Never Look Down (19 page)

Chapter Forty

Cal

Tay and I sat in my office for another hour or so, talking and watching my computer screen for another message from K209. But nothing came in. I sent a final message to her.

Please don't break communications with me. I will do what I can with this information, but I will need more help from you!

Tay said, “Are you going to involve the police in this?”

I shook my head. “Not at this juncture. I'd like to verify this, and I don't want to scare K209 away. She's obviously pretty damn good at staying below the radar.”

Tay smiled. “I like the way you roll, Claxton. This is getting interesting.”

I had to laugh. “Yeah, if you think walking a high wire without a net's interesting.”

We were both starving by that time, so after feeding Archie and taking him for a quick walk, we headed across the river to Pambiche for Cuban food. I called Nando on the way, and he agreed to join us. We had some catching up to do.

Tay and I had just scored a table after a long wait when Nando made his entrance. As he worked his way through the room, it was clear his swagger was back. Before sitting down he took Tay's hand, bowed, and kissed it. “You look lovely as ever, Tayshia,” he said, sitting down. To me he said, “It has been too long, my friend.”

We ordered drinks and spent the time before our food arrived talking in generalities and studiously avoiding anything to do with Claudia Borrego. I broke the ice as we were finishing our entrees. “Uh, there's been a development, Nando.”

He leveled his dark eyes at me with a look that said this better be good.

I unpacked the whole K209 story and then brought him up-to-date on the Brent Gunderson break-in, Bonilla's notebook, and how it all seemed to tie back to the Bridgetown Arsenal.

When I finished, Nando's shoulders fell some. He sopped up the last of his mojo sauce with a corn fritter and shook his head slowly. “It is unfortunate that this young tagger cannot identify Cardenas. You are positive of this?”

“She didn't rule it out,” I said. Tay nodded her head in agreement. I knew better than to bring up my doubts about Cardenas being the shooter and was relieved when Tay was mute on the subject.

“So,” Nando continued, “this changes nothing. The prosecution of Cardenas will go forward. The evidence is solid. As for this gun shop business and the deaths of Claudia's cousin, Manny Bonilla, and the homeless man, I have no real interest.”

The whole thing went about the way I expected. I did get Nando to agree to check with his sources to find out how the Portland Police Bureau was viewing the Rupert Youngblood murder. As we were saying our good nights outside the restaurant, Nando added, “You know, Calvin, perhaps you should let the authorities worry about all this. There is very little in this for you.”

There never is
, I said to myself, but to Nando I smiled and answered, “You've got a point. I'll give it some thought.”

As he turned to leave, he gave me a look that let me know he understood I wasn't backing off. Good friends allow each other that kind of space.

Tay had hitched a ride from a friend to Old Town that morning, so I took her home, a nice little infill condo off of MLK on SE Thirty-fifth Place. When she invited me in for a drink I said, “I need to, uh, get back.” I didn't want to be alone with her. I didn't need the complication that I thought might follow.

She smiled and eyed me with her brown eyes. “Things still up in the air in Russia?”

“Uh, not really. It's pretty much over, but, you know, feelings linger.”

Tay smiled, knowingly. “Yeah, I know all about that.”

“She can't ever come back to the U.S. legally. I've looked at every possibility. Anyway, I had to tell her, but she took it very well.”

Tay nodded, took my hand in both of hers, and looked at me. Her eyes were warm and filled with the kind of understanding that comes from experience. She squeezed my hand softly. “I'm sorry to hear that, Cal.” Then she hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. “Good night.”

I turned and walked away, and I swear I could still feel the warmth of that kiss on my skin when I reached the car.

***

Sunday broke cold and clear, the sky a ringing blue. Arch and I were up early and got in a good run, with the thought of the double cappuccino I would make upon my return providing strong incentive. I spent the morning catching up on e-mails and planning my week, which would include three client-packed days in my Dundee office. I also called my neighbor and accountant, Gertrude Johnson, to fess up that, in all the excitement, I'd forgotten to make my quarterly tax payments to the Feds and Oregon. “Jesus, Cal,” Gertie said, “you were late last quarter, too. Get the checks in the mail tomorrow.” Then she laughed. “Of course, at the rate you're going, you won't have much income to tax. I may have to recalculate your payments.”

I swallowed. The threat of financial ruin was always out there for me, like a fogbank off the coast that could close in at any time. “That bad, huh?”

“You're spending too much time in Portland. Your receipts are way off. You better hope you get a holiday bump.”

She was referring to the uptick in business I usually saw around the holidays, which were decidedly unjoyous for a lot of people. I told her I'd make the payments and was about to wrap up a situation here in Portland. Hope does spring eternal.

I also called a client of mine, a man named Hunter Barlow. I'd settled a lawsuit for him. Barlow had a forty-acre spread out in the Chehalem Valley, between Carlton and Yamhill, and he owned guns, lots of them. I figured he might be able to help me. He agreed to see me and we set a date at his place.

Around two that afternoon I got a call from Roz Jenkins. “Cal?” she began, “You coming to the rally this afternoon?”

“Wouldn't miss it, Roz.”

“Good. Look for us up front. You can sit in the VIP section.”

“Terrific. I'll see you there.”

What every budding gun trust lawyer dreams of—VIP exposure at a gun rally.

Chapter Forty-one

Cal

The pro-gun rally was to be held on the river in the grassy bowl just south of the Hawthorne Bridge. To save time, I'd driven over and parked on SW Third. My plan was to catch the rally, then swing back to pick up Archie for a quick getaway to Dundee. The weather stayed clear that day, the walkway along the river jammed with Portlanders enjoying a sunbreak in the autumn weather. Just past the arching streams of the Salmon Fountain, a young, earnest-looking man handed me a flyer. I was early, so I sat down on a bench and studied it. The rally, I learned was spawned by a series of proposed ordinances aimed at tightening city gun laws. Lost or stolen firearms would have to be promptly reported, and handling firearms while intoxicated would be prohibited.
Huh
, I thought,
weren't these kinds of controls already in place?

As I rejoined the crowd on the walkway, two young men passed me wearing camouflage and combat boots. Each carried a military-style rifle as casually as a loaf of bread. I'd seen photos of assault weapons being brandished in the rotunda of the Oregon State Capitol during a similar rally, so I knew it was somehow legal. But the sight was jarring, nonetheless, and people out walking that day said nothing and gave the men a wide berth.

A portable stage stood at the base of the bowl, the humpback outline of the Hawthorne Bridge and the brilliant blue band of the Willamette in the background. An American flag on the stage fluttered in the breeze, and a large white banner behind the stage proclaimed:

“The great object is that every man be armed…Every one who is able may have a gun”

Patrick Henry

The bowl gradually filled with people. I saw more weapons on open display, along with homemade signs supporting the Second Amendment and denouncing local and national politicians who were considered by the sign-bearers to be anti-gun. The media was out in force, as evidenced by a couple of TV trucks up on Naito Parkway and a helicopter hovering over the river. I worked my way over to the stage and spotted Roz Jenkins. She was being interviewed by a young TV reporter who looked familiar, although I couldn't name her or the network she worked for. I waited off to the side and watched the crowd. It didn't look like a big turnout, two, three hundred, tops, but, hey, this was Portland.

That's when I saw the bootmaker, Farnell Timmons. He was standing off to the side, about halfway up the slope, his arms laced across his chest, a ball cap pulled down firmly against the breeze. He was with six other men, two of whom brandished assault rifles. I recognized two in the group, the Mutt and Jeff pair I almost tangled with in the parking lot of that bar in Estacada. They came to stand with their pro-gun brothers and sisters in Portland, no doubt. They all wore stylish cowboy boots, I noted.

Roz finished her interview and joined me. She wore Timmons' boots, dark blue jeans, and her signature pearl button, long-sleeved cowgirl shirt. “Calvin,” she said, breaking into a broad smile, “Glad you could make it.” Then she hugged me.

“Not a bad turnout,” I said.

“Yeah, it's looking pretty good. Who'da thought we could draw a crowd like this?” She laughed and shook her head. “Looks like the Second Amendment's alive and well, even in liberal Portland.” Roz then introduced me to several people milling around the stage, all ranking members of an organization called the Oregon Friends of the Second Amendment. Roz, I recalled, was the president of OFSA.

At that point Roz's daughter and her husband, Arthur, walked up. When he saw me his jaw dropped for a moment, but he recovered and dutifully introduced his wife, Melanie. She was a large woman, like her mother, sporting a profusion of bright blond ringlets framing a round, fleshy face. She was apparently going for a Shirley Temple look. Roz said, perhaps a little defensively in light of Arthur's reaction, “I invited Cal to join us. He needs to see some good ol' American democracy up close and personal.” If that made Arthur feel any better he didn't show it.

Just before the rally started, Jack Pfister appeared and offered his hand. “Claxton. Good to see you, buddy. And in the VIP section, no less.”

Hail, hail, the gang's all here. I shook his hand and nodded. “Roz invited me.”

He grimaced and said under his breath, “I hate all this apple pie and assault rifle bullshit. I have to be here. I represent the OFSA.” He winked. “They're loaded, in more ways than one. The pay's great.”

After a rousing a cappella rendition of the National Anthem by a high school girl and a long prayer led by a local evangelical minister, the meeting kicked off with a series of short speeches leading up to the introduction of Roz Jenkins. They didn't call her Rockin' Roz for nothing. When she took the stage the first thing she said was, “Good afternoon, Portland. Show me your guns!” The crowd thundered its approval as all manner of firearms were hoisted overhead. She raised both hands and smiled. “Folks, what you're feeling right now is what it feels like to be a truly free American.” More hoots, calls, and wild applause. “You know, we've stopped them at the federal level, we've stopped them at the state level. “Now”—she paused here as the audience roared—“now it's time to stop them at the municipal level right here in Portland
.
Are you with me?
”
The crowd went crazy.

She was funny, too. After explaining the thrust of the proposed city ordinances and how they were, in fact, a very slippery slope, she said, “Maybe we should take up a collection here so that we can buy us a couple of city councilmen before they're all gone. What do you say?”

By the time she finished talking she had the audience eating out of her hand. She exhorted everyone to attend the upcoming meeting in which the proposed ordinances were to be discussed and voted on. “Lord knows,” she said in conclusion, “we've got too many laws now that restrict our constitutional and God-given rights to own guns. We sure as hell don't need any more. See you at the city council meeting.”

When the rally broke up, Roz was swallowed up by a throng of well-wishers, and Pfister was schmoozing with a couple of OFSA officers. I watched Arthur and Melanie leave and saw Timmons and his entourage heading down the slope toward them. Then a curious thing happened. It looked like Timmons was going to say something to Arthur, but then he abruptly veered off to the right and his entourage followed. Had Arthur warned them off with a look or a shake of his head? I couldn't be sure. Arthur and his wife vanished into the crowd, and I fell in behind Timmons, staying well back. All the way from Estacada just to attend a rally? I wondered about that. I didn't plan to follow them, but my curiosity was aroused.

Timmons' group headed down Naito and turned left at Salmon Street. At SW First, Mutt and Jeff and two others peeled off to the right to fetch a parked car, I assumed. Timmons and two others continued on to Third, turned left, and stopped at a big white truck with an extended cab. I was parked a block and a half the other way.

Damn
, I thought,
it's worth a shot.
I broke into a dead run, jumped in my car, and took off. If they were headed back to Estacada, I figured, they would go up to Alder and take the Morrison Bridge to the I-5, in which case I would call this craziness off. But instead I caught sight of the truck as it turned onto Madison, which would take them over the Hawthorne Bridge in the direction of the Bridgetown Arsenal.

I decided to follow the truck.

When I got on the bridge, I swung into the left lane and gunned it. That's not saying a lot because my three-series BMW was a dozen years old. It shuddered a bit before responding, and I caught up with the truck just as it took a left onto SE Water Avenue. There was no traffic on Water, and I followed at what I hoped was a safe distance. It was clear we were headed toward the Arsenal. That's when I noticed the car behind me. “Whoops,” I said aloud, “this could be a parade.” I turned off at the next intersection but not before watching the white truck disappear behind the Arsenal. The second car slowed down as it passed the intersection where I'd turned off, then followed the truck behind the same building.

I headed back toward Caffeine Central, mulling over what just happened. The Arsenal was closed. What would a bootmaker from Estacada and six of his buddies be doing there on a Sunday evening? Maybe they had a special arrangement to use the range. Who knows? Had the second car noticed me? I didn't think so. I'd turned off, after all. But I didn't like the way it slowed down, as if taking a careful look or trying to read my license plate.

Then I thought of the confrontation back at that bar in Estacada. Timmons' two buddies, Mutt and Jeff, got a good look at my Beemer that night, and they were probably passengers in the second car.

“Shit.”