Cicero's Dead (23 page)

Something strange happens to humans when they make
the decision to engage in a deadly firefight, and I have seen it before in some
of the other gun battles I’ve been in. The eyes stop blinking. The jaw sets
hard. The face loses all expression. It’s the complete opposite of what is
portrayed in the movies. As one mind, they brought up their guns. As one, Bobby
and I cut loose. As one, they opened fire. In a gun battle, you don’t have time
to think. You react.
As Sheriff
"Little Bill" Daggett said in The Unforgiven: “
Look son,
being a good shot, being quick with a pistol, that don't do no harm, but it
don't mean much next to being cool-headed. A man who will keep his head and not
get rattled under fire, like as not, he'll kill ya. It ain't so easy to shoot a
man anyhow, especially if the son-of-a-bitch is shootin' back at you.” This was
no exception. AK-47 rounds make a terrible mess of a person, tearing flesh,
snapping bones, exploding blood and gore with equal enthusiasm. Our bullets
obliterated them in a hail of angry lead.

The shooting stopped and the fading death sounds
echoed across the desert. Weirdly, Ernie was still left standing. The others
were broken, bloody and dead.
 
The
redhead had been hit multiple times yet didn’t yet fully comprehend that he too
was about to join his compadres. He looked at me, his eyes bulging, face
contorted in pain. His trigger finger twitched and his gun discharged
harmlessly into the rocks. Then he toppled forward, hitting the ground hard.

The loud ringing in my ears compounded the pain in
my chest. I couldn’t catch my breath. I looked at the heap of crumpled, bloody
bodies and took a couple of steps forward. Although my Kevlar vest had stopped
the brace of bullets that had hit me, the blunt force trauma still hurt like a
mother. I grimaced and looked over at Bobby. Ashen faced, he was slumped
against the wall, clutching his left shoulder. I took a painful breath and made
my way over. It was maybe 150 feet but it seemed a lot longer. When I got there
I could see his left arm hanging limply, blood dripping steadily out onto the
ground. A bullet, Ernie’s, maybe, had hit him in the front of his bicep, coming
out the back. Blood was oozing out around the bone that protruded like a
shark’s tooth from the wound.

I knelt down. “It’s through and through, Bobby.”

He grimaced, his face grey. “At least they won’t
have to dig it out.”

“Can you get up?”

“Yeah.”

But he couldn’t and I had to pull him to his feet.
I slung his AK over my shoulder and we staggered over to Ernie. Pink saliva
bubbles were pushing their way out of his mouth, as he tried to suck air into
lungs that leaked too much. His eyes alternately protruded and spun back in his
head, as blood ran out of the several holes in his torso; soaking into the
greedy, dry desert. I wanted to feel something for him, but all I felt was
contempt. He kind of cocked his head and stared at me with his dying eyes.

“Where’s Clipper?” I asked.

“Fuck you, bitch,” he spat his reply and began his
death cough.

Bobby looked at me. “This piece’a shit’s not gonna
tell us.”

“I’m gonna check on Halladay.”

Bobby looked at his arm and said through clenched
teeth. “Make it quick.”

Here in this land of merciless sun and
bone-chilling nights, as I crossed to the bunker, the apprehension returned,
pounding in my bruised chest. I stepped into the black maw of the bunker and
took the six crumbled stone steps that led down into a cavernous basement.
There in the back I could see two motionless figures and as I got closer, I
could feel and smell their death. The horror of it caught in my throat. Tom lay
on his back, shot through the face and head. For some reason I was reminded of
a cat in rictus, the moment after it’s struck by a car. His jaw was elongated,
his open mouth displaying pieces of brown tobacco-stained teeth, now covered in
red ooze. A few feet away, Halladay, completely naked, lay hogtied on his
stomach, just like in Clipper’s picture. His hands were wrenched behind his
back, the rope looped around his neck, with his head slung forward, strangled by
his own weakness. His tongue, now thick and blue, bulged from his mouth. Even
in death, they’d stripped away his dignity; a carrot protruded out of his ass.
My head started to spin. I caught myself, turned and walked out.

“Let’s go.”

Bobby nodded and as we retraced our steps toward
the boulders, Ernie called out, half-rasp, half child’s shriek, “Help
me…please!”

We turned the corner and found ourselves staring
down the barrel of a Los Muertos biker. Either he’d played possum during the
gun battle, or had escaped right at the beginning and somehow had gotten past
me. The look in his eyes told me that he wasn’t interested in dialogue, only
death. Ours. For what seemed like an eternity, we just looked at each other,
hatred and fear coursing its way between us. The gun in his hand was a
revolver, a Colt .45. It could have been mine. He thumbed back the hammer.
Savored the moment. He hadn’t seen the large Southwestern Speckled Rattlesnake
just above his head, but it had seen him and was clearly unimpressed. The unmistakable
sound of imminent death cut through the desert stillness like a chainsaw
through a twig. The biker, justifiably horrified, spun around at the sound of
the rattle. Not a great idea. The rattlesnake struck with lightning speed,
fangs stabbing directly into his jugular. He staggered back, screaming with
fear-laced pain. Getting bitten is bad enough, but getting bitten so close to
the brain and heart, is a death sentence. The biker sank to his knees, a
desperate hand holding the snakebite as if that might help. It didn’t. His eyes
rolled up and he collapsed onto his back, writhing in agony, perverse poetic
justice.

“Finish him off,” said Bobby.

I shook my head. “He’s already finished.”

Like the song says, we walked on, or rather we
staggered on, but we got to the van and rumbled back toward the Airfield
entrance, past the gathering RVs and the squatters who looked as lost and
forlorn as any group of Skid Row denizens.

Most of the traffic was flowing into the Airfield,
and the road heading west was clear. There was no obvious clinic in Holtville
so instead of wasting time, I gunned it down Evan Hewes Highway to El Centro.
Bobby was in too much pain to talk. Once there, I found the hospital and pulled
to the curb.

“Bobby, listen, bro, if I take you in there,
they’ll probably detain me and that can’t happen.”

“I’ll get out and walk myself into Emergency.”

“Call me after they’ve seen you.”

“Will do, bro.” Bobby’s lips were a weird mix of
blue and grey and I had to swallow hard to beat back my emotion.

A police car cruised past us and pulled into the
emergency entrance. We waited ‘til the cops entered the hospital. He looked at
me, kind’a smiled, which was more of a grimace and choked me up, then saluted
me. I held in the emotion, set my jaw hard, nodded shortly and drove away.

I was heading toward the freeway when my phone
buzzed.

“Brad, what’s--”

“--Jade’s gone.”

“What?”

“I went to the store with Cassady and when we got
back, she’d split.”

“Shit.”

“She left a note. Says Lake Forest Exxon Mobil
Station, Lake Forest Drive.”

“Did she write it?”

“I dunno her handwriting, bro.”

“Get on Bobby’s computer.”

I waited as he ran into Bobby’s room and fired it
up.

“I’m in.”

“Okay, now log onto Merlin and search out Arnold
Clipper.”

“There’s only one, on Beachwood Canyon.”

“That’s his old residence, so look for his
parents, his dad, same name, around 60.”

“Not there. No other Arnold Clippers in
California.”

“Shit. Son-of-a-bitch must have figured out a way
to have it deleted.”

Brad was silent.

“Bobby keeps an extra set of keys to my office on
the wallboard next to the refrigerator.”

“Hold on.”

I waited. “Got ‘em.”

“Go to my office and dial 8350 to get in the
building.”

“On my way.”

I could hear him exiting the house at top speed
and getting into his car. “Remember when I was writing stuff on the
whiteboard?”

“Yeah.”

“I wrote old man Clipper’s address down on a sheet
of typing paper and attached it.”

“I’ll call you soon as I get there.”

I headed west toward San Diego. It was at least a
three-hour drive to Lake Forest, which meant I wouldn’t get there until
mid-afternoon. I still had an almost full tank and held the tachometer at a
steady 3500 RPM. Interstate 8 rises out of the valley up a long grade into the
mountains. The temperature drops and you pass through the southern California
badlands, a jumble of lunar rocks, sunken mesas and mud hills. The landscape
matched my mood and I tried to empty my mind of everything except for the
highway. But it was eating at me. We’d seen and done too much and for all my
bravado, I knew there would surely be a terrible price to pay.

My phone buzzed. “Yeah?”

“21347 Sterling Silver Drive. Lake Forest.”

“Okay. Text it to me, please.”

“Sure.”

“My guess is that Jade’s there.”

“How you gonna spring her?”

“Not sure.”

“I can meet you there.”

“No. Stay where you are.”

“But…wha…if…”

The mountains cut off reception. Alone with my
thoughts, I knew that if I brought in the cops, Clipper would go down fighting,
but he’d take Jade and Richie with him. If I went in alone they still might die
and I might go with them. Clipper had outsmarted all of us. The death images of
Cicero and Halladay, the dark paintings in Clipper’s subterranean labyrinth,
and Bobby, his expressive face blanched grey staggering toward ER, seared my
mind. I rolled down the window and screamed into the on-rushing air, but the
wind swallowed my voice like a toad trapping a fly. I shut the window and shut
my mouth. I drove on.

It seemed like the longest three hours of my life
but I finally came down out of the mountains, and headed into the chaparral
country east of San Diego. Here, the road cuts through the wooded canyons in
great sweeping curves. Just north of San Diego, I turned north onto I-805 which
merges with I-5.
 
The traffic moved
steadily, passing beautiful seaside towns west of the Interstate. From there it
was a straight shot past the Camp Pendleton Marine Base, and on to San Juan
Capistrano.

In Mission Viejo I gassed up and got cleaned up.
There was hot water in the restroom and I washed up, carefully combing my hair,
refusing to stare at my bruised and swollen face. I bought some liquid makeup
in the station convenience store along with a large hot dog and some coffee. I
chewed slowly and sipped the mud. When I was done, I got into the van and,
using the rearview mirror, applied some of the makeup to try and cover the
disaster area that dominated my face. It worked pretty well. Then I pulled out
of the parking lot. 10 minutes later, I turned onto Lake Forest Drive.

Chapter V – Last
Dance

Lake Forest is one of the
newer, post-modern, Orange County cities. There’s no traditional downtown area
and no discernible city center. The Exxon Mobil Station in Jade’s note was the
first thing I came to after turning off the Interstate. I parked, suddenly
aware that Jade could not have known about the station had Arnold not informed
her. Which meant that Arnold wanted me to track him down. I suppressed a
shudder and went inside.

A middle-aged Hispanic woman eyed me from behind
the counter. I grabbed a water bottle from the cooler, smiled and handed her
five bucks.

As she retrieved my change, I asked, “Senora, I’m
looking for a
muy bonita dark-haired
young woman, early twenties, coffee-colored skin, well dressed. She may have
been here earlier this morning.”

She looked at me, smiled and replied in perfect
English, “Is she your girlfriend?”

Good thing I was wearing makeup so she couldn’t
see my reddening face. “No, just a friend, but she’s missing.”

“Lemme see your badge.”

“Not a cop. I’m a PI.” I flipped her my license.

She looked at it and sadness came over. “We hear
about so many missing persons all the time.”

“It’s the interstate, I guess. Easy access.”

She nodded. “And most are never found or end up
dead. It’s awful.”

“I know what you mean. Nobody’s safe.”

“Sometimes they end up in trunks. It’s gotten so
bad I’m almost scared to go outside.”

“So you haven’t seen her?”

“I wish I had but, sorry, no.”

“Thanks anyway.”

“Good luck. Hope you find her.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Back in the van, I punched in the address on my
phone’s Google map; it was two miles east and a few blocks off the main drag.
Lake Forest is long and narrow. I passed a small shopping center, a gated lake
community and a number of residential sections. The houses were attractive
tile-roofed, two story numbers with small, manicured yards. They had all been
built in the last 20 years and the streets were virtually empty. I passed a
mother pushing a baby carriage, and some older couples taking walks. Nearly
everyone was Caucasian, middle class and no one seemed happy. I was struck by the
odd thought that this community could use someone like Halladay dressed in his
jogging clothes -- sweaty, hairy, armed with a stop-watch and an insatiable
desire to better his last time.

I turned right onto Rimgate Park Drive, which
skirted a canyon and fed onto Sterling Silver Drive. Welcome to Clipperville.
Their residence was halfway down the block on the right, a blue, two-story home
set back from the street on a gentle slope. It boasted a three-car garage and a
circular driveway. There were no cars parked in front, and if Clipper was
there, he would probably park in the garage. Plantation shutters and window
boxes gave the house a welcoming feel. I drove around the block and parked.

Obviously, I needed to legitimize the events of
the last few days, particularly today’s shootout, so I called Tony. Over the
last 20 years, although he and I had spent a lot of time together, we’d never
worked directly on a case jointly. He’d always been very generous when it came
to dispensing information, and I reciprocated whenever I could, but that was as
far as it went.

By now Clipper would have tried to contact Tom and
Ernie, and would know something had gone wrong. He’d set me up like a bowling
pin knowing that no matter what happened at the airfield, I would be MIA for
most of the day and he’d have a clear playing field to get to Jade. I was here
with little choice but to walk into the lion’s den. Normally, staking out the
joint would have been the way to go, but here, with each passing moment, Jade
was in ever-increasing danger of being tortured or killed. The one thing I knew
for sure was that I needed back up.

Tony picked up on the second ring. “You okay?”

“Yeah, Tony. Thanks.”

“Cassady called me. What the fuck’s going on?”

I gave him a thumbnail sketch of what had happened.

“Bobby got shot?”

“Yeah, it was a through and through in his arm.
He’ll be alright.”

“How many dead?”

“Including Cicero and Reggie Mount, 9. Of those,
Bobby and I are personally responsible for seven. Four Los Muertos
bikers, the two fake cops and some
psycho called Reggie Mount. All self-defense. Mount and Clipper, along with
persons unknown, murdered Cicero Lamont and the lawyer, Halladay.”

“Jesus Christ, dude. This is bad.”

“What was I supposed to do? Let ‘em shoot Bobby
and me? As it is we’re lucky to be alive.”

“Nick, I can’t cover that many bodies.”

“I’m not asking you to. Anyway, let’s not worry
about that now. Where are you?”

“In my cruiser on I-5. Should be there in 45
minutes.”

“I’ll text you the address when we hang up.”

“Don’t John Wayne it. Wait for me.”

“Just get here as fast as you can. I’ve parked
Bobby’s blue van right down the street from the Clipper house. If it’s still
there when you arrive, that means I’m inside the house and you need to do what
you do best.”

“Okay. I’ll be there a.s.a.p.”

I grabbed an extra clip for my Walther, which I
placed in the concealed inside pocket of my cargo pants, locked up the van and
strolled down the block to the Clipper house. Stepping onto the porch, I rang
the doorbell and waited. 30 seconds passed so I rang it again. Finally, a woman
I assumed was Mrs. Clipper swung open the door. She was about 60, tall and
well-preserved but with a pinched, bird-like face. Her tired grey eyes peered
at me from under her carefully coiffed hair.

“Yes? What can I do for you?”

“My name is Peter Gustafson. I’ve been
commissioned by the art firm of Black, Fleur & Olive to locate your son,
Arnold. Mr. Olive would like to represent him.” I handed her my card, which she
examined carefully.

“Don’t you think you could have phoned?”

“My apologies. Perhaps that would have been more
appropriate.”

“Yes, it would.”

“The problem is I didn’t have your number. I spoke
to Mr. Mount a few days ago and he gave me your address and told me to just
come on over. Told me you were good people.” I smiled pleasantly.

“How is Reggie?”

I shrugged. “You know Reggie. Everyday is a brand
new challenge.”

“What type of artists do you represent?”

“Not me, the agency.”

“Where did they see his paintings?”

“Arnold’s drawings are well-known among select Los
Angeles art circles. Mr. Olive places great faith in your son.”

“That’s nice to hear. I’ve long thought that
Arnold’s work is under-appreciated. He’s never tried to sell it, though. What
does Mr. Olive propose?”

“If I could come inside, we could go over
everything?”

“What happened to your face? It looks swollen.”

“It is. I had an accident up by Mammoth Lake. It’s
beautiful this time of year, but I slipped on some rocks.”

“Looks like you took a nasty fall.”

I nodded ruefully. “I did, but I’ll live.”

Mrs. Clipper considered. “I guess you can come in,
but only for a few minutes. My husband, Arnold Sr., doesn’t like visitors.”

“Thank you.”

She motioned for me to enter and I stepped inside.
Mrs. Clipper stopped me and whispered, “My husband’s in a wheel chair, you
know. He’s very sensitive. I don’t know if Reggie told you that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I lied. “He said something about an
accident. I’m very sorry.”

Mrs. Clipper turned and I followed her down the
hallway. We passed by a formal parlor and came to the dining room.

“Let’s sit here. Perhaps you would like some
lemonade?”

“If it’s anything like Reggie’s, I would love
some.”

“Actually, I gave him that recipe,” she beamed.
“The trick is the water must be fresh and the lemons ripe, but not too ripe.”

“Wouldn’t you know it? He learned it from you.”

Mrs. Clipper headed for the kitchen while I
surveyed my surroundings. The dining room had a formal feeling. Twin bronze
candelabra stood atop a mahogany sideboard. The shutters were drawn and the
light dim. A dog began barking ferociously in the backyard. I heard a muffled
shout and the dog stopped. Mrs. Clipper returned carrying two lemonades on a
crystal serving tray. She placed it on the table, sat down across from me and
handed me a glass of lemonade.

“You’re really too kind. Thank you.” I took a sip
and smacked my lips. “This is great. You can’t imagine how parched I was. You
have a beautiful home, Mrs. Clipper. I love the window boxes -- nice touch.
Takes me back to when I was a kid and my mother grew geraniums, back in
Delaware.”

“We were fortunate to do well in business.”

“Such a blessing,” I said. “What was your
business?”

“Seatbelts. Arnold Sr. was in seatbelts.” Her grey
eyes were clear and seemed to have no depth.

“I’m not sure if you realize this but according to
Mr. Olive, your son has something of Picasso about him. The gift of
de-centering the real which, ironically, makes it all the realer.”

She nodded and I knew she wasn’t really listening.
“I’m a little worried that your proposition might put too much pressure on
Arnold.”

“Mr. Olive would only take ten per cent of the
proceeds and arranges all of the showings. Arnold’s work would be showcased in
the finest galleries and he wouldn’t even have to appear if he didn’t want to.
He could remain artist incognito.”

“That might work if he wouldn’t have to appear in
public. I know,” she threw me a bright, false smile, “let’s see what Arnold Sr.
thinks.”

The ferocious barking started up again. Again, I
heard a shout that seemed to come from the backyard.

“I’ll call him,” said Mrs. Clipper. She got up and
spoke into the intercom.

“Arnold, dear, we have a visitor, a friend of
Reggie’s.”

“What does he want?” responded an irritated older
man’s voice.

“He wants to represent Arnold’s paintings.”

“No visitors. You know the rules.”

“This is different, dear, so please come in and
meet with him.”

“Fine.”

The intercom clicked off and she glanced at me.
“Just be patient with him. He won’t be able to resist. He’s so proud of
Arnold’s work.”

I nodded respectfully and sipped my lemonade. Mrs.
Clipper fell silent and I felt her scrutinizing me. Then she spoke. “You’ll
like Arnold Sr. Everybody does.”

“I’m sure I will.”

A long taut silence was finally broken by the hum
of Arnold Sr.’s electric wheelchair as he came rolling in. Immense suffering
was etched into the craggy face of this tall, thin old man. Deep hollows had
formed in his cheeks; his forehead was prominent and protruded slightly.
Sightless eyes now blank, but still holding something that unnerved me. What
had perhaps once been a strong mouth was now a pinched line of displeasure. He
wore a blue dress shirt and khakis that exposed his ankles. He wheeled past me
and parked, just far enough back so that I could only make him out
peripherally, and although he couldn’t see me, I could feel his malevolent
scrutiny. Mrs. Clipper stared past me, her manner suddenly guarded. It was
unsettling and I felt trapped.

“Just exactly why are you here?” Arnold Sr.’s
voice was hoarse and the words came slowly.

I craned my head around. “As I explained to Mrs.
Clipper, I’ve been commissioned by Black, Fleur & Olive to find your son.
Mr. Olive wants to represent Arnold’s paintings. It’s a great opportunity.”

“Frankly,” said Arnold Sr., “that’s impossible. No
one knows anything about our son’s artwork. It’s our family secret.”

“Word gets around. His talent speaks for itself.”

“Everyone has secrets,” said Mrs. Clipper in an
accusing voice. “Don’t
you
, Mr.
Crane?”

I turned toward her feeling extremely naked. Her
face was hard, accusatory and she wagged her finger at me like a schoolmarm. I
had the weird desire to laugh, but the stun gun that Arnold Sr. pressed into my
side nixed that plan. The pain was excruciating, yet I couldn’t cry out.
Paralyzed, my lips wouldn’t move. I was dimly aware of a look of intense
pleasure in Mrs. Clipper’s eyes. She sucked in her breath. The pain, confusion
and muscle spasms seemed to last an eternity, until I fell out of my chair and
rolled to the floor.

I was only dimly aware of voices, movement,
something being dragged across the floor. When I hit my head on a doorway, I
realized that something was me. My mind was a sea of black ripples that parted
soundlessly as I sank into deep, black water. I was dimly aware of resting on
an ocean floor, with a large white stone near my head. I watched a crab scuttle
out from under it and then retreat as if I were an unwelcome intruder.

Slowly, I came out of it. My head was throbbing
and my muscles still trembled. We were in the family room, with Arnold Sr.
across from me perched in a canvas-backed director’s chair. I was lying on my
side on a white leather settee, trying my damnedest to focus on an electric
globe that was on a sideboard, rotating slowly. North America was blue. Europe,
orange. My guns were arranged next to the globe and the clips had been removed.
I felt something dripping down my right cheek. I reached up slowly and tried to
touch whatever it was, but my arms still tingled. I shifted my position and
this time managed to touch the gash above my right temple. I looked at the blood
as I rubbed it between index and thumb. I forced myself to stop and sat up.

“Not on the sofa!” screeched Mrs. Clipper. “Don’t
wipe your blood on there.”

“Get a cloth,” ordered Arnold Sr.

“Now you’ve gone and got mother mad. Not good. No
one should ever make mother mad.”

I swept my eyes toward the new voice and met the
gaze of an extremely handsome and much younger version of Clipper Sr. Arnold
was smiling, studying me intently. His complexion bore a hint of olive. His
high, smooth forehead and bright blue eyes exuded a curious good will. He wore
a chambray work shirt with the cuffs rolled up, and railroad-striped overalls.
The straps were unbuttoned and dangled to his waist. He wore his trademark
ancient tennis shoes. He was holding a pistol in one hand; the other was folded
calmly across his stomach.