Baca Page 19

  “Who?”

  I pointed to the forklift driver, who didn’t notice. “I’ll give him the bag to hold until we get the people, then you get the bag from him.”

  Bond and Carl talked again, arguing back and forth until Carl shook her by the shoulders so hard her head looked like a bobble-toy. He let Bond go and took a step toward us.

  He pointed at the forklift driver, who again didn’t notice, “Not to him,” Carl said, then moved his finger to the fisherman, “To him. I tell him to vatch bag and I pay.” He walked to the fisherman, who looked way, way up at Carl.

  “That’s not who I would have picked,” I said to Hondo.

  “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder...” Hondo said.

  The fisherman nodded, put his rod down, zigzagged his way around several pallets of fertilizer to us, and held out his hand.

  Pretty Boy winked as I put the bag in his hand, then he went back through the stacks to the rod, put the bag down by his leg, nodded to Carl and resumed fishing. The forklift moved near him and picked up a six-foot high pallet of fertilizer. Pretty Boy was obscured for several seconds before the driver backed the load to the far end of the pile. Carl watched to make sure the bag was still with the fisherman. It was.

  Carl barked at Frank to go on board and get Landman and the others, but Meadows wasn’t going to do it. He stood his ground with his fists clenched.

  Bond said in a tired voice, “Frank, go ahead. Let’s get this over with.” Frank looked at her, then unclenched his hands and boarded. He started to untie them but Carl said, “No, leave them tied.” Frank shot Carl a look, but that was all, then he followed Landman and the women up the gangplank and onto the dock.

  At the same time, the forklift was bringing a pallet of fertilizer from the far back to the front. I saw Carl watch it, then I saw the change in his eyes. I thought, Uh-oh.

  Carl roared a command in Russian and every eye on the Bad Guy’s team got big and round.

  Carl raced toward the fisherman.

  Bond’s mouth opened and she looked at the forklift. The two henchmen drew Berettas with each hand and aimed at Landman and the women.

  The forklift driver gunned his machine and turned toward the two gunmen by the yacht.

  The men working by the stacked fertilizer pulled Tech-nines and Mac-tens from thin air and started blazing away.

  The fisherman dropped his rod, picked up the bag and backpedaled as fast as he could between the pallets, yelling, “Hey, hey, hey!”

  Automatic and semi-automatic fire sent splinters flying from the docks and puffs of grainy fertilizer exploding from the sacks of fertilizer. Bond dropped to the dock and covered her head as Frank screamed, “Bond! Bond!”

  Hondo fired what sounded like a hundred fast rounds from his Glocks right by my ear and knocked the two gunmen down. Me, I pulled my puny six shot revolver and ran toward Landman.

  Bob Landman may have been a pretend hero in the movies, but there was real bravery in him, too. When the shooting started, he yelled for the women to run and he deliberately dropped behind them to keep his body between them and the Russian shooters. I raced by the women and behind Landman to shield him and cut his ropes with my pocketknife. The shooting had started to fall off after Hondo knocked the two men down, but as I glanced at them and pushed Landman ahead of me, I saw the Russians rise.

  I emptied my pistol at them and saw shirts jump with every shot. Hondo emptied both weapons. The Maravilla guys on the stack of fertilizer tossed their empty weapons aside and came forward with fists and knives. Hondo said, “Vests!”

  I felt a bullet zipp by my face as one of the Russians fired. I pulled the trigger and heard the click. I yelled at Hondo, “Now you say ‘Vests’!”

  I glanced around and saw Carl catch the fisherman, and Pretty Boy tried to fight him, but Rakes simply ripped the bag from his hand, then grabbed Pretty Boy by an arm and his crotch and swung him like a hammer-thrower, sending him sailing over the top of the stack of fertilizer. Pretty Boy yelled, “I can’t swim!” right before we heard the splash.

  The forklift driver, Cuarenta, leaned out the driver’s side to fire a Tech-nine around the stacked pallet as he drove toward the Russians. Cuarenta’s bullets plunked into the yacht but not many rounds were finding their mark. It drew the Russians’ attention away from me and Landman, though, and they concentrated their fire on the forklift.

  I saw a round hit Cuarenta in the shoulder and another one caught the side of his head. He went limp and the forklift veered as his hand fell off the wheel. The forklift knocked a cleat into the air, crashed into the gang-plank and bounced off the dock and into the yacht at a crazy angle, trailing a stream of golden liquid from a ruptured fuel tank and spilling the sacks of fertilizer on the deck as the forklift careened on its side to land on top of them. A flying fifty-pound bag of ammonium nitrate knocked out Frank as he rushed toward Bond.

  The momentum of the colliding forklift moved the boat away from the dock and the single rusted cleat gave way and dropped into the water, still attached to the line from the yacht.

  Movement among the pallets caught my eye and I swung my attention that way in time to see Hondo and Carl facing each other.

  A bullet tugged at my shirt and I saw the Russians aiming at me. Landman was beside me and I pushed him, “Run!” I said. I turned back.

  Behind the Russians, on the yacht, I saw Cuarenta get to his knees, bloody head and all, and take his time with the Tech-nine. There was a flat sounding shot, one Russian’s hair flew up on the back of his head, and he fell face down. The other turned and the Tech-nine clicked. The Russian raised his pistol and it clicked. Cuarenta jumped at the Russian and they went down in a heap on the dock, rolling and slugging and kicking.

  Frank staggered to his feet, still yelling for Bond.

  I shouted at Landman “Get the women behind that big warehouse,” then ran toward Hondo as the other Maravillas went to help Cuarenta and Pretty Boy.

  I heard Carl as I raced to the pallets.

  Carl said, “You vish to try Carl, hah? Carl break you like stick of shit.”

  Hondo said, “Prove it.”

  Carl grinned and came at him. Hondo hit him so hard Carl’s feet came off the ground and he hit on his back, but was up in a second.

  “Grin some more,” Hondo said.

  Carl wasn’t grinning now. He was mad clear through. I reached them and ran to attack Carl from the left and he snapped the fastest side-kick at my head that I’d ever seen. I partially dodged it, but enough connected that I went down in a floppy heap, still conscious and able to see and hear, but motor functions were short-circuited. I saw Hondo come at him and Carl focused his blows on Hondo’s chest and back. He grappled with Hondo and used his knees like a Thai boxer, driving devastating pneumatic thrusts of knee and thigh into Hondo’s chest and sides as he held him.

  Hondo broke free and staggered back. Blood stained his shirtfront and back, and a thin red trickle from his mouth that looked way too bright. I tried to stand up on noodle legs and felt like my head was floating on a stick body two inches wide and ten feet tall.

  Rakes closed in for the kill and Hondo waited until Carl swung his right hand, then Hondo grasped Carl’s arm at the wrist and elbow and used the Russian’s own momentum to take them both over. Hondo continued in a roll that brought him up first, with one knee centered on the forearm between his two hands.

  He broke Carl’s forearm like you would break a stick. I staggered toward them as Carl screamed from the pain and drove his left fist into the red spot on Hondo’s shirt.

  Hondo went over backward and didn’t move. Carl rolled to his feet and cradled the right arm to his stomach. He picked up the green bag and turned to go.

  I tackled him around the shoulders and held on as he ran toward the Americas. He stopped long enough to elbow me loose and followed with a hard kick that sent me backpedalling until Bond caught me. Cuarenta and another Maravilla stood between Carl and the drifting yacht, but they might as wel
l have been children trying to stop a lion. Two swift, savage kicks left them both unconscious on the dock. Carl never even put down the gym bag.

  I tried to pull away from Bond but she held me tight and said, “No, he’ll kill you.”

  The Americas was sideways to the dock, but twenty feet away and moving farther every few seconds. I saw Frank regain his feet on the yacht and look around. Carl looked at the Americas and tossed the gym bag underhanded so that it landed on the deck. Carl then backed up about fifteen steps, stuck his broken arm in his shirt and ran forward.

  Rakes leaped at the edge of the dock and sailed high through the air to land in a stumbling fall on the deck that knocked him and Frank down. I heard Carl yelling and cursing in pain. You didn’t need to translate Russian to know that fall hurt.

  Chato had Hondo’s arm over his shoulder as they walked over to stand beside me. Bond stepped away and looked at the yacht. Carl stood up, then Frank, who still looked woozy. Carl held up the bag and said, “I vin, the chew-els vill cause me riches!”

  Frank’s voice wavered, “Bond....”

  I glanced at her and saw she was looking at the bag. She said in a soft, tired voice, “He doesn’t have them, does he.” She said it like a statement.

  “Nope.”

  “How did you know who he would ask to hold the bag?”

  “I didn’t. The fake one was on the forklift, the side you couldn’t see. It went back and forth in front of everyone, so it didn’t matter who was picked, they would have time to exchange the bags.”

  Bond nodded, “Clever.”

  “World’s Most Clever Detective.”

  She smiled a sad smile and we both looked at the boat.

  Carl laughed and waved the bag, then he put it on the overturned forklift and reached inside.

  His laughter stopped as he drew out a coffee can full of sand with the lid duct taped on and dozens of Happy Face stickers stuck on the can. Carl reached in again and drew out one of those black globe fortune telling eight-balls you give kids who then ask it questions and turn it over to read the messages that floated up like: Ask again later, or Outcome Doubtful. He looked desperate as he reached inside the bag. He lifted out two pink bubblegum cigars taped together to form a cross. I’d also glued colored M&M’s to it. His eyes widened, like he couldn’t believe it. He reached in a last time and pulled out a rubber chicken.

  I yelled, “Spend it wisely!” We could hear sirens in the distance. Pretty Boy came up with the other Maravillas behind him and handed me the real gym bag. I held it up and let Rakes see it.

  Carl’s face twisted and he began to look around on the boat, disappearing from sight as he went below deck. Frank cried and looked at us, holding his hand out to Bond. When Rakes appeared again, he had a Bery pistol in his hand. He raised it to fire and yelled, “I burn you, Baca!”

  Frank yelled, “No!” and pulled Carl’s arm down as the Russian fired. The two struggled as tongues of flame and black oily smoke spread in the burning diesel around the forklift. The last thing I saw was Carl pulling Frank in front of him and backing away from the fire.

  The yacht exploded in a gigantic ball of flame and noise. The concussion was so strong it knocked all of us off our feet. Debris and burning ash rained down on us and I heard the different pitched metallic wangs and bonks as various sized pieces hit the roof of the Borax warehouse behind us. There were also horn honks and faint yells and whistles and applause coming from the bridge. They thought we were making a movie. Only in LA.

  Pretty Boy stood up and looked where the Americas had been. There was a little fire on the water and bubbles and ash, but nothing else. He said, “Man, you guys know how to take care of trouble.”

  Bond stood beside him and said, “My husband was on that boat.”

  Pretty Boy shrugged and said, “He should have found somebody else to hang out with, Chulita. Man’s gotta walk the walk if he’s gonna talk the talk.” Pretty Boy took another look at her and said, “Say, you gonna be needing a man now, uh? Fine looking lady like you, maybe I can fix you up.”

  I said, “Trust me, the Maravillas don’t need that kind of trouble.”

  Pretty Boy winked at me, “Whatever you say, Holmes.” We could hear sirens in the distance. They were coming our way.

  I said, “You guys take off, Hondo and I’ll take care of it.” I took Hondo’s arm from Chato and put it over my shoulder.

  Hondo looked at me and said, “I still ain’t heavy...”

  I said, “Don’t kid yourself. You are.” Pretty Boy and the others lined up and gave Hondo and me big abrazos, then left, laughing and comparing wounds. They were a tough bunch of guys.

  Bond said, “What are you going to do with me?”

  “Let you tell your story to the authorities. Bob and the women will tell theirs, Hondo and I ours, and you can be last. I understand there’s a lot of international interest in this,” I held up the gym bag, “and all of them will get a shot at you.”

  She stroked my arm, “Couldn’t you let me go, for old time’s sake?”

  “I can’t, for any kind of sake.” I looked at Hondo, “What exactly is a sake, anyhow?”

  The first police sedans came into view and I saw Landman and the women talking to them. “I wouldn’t worry,” I told Bond, “You’ll look good in prison colors.”

  The officers motioned us to them and we walked slowly, with me holding up Hondo, and Bond pacing beside us in silence. Bob helped hold Hondo when we reached them, and the officers put Bond in cuffs.

  We were busy with everything else when Bob said, “I’m sorry about your car.” Hondo and I looked past the police cruisers and saw the mangled forklift on top of Hondo’s Mercedes. The Mercedes was maybe two feet high.

  I said, “Look at the bright side; you’ve always wanted a compact.” Hondo punched me on the leg because that was as high as he could lift his arm. The paramedics took him before he could hit me again.

  **

  That night and the next two days were a crazy mix of statements to law enforcement, Immigration, the Russian Consular office, every news and television reporter in the area, CNN, and Univision. Hondo even got a call from People magazine wanting Hondo and I to appear on their cover as The Sexiest Private Detectives Alive. Hondo told them we’d do it right after we saw The Sexiest Dead Private Detectives issue on the shelves. I’d kind of wanted to do it, but Hondo was still being cranky because he was back in the hospital. The same nurses he skipped out on were watching him like hawks this time.

  Bob Landman came by to thank us and to talk. He turned out to be a warm and genuine person, and we both liked him. He asked us about the case, about Mickey -- we talked a lot about Mickey, and then we mentioned Hunter. He asked a number of questions about how the government treated her because of her helping us.

  Bob also did us some favors without us asking. Some people say politicians can get the biggest things taken care of, but an A-list actor isn’t far behind. He made a few calls at noon the next day and by mid-afternoon Hondo and I were licensed PI’s again and licensed to carry. We received phone calls apologizing for the mistake and assurances that it would never happen again. That evening we were told they had recovered Frank Meadows’ body, but found no trace of Carl Rakes and assumed the explosion had blown him apart.

  We got a call from Hunter the second morning. She was laughing and saying not only was she exonerated, but they encouraged her to “continue her productive relationship with friends of the motion picture industry”. DreamWorks had also contacted her to act as a consultant for Ninety Notches.

  Bob had a good sense of humor, too and didn’t try to hide his beat up puss from the cameras. He was witty and self-deprecating to the news cameras and got a lucrative benefit from it. Gillette contacted him and offered a low seven-figure contract for a one-minute commercial with him using their new Mach razor to shave his bruised and cut face. They said it would show how gentle-yet-close-cutting their Mach was. They were sure it would rocket sales, but the trick was they
had to film right now, before Bob’s cuts and bruises faded.

  So on the third day I was with Bob and a film crew shooting the commercial on the Sunset Strip. Bob hired me as a PA -- Personal Assistant, something I’d never been before. I’d had to drive there in Shamu, fin and all and that got some comments and stares. But finally, we got down to work. Bob told me all I had to do was hang out on the set and look smug. I told him I thought I could do that. The pay was good and Bob said I could call Hondo in the hospital from the set and torment him about it.

  The location on Sunset was maybe thirty yards east of Siberia, still closed for renovations according to the sign.

  It was mid-afternoon and I watched them put shaving cream on Bob’s face for the first take as I talked to a cute-as-a-button brunette from Salinas who was employed as a Best Boy. The name was misleading because she would never, ever be confused for a boy. I had her chuckling and trying to be quiet on the set when the first take was ready and “Action” shouted.

  Bob talked into the camera with his face covered in shaving cream. He held up the razor and told of its merits and technological design. That’s when a movement coming from the right caught my eye and my first thought was, I didn’t know they had a monster in this commercial.

  The figure rushing onto the set wore a charred and torn white long-sleeve shirt and oil-smeared pants, but the face was what shocked me. One half of the head was a black, scorched scalp and face with a milky white eye bulging from the socket. The other half was a mane of long, tangled dirty blond hair, and a snarling face with one blue eye. One arm was tied to his stomach with dirty rope. Dark burns showed through the tears in the shirt, and then I recognized the tattoos, and the good half of the face.

  Carl Rakes had risen from the dead.

  I ran forward and pulled my new Glock .45 as Carl grabbed Bob from behind. He had Bob around the neck with his good arm, and his hand held a long shard of glass against the side of Bob’s throat.

  Carl backed away, “Dah, you film dis. You see Carl take de shid actor and carve him away. You vill see, you vill see. Carl vill triumph!”