Bad Moon Rising Page 6

  At four seconds, the big guy and his partner turned and stomped away into the night. Hondo kept the light on them until they were at a safe distance. He flicked off the flashlight and said, “Let’s go before they call reinforcements.”

  As we got in the car and Hondo drove away from the rocks, I said to him, “That was because we watched Taxi Driver at the theater Monday night, wasn’t it? The Travis Bickle thing.”

  “Seemed to fit the situation.”

  Juan spoke from the back seat, “The Taxi Driver, weeth Roberto DeNiro? That wass a good one.”

  I said, “You’ve seen Taxi Driver?”

  He smiled and nodded, “In English. I see many English movies, to learn more of the language. I learn the cursings very quick.” Then he added, “I saw you two een one not too long ago. You were soldados, soldiers. You din’ last too long though. Couple of minutes. The outer space aliens, they keel you pretty fast.”

  Hondo said, “What do you know, we have a fan.”

  I said, “Do you have some place you can go that would be more safe than your labor camp?”

  Juan said, “I have nobody here. Everyone is in Cuernavaca, muy lejos, very far.”

  “Why do you think those men came for you?”

  “They theenk I see sometheeng.”

  “You only saw Bodhi that once, right?”

  “Thass all I see. I din’ see them burn the car or kill the woman inside either. I din’ see notheeng. I was with you when it happened. We saw the flames together. They came close to me a few times tonight and I hear one say to the other, ‘The Boss say to keel the Mexican’. Later, the other one say, ‘Why he want this one dead?’ And the other one say, ‘He know too much about the weemens.’ But hees wrong, I don’ know nada.”

  “You can stay at our office tonight. We have a futon in Hondo’s office, and a shower in the storeroom.” I said.

  Hondo said, “I’ll stay there with you.” He looked at me, “Those guys know who we are, so they know about our office.”

  “I’ll stay, too.”

  Hondo said, “It’ll be dawn in a few hours.”

  I looked at him, “You’re hungry, aren’t you.” I didn’t make it a question, but a statement. Hondo eats in the morning, and he eats a lot, then not much for the rest of the day, mostly water and special mixes he puts in with it. I said, “What do you want, I’ll go get it.”

  “No donuts.”

  “Okay.”

  “I trust you on whatever else you want to bring.”

  “Juan, you want anything special?”

  “Food.”

  I gave him a thumbs-up, “My man.” I left the office and hopped into Hondo’s Mercedes, drawing the seat forward a notch because he was taller than me, and drove into the predawn of the city.

  Five minutes later I picked up a tail in my rearview mirror. I called Hondo. He said, “What?”

  “I’ve got a tail. I can’t see in the car, but it’s staying with me.”

  “Make and model?”

  “Lincoln, maybe ten years old.”

  “Can you see the plates?”

  “Maybe I can trick them and get it.”

  “Be careful.”

  I slowed down, but they wouldn’t get close enough for me to see the license. I looked for an opportunity, and spied one. I cut my wheels and accelerated, forcing them to speed to stay with me. I saw the spot just ahead and turned again, cutting in front of a pickup that just begun to pull into the drive-thru lane of an all night donut shop.

  The pickup driver honked, then slid in behind me. The Lincoln slowed, hesitated, and then finally pulled behind the pickup.

  The woman at the window said, “What’ll it be?”

  “A dozen glazed.”

  She handed the white paper bag to me in no time and I tossed her a twenty, “Keep the change,” I said, then drove out to the street and made a U so I could go back and see the Lincoln.

  The Lincoln backed up so fast that blue smoke boiled from its rear tiers.

  I went by it, slid the Mercedes in a half-skid and stopped behind them. I stepped out of my car and snapped photos of the rear license, then waved, backed out and roared toward the office. I felt smug, even superior.

  That’s when a second vehicle dropped behind me. I wasn’t outrunning this one. It was a red Firebird hard on my bumper.

  I called Hondo again. He said, “Did you lose it?”

  “Yes, and I have breakfast. But I also have another tail and this one I’m bringing to the office, so show ‘em what you’ve got when I get there.”

  I accelerated for a bit, and the Firebird stayed with me. I then slowed down and it backed away, but never left, staying twenty to thirty yards behind me. “All right,” I said, “My friend’s going to be so happy to see you. Stay with me, now.”

  I stayed twenty miles an hour above the speed limit and tried to get them caught at red lights, but the Firebird wheelman drove like a pro and made every one. I called Hondo one last time, “We’re coming to you in one minute.”

  “I’m ready.”

  I parked the Mercedes to the side of the office door and hopped out as soon as I stopped. I didn’t see Hondo, but that didn’t worry me. Pulling my pistol, I moved to the front of the car for protection.

  The Firebird slowed and stopped twenty yards from the Mercedes. It idled there a few moments, then the passenger door opened and a man in a trench coat and fedora stepped out of the car. He looked like a character from a nineteen-fifty detective movie. The fedora’s brim shaded his face from the parking lot security lights. He said, “We want the spic.”

  Hondo stepped around the corner and leveled a twelve gauge Remington pump at the man, racking a round into it for effect. He said, “You can leave or I can pull the trigger. Your choice.”

  “You don’t know who you’re dealing with. You two don’t want to cross us.”

  Hondo pulled the trigger.

  Buckshot blew the rear fender and all the rubber on the rear tire completely off the car. The debris skittered and flopped across the parking lot pavement for twenty feet before slowing to a stop.

  Hondo racked another round into the shotgun. The man held up his hands toward us, “You will regret this.”

  I snapped photos of the Firebird’s license plate, then said to the man, “Smile.” And took a flash photo of him, but he ducked his head.

  He slipped into the passenger’s side as the driver limped the Firebird out of the parking area. The bare rim made a grinding sound as they left.

  I turned to Hondo and held up a sack, “I brought donuts.”

  Hondo sighed.

  Chapter 4

  The next morning, Archie asked if we heard anything last night. I said, “Somebody was horsing around in the parking lot and blew out a tire.”

  Hondo said, “I cleaned up the mess, some rubber and things.”

  Archie said, “Thanks. I hate when kids do that.” I nodded and handed him a donut. He took it and left. When he was out of sight, Juan came out of the storeroom and I gave him a donut.

  He took a small bite, chewed, and said, “You have Tabasco, or salsa?”

  “What for?”

  He made a motion over the pastry like pouring ketchup, “Needs a leetle sometheen.”

  I said, “Sorry.” He shrugged, then sat in a chair and ate the rest.

  Hondo said, “Those plates came back to two cars in Reseda, a Volvo and a Nissan Leaf.”

  “So, stolen plates and no leads.”

  “Every bad guy out there seems to know who we are, but we can’t find a single clue as to who is behind Bodhi’s kidnapping.”

  I said to Hondo, “We’ll just keep nosing around. Something will turn up.”

  “Probably will.”

  I said, “You want to take me to Amber’s apartment so I can get my pickup? She’s not answering her phone.”

  He grabbed his keys, “Let’s go.”

  We left Juan at the office and told him to stay out of sight. He said he would. When we got
to Amber’s apartment complex, I went up the stairs three at a time and knocked on her door, but no one answered. Hondo came up the stairs and stepped beside me to use his lock picks and get us inside.

  I saw an overturned water glass on the bar, but nothing else seemed out of place. I glanced out the window and saw her car still in its designated space.

  Hondo said, “It doesn’t feel right. I know we’re supposed to wait, but I think you need to tell Vick right now, and update him on what we’ve been doing.”

  I called and Vick showed up twenty minutes later with two crime scene investigators. He said, “Let them go through the room, see if anything pops up. Until more time passes or they find some evidence of a crime, we can’t really do anything. I’m sorry Ronny.”

  Hondo and I moved him away from the others and told him about what we had been doing, including blowing the tire off the Firebird last night.

  “No reports of gunshots from that area last night,” Vick said. “And as far as I’m concerned, you did what you had to do to avert a potentially violent situation.”

  Hondo said, “You’re a good friend.” He shrugged it off, then told us to leave and he could let us know if forensics turned up anything.

  I drove Shamu to the office while Hondo went to pick up something he said he needed from a health food store. All the way to the office, my mind swirled with questions about the two missing women, Amber and Bodhi. They were good friends, and now both were unaccounted for, and I felt the same people had them both. There was a connection, maybe a clue, if I could only figure it out, and do it before something bad happened to them. I didn’t let my thoughts turn to a darker place.

  When I returned to the office, Juan was gone. He didn’t leave a note, either. It was as if he’d never been there. I had a thought and walked toward the Venice Pier to see if maybe Juan might be taking in the sights. I passed several people I knew and talked a few minutes with each, then continued. Several young women played tetherball and laughed every time they missed the ball.

  I spotted Jericho Moon on the same patch of grass under the palms as the last time. He wore faded jeans, no shoes, a gray tee shirt with a peace symbol on the front, and over the tee shirt he had a fringed leather jacket that looked old. Suri, Donna, and Willow sat on the grass beside him.

  A dozen young men and women sat before him as he talked and used hand gestures to emphasize his words. When he finished, Moon stood and went to each of them, kissing them on the forehead. I was close enough to hear him say, “Go now, and reap the fruits and joys of this bountiful place. When you return, I’ll be here for you.”

  They departed and he turned to me showing a warm welcoming smile. “Welcome, Ronny.” He peered at me and said, “Something is troubling you. Come, sit. We can talk.”

  I didn’t sit. “Bodhi is still missing, and now her friend, Amber is missing, too. You know anything about it?”

  He looked concerned, “The Amber child, she’s the tall one with honey colored hair, is that right?”

  “It is. Someone took her from the apartment last night. I know that you hear things, talking to people like you do. I’d appreciate any help you can give us on these two women.”

  He nodded, “I will ask.”

  I slipped in the kicker, “There’s a hundred thousand dollar reward if your information leads to them.” That wasn’t exactly true, but I was pushing.

  Moon smiled at me, “The money is nothing. I will help because you asked. If she’s found because of anything I do, keep the money.”

  I didn’t expect that answer.

  Moon continued, “Or give it to a charity, or someone in need, whatever you wish will be fine. I have no need of a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Thank you for offering to help.”

  “Do you have a card, or someway to contact you if I find out something?”

  I gave him a business card, “It has our office address and both our phone numbers. You can call either one of us.”

  He put it in his fringed jacket then stepped closer and put his hand on my shoulder, “Let the dead rest.” His eyes were reassuring and full of comfort.

  “I don’t–“

  “You saved two of the three. Let the one left behind bother you no more.”

  I walked away in a daze, not sure what had transpired. When I looked back, Moon was gone. I walked to the office and reached it as Hondo parked his Mercedes. We went inside and sat down, then he looked at me for a long second and said, “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I told him about my conversation with Jericho Moon.

  When I finished, Hondo looked out the window at people going to Archie’s gym. He said, “Who is that guy?”

  “I’d like to find out. Preliminary checks showed a clean record.”

  Hondo said, “How could he know what happened over there?”

  “Somehow, he has access to information most people are not privy to. There’s no way he peered into a crystal ball or gazed at the night sky and divined it.”

  “Are you sure?” a hint of a grin showed.

  “Don’t you start that crap.”

  We sat in silence for several minutes, then Hondo said, “Do you think about him?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Who we meant was the fourth Marine on the mountain with us above Shok Valley. He died in the rocket blast that wounded Hondo and Wilson. If his body hadn’t partially shielded Hondo, my friend would be dead as well.

  Hondo said, “Private Jordan S. Hammond. Semper fi, Marine.”

  Archie came through the door right then and tossed our mail on Hondo’s desk. “I know you two are working on Bodhi’s case, but you need to get to the studio. Seems there’s a crisis with the director and the producers.”

  I started to speak, but he held up his hand, “All you’re doing right now is thinking about Amber and Bodhi, and what to do next. You can do that on the way to the studio, so you’re not neglecting them.”

  He was right. I said, “You know what it is?”

  “Not a clue. I’ll watch your office while you’re gone.”

  We nodded, and left in Shamu. I drove through heavy traffic, all the while thinking of Amber and Bodhi. We reached Warner Brothers Studios and passed through the gate, then drove around the various buildings and massive sound stages to the house-like office of Capstone Productions, and for what, we had no idea.

  Hondo knocked and the door jerked open. A guy who looked like a frantic, wild-haired Gene Wilder in Young Frankenstein said, “It’s a…crisis!” Then he blinked and looked at us, “Who are you?”

  Hondo told him.

  He made a shooing motion at us with his hand, “Go away, we have real trouble here. Go get security.”

  Hondo said, “I’ll just take a look.” He pushed by the man and said, “There’s no blood on the floor, must not be too bad.”

  I was a step behind him and asked the frantic guy, “What’s your name?”

  “Eugene Helder, Executive Producer.”

  “Okay Eugene, what’s the problem?”

  He glanced at the closed office door. “In there.”

  Hondo said to me, “I’ve got this.” His eyes had that look.

  I said, “I want to watch.”

  Hondo opened the door and I followed him inside the large office. Papers lay scattered on the floor, and one chair was overturned. The bearded guy who cast us, David Shells, cowered behind his small desk as a big biker-type guy stood over him. The biker was maybe six-six, two eighty, with no shirt and tats on his arms. I saw his ripped tee shirt lying on the floor, as if he tore it off Hulk Hogan style. He said to us, “Get the hell out.”

  Hondo said, “Leave, or I’ll hurt you.”

  The biker looked Hondo up and down, and I knew he didn’t think he was seeing much: A guy about six-three, and lean. The biker said, “We’ll see about that, tough guy.”

  He walked toward Hondo, in no hurry, flexing his hands and ready to rumble. He said
, “I’m gonna enjoy kicking the shit out of you, pretty boy.”

  Hondo hit him in the chest with the first two stiffened fingers on his right hand, the punch travelling about twelve inches. It happened lightning fast. The biker dropped backwards and fell to the floor with a thud, curled in a fetal position, out cold. Hondo hadn’t moved a step. He said to David, “You okay?”

  “Y-yes. Thank you. He would have injured me, I think.”

  “Maybe. He wanted to intimidate you, but that might have been all.”

  I asked David, “What’s this about?”

  “I was talking on the phone to your Agent, Archie, about changing your scenes when Mr. Farlow Bains came in because he heard we were dropping him from the film.”

  “Why?”

  Eugene opened the office door a crack, peeked in, then opened it and hurried to David’s side. David continued, “We decided that with all of the turmoil about racism, we needed to do our part. So we planned to replace Farlow with a person of color.”

  Farlow stirred on the floor, his groans barely audible. I reached down and grasped his arm to help him sit up. I realized then that his tattoos were excellent quality, but not real. He sat on the floor, still groggy, and glanced up at Hondo, “What was that you did?”

  I said, “Did you see the movie, Kill Bill, with the Five Finger Death Punch? Be thankful Hondo only used two fingers.”

  Farlow rubbed his chest as I helped him to his feet. He looked embarrassed. He faced Shells. “I wanted this job very much, sir. I apologize for my actions, Mr. Shells.”

  I looked him over while he stood there, and unless this guy dressed for the part, he was on hard times. His jeans looked clean but worn threadbare in places, and his motorcycle boots had duct tape holding on one sole. I asked, “Where are you living?”

  He hung his head, “On the street. Lost my job eight months ago, so no apartment.”

  Hondo watched me. I said, “You have an agent?”

  “He dropped me when Mr. Shells let me go.”

  I said, “Do you have a ride?”

  “I have a Vespa I get around on.”

  I tried to imagine this huge man riding around Los Angeles on the small scooter. I pointed at his arms, “Who did your work?”