L A Woman Page 3

  I went out of the room and saw Miguel, “Thanks,” I said.

  “You do any good?”

  “No, I never even saw her, just her hand, then the car was gone.”

  “Yeah, she was a sneaky one. Let me know if you catch her. We have a reward for it.”

  I shook his hand, “I’ll keep that in mind.” As I went out of the building, I saw the car wash guys over by my pickup. They were laughing and carrying on like it was a fiesta.

  When I got closer I could see that one held an old fishing rod and had hooked his line under Shamu’s large, welded pipe front bumper and was acting like he’d hooked a big one.

  One of them said, “Give him line!” The fisherman acted like he was letting off the drag, then he jerked again like he was re-setting the hook and the fight was on again.

  “It’s a big one, hombre. Looks like two tons!”

  The fisherman said in a mock strained voice, “Captain, what kind of fish is it?”

  The one who told him to give it line said, “It’s a guppy!”

  I reached them and said, “Very funny.” They collapsed in hysterics. When they finally caught their breath I asked, “Have you seen the security tape of the car theft?”

  They shook their heads no. The fisherman said, “They told us about it, but that’s all.”

  “You have any idea which way that woman could have crawled from to get to the Firebird without being seen?”

  They all pointed to the southwest corner of the lot. The fisherman said, “Had to be from there. Only place you can’t see real easy, and she could sneak by the wash rack there before she ducked down.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “No problem. We got to have a little fun with Jaws here,” he patted the hood of my pickup.

  “It’s not a shark, it’s a killer whale.”

  The fisherman said, “It’s a truck, amigo. What kind of mushrooms you been eating?” They all thought that was a riot. He added, “Next time you come by, bring it in and we’ll wash it. Won’t cost you nothing.”

  **

  I drove toward the office and thought about the woman. From the few images I’d seen on the news tape and the one glimpse of her face on the security cameras, I agreed with Archie’s estimate of her being around nineteen or twenty.

  Somebody that young and that good a thief and escape artist is rare. Odds were she had a record, so we might be able to find her through the LAPD or County Sheriff’s department. It was something Hondo and I could discuss.

  The only problem with the Sheriff’s department was that we still owed our contact there. Sergeant Vick Best was as good as they come, but he was a bit testy with us right now.

  I finally reached Venice, pulled into the gym parking lot, and found a space in front of our office. Hondo had the DVD of the news footage loaded in the player. He had two mugs of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee ready for us, along with a half-dozen donuts. I grabbed a donut and sat down. I said, “Have you watched it already?”

  “Just once. I didn’t pick up anything, but I thought with both of us we might get lucky.”

  I took a bite of donut and sipped some coffee, “Roll it when you’re ready.”

  I ate three donuts and Hondo ate two as we watched the events three times. I finished my second cup of coffee and said, “Let’s watch it once more.” Hondo started it again. This time I concentrated on another vehicle that the pickup passed after banging into the Firebird. It was a white stakebed truck hauling mirrors. The mirrors were strapped to the outside of the truck bed on racks. I caught a flash of a reflected face in profile as the pickup passed the stakebed. “Stop it and rewind a little bit,” I said.

  Hondo did and I pointed the stakebed out to him as I filched the last donut. He stopped the film as the face came into the mirror.

  It was blurry, but we could make out that it was a black man with a gunfighter’s moustache and a black cowboy hat that was shaped and curled and fit him like he was the real deal. Hondo inched the footage forward but we were at the end of the film and unable to make out anything else.

  I popped the last of the donut into my mouth as he turned off the tape and looked in the donut box. “Didn’t you leave me half of that last one?”

  I chewed and swallowed, “I thought you wanted me to eat it so it wouldn’t sit around and attract ants.”

  “You ate four donuts.”

  “I figured you probably had a couple when you bought these, sort of like an appetizer, and that was why you only had two.”

  Hondo shook his head and poured us some more coffee. While we drank, I told him about visiting the car dealership.

  Hondo said, “She’s about half ghost the way she can move around in broad daylight and nobody sees her.”

  “I’m going back to the car lot later,” I said. “Look around behind the place and see where she came from.”

  “I think I’ll call up Vick and see if our African American cowboy rings any bells with the Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Don’t forget, Vick’s still put out with us.”

  “He won’t be much longer. Hunter called right before you got here and said she’d mailed us a care package of Julios.”

  Hunter is Hunter Kincaid, our beautiful, tough, straight shooting Border Patrol Agent friend who lives in Texas. Julios are some fabulous tortilla chips made near San Antonio. We were all addicted to them and Hondo and I ate the last bag we had. It was one of the big bags too, almost the size of a pillowcase. Vick knew it was his and that we had it because Hunter called and told him she’d sent it to us.

  Vick caught us when he came to the office that day and opened the door without knocking. I had the bag tilted up and was pouring the last tiny pieces of chips into my mouth when he yelled, “Vandals! You’re a couple of vandals!”

  He scared me so bad I jerked the bag, and salt and chili powder and all the other spices left in the bag found their way into my eyes and nose. It felt like someone poured fire into my sinuses. Tears flowed and my nose ran clear liquid as I hacked and sneezed and wiped my face.

  When I could see again, Vick said, “Serves you right,” and he left. He never did tell us what he wanted that day.

  Anyhow, since then he’s been a little testy.

  CHAPTER 4

  That afternoon I drove Shamu down a side street by the car dealership, and the car wash guys saw me and waved me to the wash rack.

  The Fisherman said, “Hey Baca, you got our little catfish all dirty. Leave her here so we can clean her up for you.”

  “It’s not a catfish, it’s a-” Fisherman held his hands up in surrender while the others grinned and grabbed the water hoses and rags.

  I said, “What are your names in case I see you on Comedy Central and want to tell friends I knew you crazies before you hit the big time.”

  Fisherman pointed to the taller one and said, “He’s Oscar and the one next to him,” he pointed at the barrel-chested one with the chin whiskers, “He’s Tomas. I’m Atticus. Our last name is Rodriguez.”

  “Atticus?” I said.

  He nodded, “Mom was a big reader. Must have read To Kill a Mockingbird fifty times.”

  “Atticus Rodriguez.”

  “Don’t think that wasn’t fun growing up with.”

  “I bet.”

  “You brothers?”

  “Nah, cousins. Rodriguez in Spanish is like Johnson in English, real common. Now give me the keys and go look at cars or something. Me and the boys will take care of our baby.” I tossed him the keys and walked by the wash rack to the street. As I rounded the corner I heard them laughing and hooting as they engaged in a water fight.

  I didn’t know what I was looking for, only that the girl had come from this direction and I was praying for something to show up. Ronny Baca, Prayer Detective, that’s me. There was the usual group of businesses along both sides of the streets, with some tire stores, a computer repair shop, a restaurant with Se Habla Ingles Y Chino painted over the door. The big sign over the roof said Wang’s
Mexiteria. Only in LA. Midway down the second block was a 7-Eleven, so I walked in that direction. I figured I could get a Coke and some peanuts and enjoy the AC as I looked over the neighborhood.

  **

  I went inside the store and was immediately enveloped in refrigerated coolness. The low hum of the air conditioners was barely noticeable. I grinned when I recognized the person behind the counter. He had his head down close to a tabloid newspaper on the counter top, maybe three or four inches from putting his nose on it. He was in his early twenties and had frizzed red hair that made him look like he’d put his finger in a light socket. The lenses in his glasses were thick as coke bottles, and he was cross-eyed. He looked up at me, and his eyes through the lenses looked the size of golf balls. His nametag read LOOMIS.

  I got a Coke and some peanuts and walked over to the counter and said, “Hello Loomis,” and placed them on the counter.

  Loomis said, “Oh, hi Ronny, Long time no see.” He cleared his throat and stood at attention, “Welcome to 7-Eleven. Would you like to try our two-for-one Big Gulp special?”

  I pointed at the Coke and peanuts, “I don’t believe I could drink a gallon of soda, Loomis. These will do fine.”

  “Sure thing.” He rang them up and I paid him.

  I asked, “You mind if I eat these in here? It’s a little warm outside.”

  “Feel free to loiter in our family store as long as you desire, and remember about the two-for-one special.”

  “I won’t forget. Thanks.” I chewed peanuts and drank Coke while I looked out at the street as Loomis waited on another customer. There was a surveillance camera mounted on the edge of the building to view cars as they gassed up at the island in front of the store. The customer left and no one came in for the next several minutes. To pass the time I asked Loomis, “Have you been here long?”

  “Twenty-three years, four months and six days.”

  “You…you don’t look old enough to have been working here that long.”

  “Oh, I thought you meant, like, how long have I been here on this earth plane.”

  “I meant, like, how long at this particular store?”

  Loomis scratched his head and frowned, “Do you mean, like, how long have I been coming here? I started coming here when I was fourteen, so…fourteen from twenty-three years, four months-“

  “Noooo. I meant how long have you been working here. At this particular store. On this earth plane.”

  “You should talk plainer, Ronny. The way you say things is confusing.”

  “I’ll work on it.”

  Loomis said, “Thirty-seven work days, excluding holidays. I didn’t work here on holidays, or on my days off and, oh, I was sick one day too, so thirty-six work days.”

  “So you’ve been here about two months.”

  He looked at me like I had the IQ of an ant. “No sir, I have been here thirty-six-work-days. I was not here on the other days, I was somewhere else.”

  I wasn’t going any deeper into this for fear of suddenly seeing Alice and a white rabbit hopping by saying, “I’m late, I’m late.” I said, “Sorry. I understand now.”

  Loomis nodded, “Good.” He leaned across the counter and whispered, “Are you still with The Enquirer?”

  I looked slowly left and right, then whispered back, “You bet. I’m on an assignment right now, doing it undercover again. Want to play along and help out?”

  He nodded, and whispered again, “Make it look real, in case the Venusians come in for energy drinks.”

  I blinked a couple of times at his answer, then I made a big play of pulling out my identification and showing him my Private Investigator’s license, “I’m Ronny Baca. Private Detective Extraordinaire.”

  Loomis said, “It doesn’t say Extraordinaire on your license.”

  “It’s an honorary title.”

  He looked at me, squinted his eyes a little, “Hey, these things can be faked real easy. You have any other proof?”

  I gave him one of my business cards. He put it up to his face and read it. “Okay, this is legit,” he said, “Can I call you Ronny?” He winked as he said it.

  “Sure, and you can keep that card in case you need me for anything,” I said as I put up my license. I leaned closer and said in a low voice, “Do you have access to the surveillance camera tapes?”

  “Sure. I change out the tapes at the start of my shift.”

  “How long do you keep them?”

  “Two weeks. It’s mostly to get the license plates off cars that don’t pay for their gas.”

  “Could I look through them?”

  Loomis looked around to see if anyone else was in the store, “Why?”

  “I’m working something, and I think the person I’m looking for might have walked down the street out front. I thought the camera might have caught her.”

  “You’re not looking for E, then.”

  I blinked, “I beg your pardon?”

  “Elvis. E. The King. You’re not looking for him.”

  “Not…right now.”

  “He lives here in LA, you know.”

  “I did not know that.”

  “Oh yeah, been here for years. Most people think E’s dead, but that’s just a cover so the government can’t find him and use his powers.”

  “His powers?”

  “They want to catch the King and force him to call down his alien friends so the army can capture their spaceship and learn how to make the Death Ray.” He tapped the tabloid newspaper on the counter. “It’s all in here in The Preditator. Not this particular issue, but in last month’s. This one just tells about E using his healing powers on a one-legged woman over on Wilshire near MacArthur Park. He grew her another leg.” Loomis put the tabloid under the counter and said, “So sure you can.”

  “Can what?”

  “Duh, Ronny. You can look at the surveillance tapes. Boy, for a Detective Extraordinaire you aren’t real quick.”

  “That was a lot of Elvis to absorb all at once, Loomis. It kind of overwhelmed me.”

  He leaned across and patted my shoulder, “That’s the power of E. The tapes are in the back, go help yourself.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t take too long though, because my manager comes by every day to check on the store.”

  “Sure thing,” I said.

  **

  The tapes were dated and stored on a shelf above the recorder. I took the one from the date of the wreck and sat at the small television set with the player beside it, pushed in the tape and watched the day unfold in front of the 7-Eleven.

  The date and time showed in the upper right hand corner, so I fast -forwarded until I reached twelve noon, then worked fast forward in spurts to catch movement on the street and at the edge of the lot in the distance.

  I saw her at 1:05PM, but not where I expected. She appeared on the opposite side of the street; walking fast in the direction of the car lot, then made a quick right turn and came toward the store. I watched her head swivel left and right as she crossed the street and stepped between the gas pumps, then around the back of a car. The last I saw was the top of her head as she crossed underneath the camera’s field of view.

  I looked on the shelves near me for the videos from the store’s inside camera and found them. I located the one I wanted and put it in the player, fast-forwarding until she came into view as she entered the store. She went to the sunglasses, picked out a pair, and then put them on as she edged to the back of the store.

  I knew what she was doing, because it was the same thing I did. She was watching the street. The camera showed Loomis waiting on several people as she remained near the back of the store to observe.

  Three times she lowered down until only the top of her head was visible above the shelves, then she would rise and look some more. I rewound and noted the times she ducked down. After about five minutes, she went to the counter and paid Loomis for the sunglasses and left.

  I changed tapes back to the outside camera and watched the str
eet. I didn’t have long to wait. At two of the times she ducked down, the black cowboy drove by, going slow and looking around.

  The third time there was a gunmetal gray Hummer driving at a slow pace, with someone huge behind the wheel. The driver was an enormous white man with eyes like bullet holes and arms as large as my thigh. He had the windows down, looking left and right, front and back, checking everything and everybody within sight.

  The guy filled half the front seat with his bulk. I took down the license plate. Five minutes later I watched the girl re-cross the street and trot toward the car lot. She reached the wash rack area as a bus passed between us and I lost sight of her. When the bus cleared, she was gone.

  I put the tapes back and went out to chat some more with Loomis. “Thanks,” I said. I looked around the store and said, “Is working here better than at the hotel?”

  “Oh sure. Good benefits, and if I play my cards right, I could get all the way up to assistant store manager, be somebody people notice. That’s my dream.”

  “Good luck.” I gave him twenty dollars for letting me look at the tapes, then left the store and returned to the car lot.

  Atticus saw me and came over with the keys. I looked at Shamu, so shiny and clean she sparkled in the sunlight. “Thanks, guys. It’s never looked so good.”

  “Professionals, that’s us,” Atticus said.

  “What do I owe you?”

  “We did it for fun, amigo. No charge.”

  On a hunch I asked, “Say, any of you know a black guy, wears a cowboy hat?”

  They looked at each other. Tomas said, “That’s a bad dude. Kills people for hire, is the word.”

  Atticus said, “His name’s John Wesley.”

  “Like the Old West gunfighter?”

  “Maybe so. They say he’s from the Arizona border country, did real cowboy work before he came here.”

  How about a big white guy, I mean really big, drives a gray Hummer?

  Their eyes got large, and they looked at each other again. Atticus said, “Magilla. Got to be Magilla.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Atticus said, “Like Magilla Gorilla, that old cartoon show. Man, you need to know your competition if you’re going to start asking questions like that. Get you killed, ese.”