Down Solo (2 page)

“I’m okay, Jimmy,” I tell him. “I was just remembering something.”

“Remembering, shit! You’ve been sitting there paralyzed with your mouth open for”—he checks his Omega—“forty minutes. Sup with that, man? You remember your whole fuckin’ life?”

So maybe I relived ten minutes worth of the past; how to account for the other half hour? Is this going to keep happening to me? It could have been the dope, but I don’t think so—not that I’m going to tell that to Jimmy.

“I’m just feeling weird from getting beat on. I probably got a concussion. I’ll check it out.” I get up to go, stick out my hand, and say, “Thanks, man. You really helped a lot.”

Jimmy comes around the table and sticks the mitt out, crushing my hand—I don’t feel it, thank God—and says, “What are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know. I must have touched a nerve somewhere in one of my cases, but I can’t remember shit and whoever attacked me took my laptop and all my hard files. So, hey . . .” I shrug.

Jimmy stares at his electronic scale as though it has a secret message for him, then looks up and says, “Didn’t you tell me once you backed all your shit up on a server somewhere?”

And it happens again. Another door opens, only this time it doesn’t take me out of the moment. I just remember clearly how to access the files, password and all.

“Can I use your PC and print some stuff out?”

Jimmy seems flustered, like the idea makes him nervous. “You’re not gonna Google any words like C4 or potassium nitrate, are you?”

“No, Jimmy, I wasn’t planning on it. Why?”

“You use words like that on the Net and Homeland Security goons’ll be crawling up my ass in a New York minute.”

I roll my eyes and shake my head. It’s not a natural reaction for me, but it seems like something a live person would do. Jimmy taps some keys on the laptop and turns it toward me, browser open and ready to go. I sit back down and Jimmy says, “I’m gonna go lift for a while.” He picks up a pair of ninety-pound dumbbells like I pick up a channel changer and goes out to his porch overlooking the marina. I turn around and start to type.

¤ ¤ ¤

When the website asks me for my password, I enter “BINGO” and, bingo, I’m in. There’s a selection of folders, including “Current Cases” and “Priors.”I open Priors just for a look; there are over fifty entries going years back, and I hope I don’t have to go through them all. Current Cases looks more promising, with only five files.

I’m a private investigator of the most boring kind. I work freelance for a handful of insurance companies and attorneys, scrounging for information on fraudulent claims, witness reliability, and the occasional marital infidelity. Nothing to get shot in the head over.

The first file is a non-starter. Old lady suing a nursing home. She says they stole her jewelry. I never even took the case, just promised to look into it as a favor for my ex-wife’s mother. I close it and move on.

The second file is labeled, “Sentry/Timmons,” Sentry being the insurance company who gave me the case and Timmons being the subject. Eddie Timmons was a construction worker with a job-related injury claim. He was collecting Workman’s Comp and suing his contractor for a torn rotator cuff. I think he was a tweaker; he had a crazed and aggressive way of driving that looked like it was chemically induced, and there was a glint of hysteria in the icy Nordic blue of his eyes. I tailed him out to Palos Verdes Cove, videotaped him surfing on a twelve-foot day, and showed it to his employer. The case was completed but hasn’t been moved to Priors because I haven’t sent the invoice yet.

File number three spins me out for a moment. It’s labeled “Divorce” but could just as well be called Failure, Remorse, Despair, or any other pathetic word that’s easy to rhyme in a country tune. I know what’s in it and my mind floats away.

¤ ¤ ¤

Allison was a sweet girl when we met. Then I happened to her. That’s her version of things, anyway. But if you go far enough back, before the divorce, before the drugs, before the disaster we became, you’ll find two people in love. Two college students, not ready, but willing to have a baby when it announced itself by giving Alli morning sickness during finals week in our senior year. And now, sixteen years later, our daughter Mindy is the shining star at the center of my otherwise sad little universe.

I try to picture how a life can crumble as completely as mine did, and I get a slideshow of the Miner family devolving to its current state. The early part, the glorious, exhausting stage of new parenthood, that holy state of surrender to what’s really important, only serves to remind me of what is now so irrevocably gone. There’s a trigger point, somewhere, a rifle shot that caused the avalanche that changed it all, but I can’t put a finger on it. But Mindy, with her sly little lopsided smile and her inexplicable faith in me after all my failures, is still a part of my life. Something to work toward.

Something to hope for.

¤ ¤ ¤

My mind snaps back. File number four is a different story. It sings a tune in my head as soon as I read the label: “Tanya Peterson.” My cell phone barks like a dog; it’s the only ring-tone I can be sure is my own. The display says “Tanya Peterson.” I hit a key to connect and she says, “Charlie, where the hell have you been?”

The voice invites the image.

My visitor said, “Got mail?”

I told her no, I just had to wrap up a case file, and called the re-raise that came back to me. The cards showed: Screamin’ Jay had queens full. Oh, well.

I signed out and sat back in my ancient faux-leather Staples office chair. The tilt function tricked me and I almost fell over backward, but caught myself by hooking my foot under my desk.

The best looking woman I’d seen in years was laughing at me now, and I didn’t even know her name. I picked up a pen and legal pad and tried to look professional. She stopped laughing but then started again. Finally, she settled down.

“My name is Tanya Peterson.”

“Okay.” It seemed like she expected me to recognize her name. I didn’t, so I waited for the punch line.

“My husband is Mickey Peterson.” Now there was a name I knew. Mickey Peterson was a stockbroker who hung out with movie stars and was a big backer of the mayor’s re-election campaign.

“Who did you say referred you to me?” Whatever she wanted was going to be out of my league, and I wondered how she’d even gotten my name.

“Alan Hunter suggested you might be able to help me out.” She took her boots off my desk and set the Halliburton on her lap. “He said you were discreet and very thorough.”

I wrote “A. Hunter” on my pad and considered the possibility. I had done work for his firm, but had never met him and couldn’t imagine ever having been a blip on his radar.

I waited. I could have charged her by the hour, but just watching her was its own payoff. She put a boot up on the desk again. Her hand hovered up by her face, as if to wave off an insect, but then jumped to the briefcase as if it had been stung. She had a weird, restless energy that fascinated me, but then I’ve always gravitated toward the crazy ones.

She opened the case and turned it around. “As you can see,” she said, “there’s just a bunch of paperwork in here.” She grabbed a fistful and waved it in the air, “I need you to keep these safe for me.”

“Safe from what?” Babysitting documents sounded like an easy way to make money, but I needed some background.

She replaced the papers and closed the briefcase. Her hand flew up to the corner of her eye—did she have an itch?—but she restrained it. “There are people who would like to see these documents destroyed. Let’s just say the truth won’t set them free.”

I say to her, “Yeah, sorry, how’s it going?”

“‘Sorry, how’s it going?’ Are you fucking kidding me? Where the fuck have you been?”

I didn’t realize we were such good friends that she could talk to me like this, but I just say, “Hey, something came up. How can I help you?” I’m pretty sure I’m missing some key information about this call, so playing dumb is the best fallback strategy I’ve got.

“Charlie, you’re sounding really weird. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but we need a Plan B.”

I don’t know what to say, since I don’t remember what plan A was. It clearly didn’t go well, I’m pretty sure of that.

“Charlie, what happened to the briefcase? And what did you do to get Jason so crazy?”

I don’t remember who Jason is, but the briefcase . . .the briefcase . . .

¤ ¤ ¤

Tuesday night at ten-thirty. That was the setup. “At the Cheesecake Factory. Leave Jimmy out of this,” she said. “Bring the briefcase. Sit at the table in the far left corner. A guy will come sit with you; have a drink and wait for my call. When I call you and give the go-ahead, give him the briefcase. End of job. Three thousand bucks for a delivery.”

And now I remember opening the briefcase earlier that day. The papers turned out to be a geologist’s report on a gold mine called Santa Clarita, somewhere near Ensenada. I don’t know much about the mining industry, but this report said something about “inferred mineralization” not being substantiated upon further drilling, and that “at current gold prices this project cannot justify additional investment.” It was signed by James Caffey, MS. Geol.

Then there was an almost identical document, but this one didn’t say anything about not justifying additional investment. Instead, it mentioned “inferred mineralization at 10.6g/ton . . .” and “Carlin-type potential.” The paper ended with, “The deep exploration potential at Santa Clarita is extremely positive and the chance for deep mineralization is very good. The surface potential, as you know, is without question.”

All Szechuan to me, but it struck me as weird that there would be two reports, dated and signed identically, with such radically different conclusions. Tanya Peterson had said something about people who wanted the documents destroyed. I scanned every page and uploaded the images to my online archive, printed two sets of copies and put one set in a file folder on my desk and the second set with the originals in the attaché case and locked it, making sure that my hacking the locks didn’t leave any scratches.

¤ ¤ ¤

She’s paging me again, “Charlie . . . Hey, Charlie, say something!”

I say, “Look, we should probably meet up, but someone ransacked my house and it’s probably not safe there. There’s a coffee shop called the Pygmy Up on Lincoln and Superba, let’s meet there in half an hour and I’ll fill you in.”

“You don’t have the case, do you?” Her voice is tight, accusatory, and when I don’t answer she says, “Why did I trust a two-bit loser like you with something so important?”

I say, “Maybe because Alan Hunter told you to. Now, if you want a Plan B, you’re going to have to tell me a lot more about Plan A. And bring me my three grand, I’m pretty sure I earned it.”

“I’m not bringing you shit, Charlie. You fucked up big time. I’ll see you at the coffee shop with the dumb name.” And she hangs up.

I go out to the balcony and tap Jimmy on the shoulder. He’s got earbuds in and I can hear Avenged Sevenfold leaking through while he methodically lifts. It’s well into morning now and the marina is coming alive. Jimmy finally notices me and puts down the weights. He thumbs off the iPod and says, “Everything copacetic?”

I tell him, “Yeah, I guess. I’ve got to go meet up with Tanya. Thanks for all your help.”

“Tanya, shit, that’s her name.” He puts out his huge hand to grab mine. “She’s fuckin’ hot.”

I let him maul my hand again. “She’s fuckin’ trouble, is what she is.”

Jimmy says, “Yeah, well, same thing, usually. Am I right?” And he walks me to the door.

The 7-Eleven’s owner is a guy named Mohamed, but he likes to be called Mo. He’s only about five foot eight and weighs maybe one fifty, but he studies Brazilian jujitsu and has plaques all over his little office/storage room attesting to his skill in the martial arts. We’ve swapped stories over Heinekens in there. I have a few plaques of my own from back in the days before I hurt my back and became a drug idiot.

“Charlie, my friend, how are they hung today?” Mo is Pakistani by way of New York, and he loves American vernacular but always manages to mangle it. “This is early in the day for you.” He’s always smiling, like a greeter with a lei at the Honolulu airport, but his smile is the real deal, an expression of a natural friendliness and good cheer that I have never experienced myself.

“Hey, Mo.” We shake hands. “Listen, I know I’m near my limit, but I’m short and need to put gas in my car so I can go collect some cash.”

Mo’s smile doesn’t diminish by even a millimeter, but his eyes show disappointment. “Charlie, you know my limit is two hundred. You’re at one ninety right now, and we had an agreement you would pay it down last week.” He shrugs, as if to say, “What can I tell you?”

“Mo, ten bucks, gas. I’m good for it. If I’m late, I’ll pay you and I’ll mop your damn floors. Anything.” I’m groveling, but Mo just shakes his head and rings me up for ten dollars in gas. I feel bad, but not as bad as I would borrowing from Jimmy.

¤ ¤ ¤

The Pygmy Up is a deliberately funky dive that caters to yuppie stoners who get their weed at the dispensary around the corner. It’s got thirty different kinds of pies, tarts, and scones, fancy chocolate concoctions, and a decent cup of coffee. I scrounge enough change out of the glove box of my Z to cover myself. This isn’t a date and Tanya’s not in my good books at the moment.

She’s already inside, sitting in an overstuffed armchair with a latte and her attitude. I get a cup of the house blend and sit on the loveseat across from her. There’s a cat already on it; he makes a minimum adjustment to accommodate me, stretches, and starts to purr. Tanya checks me out like I’m wearing a clown suit, and I realize I’m still wearing the skinhead’s clothes.

“That’s kind of an odd look for you, Charlie.” She’s dressed in jeans again, but this time with a black silk blouse with the top four buttons open. Asians aren’t known for having large breasts, so it must be the Irish in her that’s stretching the fabric. Different boots, but just as cool and pointy. There’s latte foam on her upper lip; it’s cute, but then she notices me staring and licks it off, which is even cuter.

She puts down her drink and says, “Okay, look, you tell me what happened and where the hell you’ve been and I’ll fill you in on what was going on.”

“Everything?” I check her out; she doesn’t even blink.

“Everything.”

I know she’s lying already. On the other hand, I’ve got nothing for her, so it’s a draw. I wonder what to say next when her cellphone rings. She picks it up and says, “I can’t talk now. I’ll have more for you soon.” It gives me an idea. I tell her to go ahead, talk, and I’ll be back in a few.

I get up and walk to the back of the shop to the men’s room. The stall is cramped and dark. I latch myself in and try roaming. I watch my body slump forward like a junkie nodding out, then I move through the door and out into the shop to where Tanya’s talking on her cell. I catch her saying, “No, he didn’t bring the briefcase. What? No, look, you put me onto this clown.” She listens for a beat and then says, “Fine. It’s got to be one of three things. Either he still has it, or he turned it over to them even though I said not to, or they took it from him.” Another beat and she says, “I know it’s my fault. I’ll handle it.” And she clicks the phone shut. Her hand goes to the corner of her eye and I catch it: she grabs a lash with her thumb and forefinger and yanks it out. Then another one.

I go back to the body and move it out of the stall. I look in the mirror and see a guy in a white tee shirt and a baseball cap. I check out the eyes and wonder if anyone’s home. By the time I get back to my loveseat, I have a story to tell, from out of nowhere, as if I’d never lost it.

¤ ¤ ¤

I was watching
True Detective
when Tanya called. The show was almost over. She asked me if I was ready; I told her a few minutes. I already had my instructions. I got in my car but it was a warm night so I changed my mind and decided to ride my bike to the Cheesecake. I figured I would go across the street to Jimmy’s afterward and celebrate, and I didn’t want to drive home loaded. Riding a bike while high is one of life’s great pleasures.

I got to the restaurant at 10:25 and went to my designated corner and ordered a drink. There were a few late diners left, and some drinkers at the bar. At 10:30 sharp an unpleasant-looking kid in his early twenties wearing pointy black boots approached and said, “Charlie Miner?” He was about five foot six and made out of wire. Even his hair. There was a movie in the 80s called
Ratboy
and this guy might have had the lead role; the tip of his nose was way closer to me than his eyes were. I gestured for him to sit down.

“Do you have it?” He wasn’t giving up a name, but who cared? I pulled the briefcase from under my chair. He asked me to open it. I shrugged and said, “I’m just the delivery boy. And I’m not delivering till I get the okay.” That’s when my cell barked.

It was Tanya. No hello, just, “Are you sitting with a guy that looks like a weasel?”

“Yep.”

“Show him the papers but do not hand them over. He’s got the key.”

Ratboy handed me the key. I opened the attaché and pulled out the original documents but not the copies. Ratboy reached out as if to take them, but I pulled them back out of his reach and told him, “Nope, not yet.”

He said, “Look, it’s a no-go until I see the last part of page three of each set.

I separated the sets and showed him what he wanted from across the table. He nodded and pulled out his own cell and made a call. I could hear the ring through my connection with Tanya, then a male voice answering. Ratboy said, “We’re good,” nodded to the response, and clicked off.

Tanya told me to wait until she called me again. I put the documents back in the attaché and set it by my feet. My back was killing me and I wanted to get the whole thing over with so I could go across the street to Jimmy’s, so I ordered a drink. Ratboy had a coke and stared out the window at the boats.

I had another drink, and a third. I asked Ratboy if he was afraid of cats and he ignored me. A man approached. His name was Bobby and he was the restaurant manager. He knew me as a friend of Jimmy’s, which made me the friend of a big tipper. He looked at my guest and then said to me, “Mr. Miner, can you come with me please?”

I shrugged my shoulders at Ratboy, who looked startled and punched a speed-dial button on his cell. I scooped up the Halliburton and followed Bobby to his office. He turned to me and said, “Look, this is fairly unusual, but a woman who claims to be a friend of yours and Jimmy’s just called and said that you were in an awkward situation and might need a way out.” He pointed toward a door that led to the parking lot. I reached for my wallet to cover my drinks but he told me Tanya had already paid with a credit card. Good thing, since I’d left my wallet in my car. I thanked him and went out into the night.