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  Mickey said, “He had that worked out. See, Bob was friends with the Governor and got himself appointed as special officer of the state, working undercover. Made it all legal. He also did a recruitment commercial for the State Troopers for free, his way of paying back the Governor.”

  Hunter said, “I doubt he could do the same for a federal job. My guess is he was going to check out some smuggling organizations on his own, like freelance.”

  Mickey said, “He’s got a Private Investigator’s license, so I guess that would make it legal, wouldn’t it?”

  I said, “He’s got a license?”

  “Uh-huh. The President of the California Association of Private Investigators gave him an honorary license.”

  I looked at Hondo, “This guy’s got more honorary awards than Bill Cosby.”

  Mickey sniffed, “And he deserves every one of them. He does a lot of things for people.”

  “I didn’t mean anything by it, Mickey. Just thinking out loud.”

  Hondo said, “Any of you think about the coincidences we’re talking about here?” He ticked them off on his fingers, “We’ve got the photo of Bob at the ridge overlooking the canyon where the Mexican women were hiding; the women were smuggled there, Bob’s preparing for a Border Patrol part, and we know Bob tries to authenticate what his character’s going to do by doing it himself.”

  Hunter continued it, “So he tries to find the smuggler or smugglers of the women.”

  Mickey said, “And he disappears.”

  I said, “Let’s get that photo worked on. I want to know who’s there with him.”

  **

  Hondo had a friend who ran his own security company and had lots of high tech equipment to process videos and images. I had Hondo take my windbreaker and drop it at the cleaners as he took the photo to the friend’s office. It took the guy an hour to enlarge and enhance the corner of the photo that contained the shadow and the leg and foot.

  Hondo brought it back to the office and when Mickey saw it she squealed, “That’s a cowboy boot.”

  It was. A black, pointy-toed cowboy boot with a silver cap on the toe, but I didn’t think it was anything to get all quivery about. I said, “Uh-huh. And the shadow is of someone standing out of camera range.”

  Mickey clutched at my arm, “No-no-no, you don’t understand. I know that boot.”

  She was scared. I said, “Who is it?”

  “It’s Mr. Meadows’ personal assistant, that Mr. Rakes.”

  “Carl Rakes?”

  “That’s him,” she shivered. “He was always staring at me. He reminds me of one of those creepy guys you see in those old black and white monster movies.”

  Hondo said, “Were he and Bob friends?”

  “No, but Bob would talk to Mr. Rakes when they were in the same room, sort of polite conversation.”

  I indicated the picture, “Why would Bob be there with Rakes?”

  Mickey said, “I don’t know. It doesn’t seem to fit.”

  Hunter said, “Figure out who that shadow belongs to and you might have an answer.”

  Hunter’s cell phone rang and she answered it, then moved into the storeroom to talk. When she came out she said, “I need to run. There’s something extra they want me for at the LA office. Seems they want the conversation with the woman in Durango on tape.”

  “Smuggling?” Hondo said.

  “Sounds like it. Supposed to be something they’ve been trying to get a handle on for a while. They think this might be part of it.” She rose and said, “Later,” and went out the door.

  We sat a few minutes mulling things over, then Hondo said, “I think we need to pay old Carl a visit, quiz him a little about this photo.”

  Mickey clapped her hands together like an excited five year old, “Yes, I’m ready!”

  I said, “Mickey, we’d better go this one alone.” Her smile fell and tears started forming. “No, no,” I said, “It’s just that we expect to find him in a strip club and we don’t want to expose you to that stuff. You can be more help away from places like that.”

  She came over and hugged my neck, then went to Hondo and did the same. “You two are my heroes, for real. I’ll go now so you can do what you need to. Thank you, thank you so much.” She began to cry as she left and closed the door.

  “Well,” Hondo said. “You always have a way with women, I’ll say that for you.”

  “Mickey’s a man.”

  “Not in her heart.”

  I looked at the door. “You’re right,” I said.

  **

  I took the three Berettas from the storeroom and disabled the firing pins. We’d decided to give them back as a gesture, but I didn’t want to turn a meeting into the OK Corral if I could help it. Besides, our firing pins were working and I liked that edge. We grabbed some cokes since we hadn’t had a chance to eat and sipped on them while Hondo drove us in his Mercedes to The Caspian Diamond, figuring to start where I’d last seen Rakes. I started to take a sip and got a call on my cell phone. It was the repair shop and my truck was ready.

  The body man said, “Never used so much Bond-O in my life. I coulda repaired the friggin’ Titanic there was so much.”

  I said, “Are you going to charge me for the smart comments too, or just the repair work?”

  “Hardy har-har, Baca. Pick it up when you’re ready. I’ll send you the bill so you don’t have a heart attack in my office.”

  I told him I’d be by later to get it.

  We were almost to the Diamond when Hondo said, “Talked to Archie this morning after I worked out. He said you drive Shamu to compensate for a small penis.”

  I spit coke, “He said what? What does he think that Corvette of his stands for?”

  “Arch said it’s an offshoot of his virility. He said it’s not a substitute but a natural occurrence, like a smile shows teeth. I think he’s right about that.”

  “Oh you do, huh. Well, what about this Mercedes, what’s Arch say about that?”

  “He said it doesn’t mean anything because I won it.”

  “Oh, that’s just great.”

  “Hey, it’s just an observation. Doesn’t have to be what you think.”

  I took a swig of coke and said, “Arch better watch his protein drinks or they’re going to have a full charge of ex-lax giving him an unexpected thrill. Small penis my butt.”

  We pulled into the lot of the Caspian Diamond and parked with the other two dozen or so cars. Carl was sitting by himself at the bar and we took the stools on either side of him.

  I said, “Hey Carl, you ever notice the word glasnost sounds like somebody having a snot-sneeze?”

  He looked in the mirror at us. If it had been only one, I think the fight would have been on. Carl said, “Baca, you fuckshid, you vant something? I crack your face and ead your skull hairs if you shove me.”

  “He’s got a way with words,” I said to Hondo. I took out the Berettas and laid them on the bar in front of Rakes. “Some of your buddies dropped these and we thought we’d bring them back.”

  You could see the wheels spinning. But he wasn’t stupid and he relaxed, putting his forearms on the bar. Carl said, “Speak what you say to hear from me.”

  Hondo placed the photo on the bar and said, “Tell us about this.”

  “Is picture of Landman.”

  “Yeah, and you’re standing with him and there are two other people with you: One that makes the shadow and the one taking the photo. We’d like to know who they are.”

  “Why I tell you?”

  “So we will leave you alone.”

  He sneered, “You don’t scare Carl.”

  I said, “Fleas don’t scare you either, but if you get them on you, they’ll irritate and pester you from now on. Just think of us as a couple of pesky fleas you can get rid of with a little talk.”

  Carl thought about it, then said, “Was Bond and Valdar. Bond is shadow, Valdar was camera.”

  Hondo said, “Why’d you throw Landman’s bike off the cliff?�
�

  Carl looked in the mirror and his eyes held on Hondo. “I do not throw, what you say...bike.”

  “Sure you did. Wasn’t anybody else there strong enough to flip it that far. C’mon, you can tell us.”

  The mirror showed dark shapes assembling behind us. Simon Mortay, cane in his hands, appeared behind Hondo and said, “Is enough, gentlemen. You leave now. Baca, I told you never to come back, and here are you so soon after I tell you.” He shook his head, “I vill run out from pat-i-ence if you come again.” The shadows materialized into the three men from our bathroom dance. They took the pistols off the bar. They held the pistols in their hands instead of holstering them.

  Hondo turned to face Simon and stepped from the bar. Simon’s hands blurred and there was a flicker of reflected light as he placed the needle point of a slim sword against Hondo’s chest. Simon’s other hand held the rest of the cane that had sheathed the blade. The hair on my neck stood up. Mortay was fast.

  Hondo said, “Get that off my chest.”

  “My, we have two machako men here.”

  Hondo said, “It’s macho. Learn the word before you try to use it.”

  My heart thumped fast and I was angry, too. What was with these people? I said, “Simon, we asked Carl a few questions and we’re ready to leave. You can put your shiskebob maker back in its holder.”

  “Or what?”

  I looked at him, “You ever watch Sam Peckinpah movies? It’ll be like that.”

  Simon started to speak and Hondo interrupted him, “I told you once, get that off me.”

  Something in Hondo’s voice got Simon’s attention. Carl then said something in Russian and Simon glanced at the three pistol-toters. He barked an order and one of them, the red-eyed one, pointed his Beretta at the bar and pulled the trigger. It clicked.

  That changed the atmosphere. Simon nodded, sheathed his sword cane and held it across his thighs. “You should go.”

  Hondo had his Glock in his hand. I hadn’t seen him draw.

  “Ask us to stay and we’ll leave,” he said.

  I moved to Hondo’s side and whispered, “What are you doing? Let’s get out of here.”

  “If he asks us to stay, then we’ll leave.”

  “Look, there’s a lot of them, maybe more in the back.”

  “I’m not going until he asks.”

  “Are you willing to get us killed just because you were insulted?” Hondo looked at me and then back at Simon. I’d read the answer.

  I said, “Simon, ask us to stay and we’ll leave.”

  “I tell you to go. Now.”

  Hondo raised the Glock and pointed it between Simon’s eyes. People beside him stepped away. The black hole on the .45 must have looked like a cave to Simon, and I watched him swallow. My heart banged against my ribs. I said, “Simon, just ask us to stay.”

  Carl said something to Simon in Russian and Simon’s lips thinned, then he said, “Perhaps you would like to stay.”

  Hondo lowered his Glock but didn’t holster it and said, “No thanks, we’ve got to be going.”

  **

  As we drove away Hondo said, “You want something to eat?”

  “Maybe you could take me by the ER, get them to jumpstart my heart.”

  “It’s over now, just relax and enjoy the day.”

  “He’s not going to forget that.”

  Hondo said, “I bet not.”

  We stopped and ate Chinese and took an extra helping of Kung Pao Chicken with us for Hunter. Hondo dropped me off at the repair shop and I told him I’d be right along.

  I got the keys for Shamu and looked the pickup over before I got in. They had done a good job. Not a single bullet hole showed. I started her up and hit the road. Five minutes later, I saw a Volkswagen painted up with southwestern scenes zip by in the opposite direction. Mickey was in a hurry and didn’t see me as I waved. I parked in the gym’s lot and heard Archie yell at me from the door, “I thought I smelled fish.” He was wearing a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut out and his arms looked as brown and hard as carved oak.

  I said, “You’ll think fish, you keep insulting my wheels.” He cackled and waved and closed the door.

  Hunter wasn’t back so Hondo called her cell phone and left a message that we were going home and we’d see her in the morning. We left and as I drove Shamu, I felt the fatigue really hit me. Dealing with swords and guns will tire you out, I guarantee.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I was up before sunrise and jogging my five-mile loop as the eastern sky backlit the mountains in shades of orange. I thought about who Carl Rakes said were the others in the picture: Bond and Valdar. I wasn’t ready to talk to Bond, and Valdar wasn’t anywhere I could reach him without a good psychic, so where to go with the info I had? After another half mile, the name Deco Martinez popped into my head. The gang member turned artist, friend of Valdar and Bob Landman. Deco Martinez had also been written on the note we found in Landman’s’ fanny pack, but in the jumble of words, I had assumed they were two different items, not a name. Now, as I pictured the note I could see that Landman had written Deco Martinez as a name, then the other words were half on top of it, which resulted in the confusion.

  It was a good place to start the day. I kicked up the pace and started back to the house. After a shower and slice of toast and orange juice, I was in Shamu and driving down Mulholland. I called the office and Hondo didn’t answer so I left a message that I was going to check out Deco. I drove into Beverly Hills and stopped again at Pelson’s Galleries to talk to Harold about how best to contact Martinez. Harold was finishing with a customer when I arrived and I studied several of the paintings while I waited. When Harold finished he came over.

  I pointed at a colorful canvas about the size of a sheet of typing paper and asked, “How much is this one?”

  “Two-ten.”

  “Two hundred and ten dollars? That sounds cheap.”

  “It is cheap, but it’s two hundred and ten thousand dollars.”

  I grabbed my chest in a mock heart attack. “I guess I’ll keep the decor of my home in Early Plastic.”

  Harold smiled and said, “What can I do for you, Investigator Ronny?”

  “I need to talk with Deco Martinez. Any suggestions?”

  “I have his studio address and can call as an introduction. I don’t think you’d be able to see him otherwise, maybe not even then. Deco is a strange fellow. When did you want to visit him?”

  “Today.”

  “Come back to my office and I’ll call.” I followed him and he reached Deco’s assistant on the first try. He tried every persuasion, but was told that Deco wouldn’t see anyone. Harold walked me to the door and said, “I’m sorry. Artists are a strange breed, and the ones here in Los Angeles are the strangest of the strange.”

  “No problem. Thanks for trying.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “Hey, I’m a trained professional, practically unstoppable when I get after something. I’ll go to Plan B.”

  “Plan B means you don’t have a clue, is that right?”

  I arched an eyebrow at him, “Ah-ha, so you’re a trained professional, too.”

  **

  I sat in Shamu for a while and thought I might try a long shot. I drove from Beverly Hills through downtown Los Angeles and into East LA, heading for the Hotel Camino Real and hoping to find some of my newest acquaintances. Who knows, I might find Elvis too, down for a little visit with Loomis.

  I saw them in a vacant lot two blocks west of the hotel. Pretty Boy and Chato were leaning against the fender of a nice looking 77 Ford Fairlane, the big beer bottles hanging from their fingers. I parked Shamu thirty feet away and walked to them.

  Pretty Boy looked at my truck, “They fixed the holes in your whale, uh? Looks good, ese.”

  I said, “You guys know who Deco Martinez is?”

  “Si-mon,” He pronounced it see-moan, “Deco’s a Home-Boy who made it good. He’s a famous painter, Holmes.”

  “I kno
w. Is he Maravilla?”

  “Damn straight. He used to date my tia.”

  “You think you could arrange it so I could talk to him?”

  Pretty Boy cocked his head to the side, “What for, Holmes?”

  “I think he might have some information I need.”

  He took a pull off the bottle and said, “I’ll talk to him. When you want to do it?”

  “The sooner the better.”

  “Tell me when and where and I’ll have him come by this afternoon.”

  “You don’t need to check with him first?”

  He shook his head at me like I didn’t understand, “The Maravilla are tight, Holmes. I tell him you saved our lives and he’ll be there.”

  “Okay,” I gave him the office address and said, “Three would be good.”

  “Hecho, it’s done.”

  I thanked them and walked to my truck. Chato said something to Pretty Boy that got him laughing. I said, “What?”

  “Holmes, Chato said we should paint a big fish-hook coming out of the mouth of your whalemobile.”

  Even gangbangers are comedians these days.

  **

  I had the office to myself that afternoon. Hunter was with the ICE office in the Federal Building on North Los Angeles Street and Hondo was digging through more files to find who owned the Russian clubs. Deco Martinez came in right at three. He was a scowling, big shouldered man over six feet tall, with long dark hair that had a reddish tinge.

  He said, “You Baca?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Private Investigator, huh?” I nodded. He said, “What is it you want to know?” I pointed to a chair and he sat.

  I said, “I’m trying to find Bob Landman, the actor, and I’m having no luck doing it.”

  His right eye made the tiniest tic when I said Landman’s name. He said, “So?”

  “I know you were at some recent parties with him and Valdar, so I thought maybe you’d seen or heard from him in the last few days.”

  “Valdar’s dead.”

  “Well, they haven’t found a body yet.”

  “There was too much blood. Trust me, he’s dead.”

  He was there. I sat a little straighter, “You want to expand on that?”