh, me either. And, little sis, Evans says she’s gone out two or three times, to the store and once she stopped at a couple of houses. And once she picked up this woman and her kid and drove them over to some clinic out there. A day in the life. So, could be, she’s waiting to hear, and when she does, maybe she goes makes some pickups, whatever, then goes and hooks up with big brother.”

“Or maybe he calls her collect,” Schindler said, “and she sends it by airmail, or buries it somewhere out in the desert.”

“Yeah, well, but—okay, maybe so. Maybe he’s long gone. But maybe he isn’t. And maybe they’ll hook up. And maybe we can hand them a little surprise when they do.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Jesus, Mike, you don’t sound too excited. For Chrissake—look, if he’s gone, he’s gone. If he isn’t, I’d like to get him. You would too. And if all we’ve got is a hope and a prayer, then that’s what we’ve got. It’s—okay, two chances and one of ‘em’s slim and the other one’s none. That’s still two chances. What else’ve we got?”

Schindler said, “Nothing.”

5

Three days later, Saturday the 29th, Martin and Schindler made their way out to the airport.

“So, what,” Schindler said. “Mosely told me you got a picture. Pass it out yet?”

“Yeah,” Martin said, “all the guys. Pretty good one too. Surveillance shot. Caught him full-on coming out of his office last summer. Sun’s just right, looks like he stopped and posed for the thing. Here, take a look. Pretty isn’t he?”

“Cute as a girl. Davis is on his job, man. When’d you get it?”

“Last night. It would have been here before but some of the wires got crossed somewhere or something, so it didn’t get here until then.”

“Oh well. Yeah, this is a good one. A lot of these things you can’t hardly tell who it is. Or it’s one of those drivers-license-type things, makes you look like a serial killer.

“Ramon Rodriguez, serial killer.”

“Almost,” Schindler said.

They drove past South Center.

“Anyway,” Schindler said, “what happened? I get a call, 10:30 am, it’s showtime. Then a call, 11:15 and they lost her. What the hell happened?”

“They lost her. I told them, be ready if she goes out the back door. Well, they must’ve thought I just meant her house. She leaves this morning around eight. Goes over to this other place she’d gone to before, parks in front of the place and goes in. So, our guys are parked a little ways down, waiting, waiting—and what happened was, she backdoored ‘em there.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“No shit. And the way they figured it out was, they’re sitting there, right? And they happen to look up the street, and they see this Montego headed on east, this Mexican broad at the wheel and, you know, two and two, and sometimes you come up with four and so, bang, they take off to try and catch up, they get to the corner and voila, she’s gone. Nor can they find her. She’s out of our lives, for the time being at least.”

“Shit. Well, that’s great, seeing as she was the closest we had to any kind of a tie to those guys.”

“Yeah. I made sure to point that out to those guys.”

Schindler shook his head. “Ah well,” he said, “spilt milk, huh?”

“I’d say so.”

“So, what do we have?” Schindler said. “Mickelson dead in that roach nest on Capitol Hill. His old lady gone with the wind. Rodriguez, who knows? Him for Mickelson, you think?”

“Be my bet at the two-dollar window.”

“Mine too. Unless, who’s place was it they found him in?”

“Eddie Ryan. Another dickhead with priors and priors.”

“You think he’s our mystery man?”

“I’d say it’s another pretty safe bet. Neighbor upstairs who called in this scuffle down there, sometime after Mickelson got it, said Ryan drove this big silver beater. Well, that’s what old Lydia saw, am I right? Plus, him and Mickelson were old road dogs and cellies and so forth. So yeah, I think so.”

“Sounds good to me. But you still think Rodriguez capped Mickelson.”

“Well, the neighbor who called in the scuffle, he stuck his head out a little bit after, and he saw this guy scooting up toward the street. Couldn’t give him a brand name or nothing, too dark and all that, but he looked like a pretty slick package, and he went and hopped in this sporty new car there, so…”

“Sounds like our boy. All slick and sporty.”

“It sure does. Of course, Mickelson’d been dead there like close to a day, but, well, I’ll just say this. Rodriguez and Ryan? Ryan’s priors are all low-rent scuffles and pooping around, no violent action that I saw. He and Mickelson went in on deals but any slam-bang, it was Dennis who carried the weight. Rodriguez? Different kind of a guy altogether. My feel for him, especially after listening to Johnny, he’d kill his mother. Plus, the blowup out at Mizell’s? That was a stone fucking fuckup, I think, and I doubt that Rodriguez was pleased. Fucked up his morning routine at the spa and now he’s out scrambling around. Maybe those three in Mickelson’s head were a pink slip or something. Why there at Ryan’s? No clue. Plus, the scuffle later that the neighbor called in on? No clue again.”

“Life’s little mysteries, my man.”

“Good thing we’re detectives.”

“No shit.”

They turned into the airport.

“So,” Schindler said, “who else have we got?”

“Here?”

“Uh huh.”

“Fastnaught and Hall, Bobby Williams from SeaTac, two airport security guys.”

“Bobby, huh? Good. So, we get there, we wait. What time’ve we got?”

“Ten to one.”

“Think he’ll show up?”

“No I don’t.

6

Three months or so later Martin and Schindler sat in their office and watched as The Wicked Yolanda made her way out. It was a slow painful exit. She shut the door softly behind her.

Martin and Schindler stared at the door.

Schindler let out a breath. “He really did a number on her.”

“Yes he sure as fuck did,” Martin said.

“That is one bastard, Ray. I don’t care. Fuck him. He wrecked her, man.”

They sat and pondered the wrecked lady’s visit.

Schindler said, “She was the caller…”

“Oh yeah,” Martin said, “it was her. I remember that tape very well. Little scratchy, but it was her.”

“Uh huh. And now, three months later, she’s here on our doorstep.”

“Uh huh.”

“Think that’s what it was? He found out?”

“ About the call? Be the most obvious thing. I dunno. She didn’t say.”

“Yeah…” Schindler’s lips tightened. “Man, her whole face. He busted her jaw and her nose, and tore up her mouth. She was pretty.”

“Not now.”

“Fuck no, not now. He drags her out of the car three blocks from her house and kicks her around, then leaves her out in the street to crawl home. Broad fucking daylight. That’s one hell of a guy.”

“Big brother.”

“I wonder why.”

“You wonder why what?”

“What it was. Why she ratted them out in the first place.”

“She sure wasn’t getting up off of nothing about that. No whys or how comes, just, you want him you got him.”

“He’s coming in Tuesday.”

“The friendly skies of United.” Martin laughed dryly.

“Yeah, well,” Schindler said, “we’ll show him what ground level’s like when he gets here.”

“Yeah.”

“I still wonder why she ratted them out,” Schindler said.

“I’ve got an idea about that,” Martin said. “You remember we were wondering before, if it was just hubby or all of those fuckers or what? And one thing we’re thinking, well, maybe old Mickelson’s fucking somebody else?”

“Yeah, I remember. You think?”

“Well, the day we found Mickelson, Fahey and Lonborg went out to his place to drop the bad news. And they knock on the door, and they’re waiting and waiting, and wishing it was us on that doorstep, and finally she comes to the door, opens up, and they tell her. And she’s, funny read. It hits her alright, but… Fahey said it was like she was thinking, br-rap bap bap bap, just clicking away, mind going vroom and, can’t read her eyes but… She’s putting pieces together and stuff, but, no grief. Whatever it is, the lady ain’t sorry he’s dead. So they’re watching her there, and this girl comes out and she heard it. She’s maybe 15. Stone fucking knockout. Looks like Yolanda, but finer. Tits out to here, big long legs, broad’s got a miniskirt on…” Martin laughed.

“Fahey, he tells me that on the way back, Lonberg, he’s saying he’s gonna go back there, like midnight or something, and kidnap that broad and take her down to Belize. Hide out in the jungle, they’ll never find him. Just, fuck the job, fuck his pension, old lady, all that. Fahey can have the old lady. Just watching that broad was like being on the doorstep to heaven.” Martin laughed.

“But,” he said, “here’s the thing. The Wicked Yolanda, she gets the news, and she’s, well, whatever but, sorry? Uh uh. The girl though, turns out she’s baby sis, Esme’s her name, she’s been staying with Yolanda and old hubby Dennis, and it hit her, man. She almost turned white. She looks at Yolanda, then Fahey and Lonberg, then back at Yolanda, then, something, she looks away, like she’s gonna cry—and she whirls and takes off toward the back of the house. Yolanda don’t even look, but her face closes up, all stoneface and shit, and then, well, the rest. She don’t know nothin’, no comprende, senores, and after awhile she closes the door and that’s that.”

“Dennis was dipping.”

“You could infer.”

“Right there in his own fucking house.”

“And a dumb fucking move if he was. Talk about lighting off one’s better half.”

“No shit. Of course, you don’t think Fahey was reading things in.”

“No,” Martin said, “actually I don’t. The man picks shit up, lots of times, right on the money. Lonberg too, he got the same hit. So… You know?”

“Yeah, sure could be. And then, Rodriguez, one way or another, he finds out she dimed ‘em, and bing, makes it known he’s displeased.”

“Yeah, sure could be. Given his record, could be she’s lucky she’s breathing.”

“Yeah. I wonder how come.”

“He didn’t plink her? Assuming he found out she ratted him out? Haven’t a clue, unless maybe, she’s family, all that. Could be he might’ve stirred up trouble with blood if he’d offed her.”

“You think? Or, could be, he figured ruining her face like he did was a fate worse than death.”

“Knowing him, that could be. We’ll have to ask him.”

“I’m looking forward to that,” Schindler said. “Tuesday, huh? Yeah. Welcome back, Baby… You know, though, that Teflon Man shit. We still don’t really have jack on that prick, just her story. So, what she said, I’d say that applies.”

Martin grinned a small grin. “Yeah it does.” He laughed. “How’d it go? ‘Detective, you want my brother. I know that you want him badly. You will do what you have to do to get him. And you will. He wanted to be a big, powerful man, but all his is now is a fugitive down in L.A. He is not rich. He has no powerful friends. You can do what you want with him. And that’s why I came here.’”

“Not bad.” Schindler laughed. “You sounded just like her. Same hangman’s cadence.”

They laughed.

“I love detective work,” Schindler said. “Fitting the parts and drawing the picture and shining the light and drawing a bead on all the malfeasors and—“

“And thank God for snitches, without whom most perps would fly free as birds. Even the dumb ones.”

“Amen,” Schindler said.

7

A back booth at Manny’s. Martin and Schindler, half-shit-faced and grinning, hoisted their drinks.

“Salud,” Martin said.

They tipped back their drinks. Martin laughed.

“’Bang bang, you’re dead,’” Martin said, “and then blam! You practically busted my eardrums.”

Schindler laughed. “Sorry.”

“That’s quite alright. All for the cause.”

“That little prick,” Schindler said. “’I sue your ass. I get Johnny Cochran.’ Every fucking mutt in the world… Sue this, motherfucker.”

“He must not have heard Cochran’s dead.”

“He oughtta to keep up with world events,” Schindler said.

Martin laughed. “Man, you’re already half in the bag.”

“As well I should be. Salud.”

Schindler tipped back his drink.

“He was a tough little fucker, though,” Martin said. “’Fuck you, fuck your mother. You think you’re just gonna drop shit on me? I’ll own you! Get me my lawyer and then kiss my dick.’”

“Wasn’t worried a lick,” Schindler said.

“Not the whole way anyway. But when Hurley came in with the bag and tossed it right at him, that got his attention. He’s, what the fuck? And then I go into the bag and pull out the shit and say, ‘Lookee here, fellas!” and man! You see his eyes? Whole bag of dope with his name on it there and he knows it and, ‘Oh Jesus fuck!’ And then, his eyes, they’re click click click and he’s thinking. Mapping his getaway, right? A phone call, a lawyer, cash down for bail, then hasta la vista and see ya, you know?”

“Man bounced back quick.”

“Yeah. Arrogant prick.”

“Yes indeed.”

“Gotta give him his props, though,” Martin said. “One tough dude.” He laughed. “What’d you say? ‘You’re a health hazard, Ramon. Gotta put your ass down.’ And he’s all, ‘Fuck you’ and you’re, ‘Man, we’d love to take you to court and all that, but, lawyers and juries, you know what I mean? Pretty as you are, they might walk you. I gotta sleep nights. So, see this, my man? It’s a gun. A drop gun, you know? For fucks who need killing. Like you.’”

“He didn’t like that,” Schindler said.

“He sure didn’t, but still, he’s, ‘How long’s this clown show gonna go on? I got shit to do.’ Then he looks at his watch.”

“Yeah. Fucking Rolex. He’s got shit to do.” Schindler sneered and they drank for awhile.

Martin laughed. “Fucking Hurley though, he got his ass. ‘What do you think he’d go for up on the tier?’”

Schindler laughed. “’A carton of butts. Maybe two.’”

“’They’d pass him around all day and all night, pretty as he is.’ Rodriguez really didn’t like that.”

“Jaws got way snug.”

“Yeah. No sissies in this camp, goddamnit!”

They laughed.

“Man’s got some issues,” Schindler said.

“Sure seems that way,” Martin said. “Still, though, Rodriguez? You see him catching for the home team up there?”

“Actually no,” Schindler said.

“I don’t either. This guy runs stuff, gives orders. He’s up there, and half his homies are stuffed in there with him. Bringing in dope and he’s running the place in six months. Now, ‘Suck my dick.’”

“Yup, I’d say so,” Schindler said. “Arrogant fucker… I really did want to cap his ass, Ray.”

“I know you did, I could see it. Still though, you put that shot by his ear and he jumped like you stuck a hot comb right up his rectum. He’s probably still shitting water. And that dope is his, man, believe it. We got a tip, he’s got a jacket—“

“He’s never been busted for one goddamn thing.”

"Yeah, well, the stories we’ll tell, am I right? And plus, Johnny Davis, I talked with him before we came down here and he’s happy as shit at the news. They’re scooping guys up from one end of town to the other right now. Next couple of days, they’ll be turning those dipshits like pancakes. Whole new chapter being written right now in Rodriguez’s book. And, plus, that dope we shoved up his ass? Hurley said, fuck it, they’ll just put it back in the locker and tag it as his and so—his lawyer, whoever he gets, he’s gonna have to work like a dog to prove anything different. Johnny Cochran? Flee Bailey? Who gives a shit? Perry Mason, who cares? And, plus the prick can no longer afford ‘em, so… Fuck him, he’s toast.”

“Yeah, well, maybe.”

Martin said, “I bet you. Look, Mike, we got him, okay? I bet you we do. And he was a gift.”

“The Wicked Yolanda.”

“No shit,” Martin said. “Right up his ass. Surprise, motherfucker! A win for our side, however it goes. His business is toast and we ran his ass ragged. The man thought he’d die in that room.”

“Yeah,” Schindler said, “that was fun.”

“I sure as hell thought so. Right up his ass. Maybe sometime, we do it again, some other asshole.”

Schindler laughed. “This ain’t just a job, it’s an adventure.”

They laughed and clicked glasses.

“Salud,” Martin said.

The end

BIO: Robert Crisman writes crime and noir fiction. He spent 15 years on streets in downtown Seattle and has some idea of what really goes on in these realms. He’s had stories posted on A Twist of Noir, and some scheduled on Yellow Mama and Darkest Before Dawn. A movie he scripted, Chasing the Dopeman, is currently in post-prod down in L.A. and, with luck, it’ll be ready to go sometime this fall. He maintains a blog, chock full of stories, at 6S.