Excluding meth addicts, not once has anyone ever received a phone call at four a.m. that was good news. That pattern held for me the next morning. The Oceanside Fire Department was ringing me up to say there had been a fire at the Inana studio.
I sat bolt upright, then relaxed some as the fireman continued, "Don't worry, no structure or vehicle was damaged. It would appear someone lobbed three Molotov cocktails over the fence towards the warehouse --- your studio --- but fell short with all three. Beyond some scorched places in your lot, there is no damage here. Nonetheless, if you'd be willing, we'd like you to come down and talk with us a bit."
"I'm in Encinitas, gimme twenty minutes," I told him. Bekka got nudged awake and told what had happened, and I'd be gone a while. I pulled on clothes, then stepped into the bathroom for a few quick hits off the glass pipe to clear the cobwebs. For whatever reason, I chose to drive Jane's Cutlass instead of my Fleetwood.
Oceanside FD had cut the chain which held the front gate locked at night. I briefly speculated on whether there was an open hardware store around at that hour, to replace the chain. A single fire truck and two red passenger vehicles were sitting near the front door, and a total of six men were standing around. One was taking a series of flash photos of the pavement about thirty feet from the now-sealed roll-up door. I pulled up and got out.
A man in civvies approached me, confirming that I was Leonard Schneider. He used a flashlight to show where the firebombs had hit the asphalt. My uneducated guess was the Molotovs weren't very large. like someone had used beer bottles to make them. The last Molotov I'd dealt with had been a half-gallon glass jug. The scorching from spilled/sprayed flaming gasoline made it obvious the bottles had been thrown from a distance towards the studio, but whoever had done the job didn't have the arm to reach the target. Given the distance, I'd have been surprised if Dan Fouts could have made that throw.
I was introduced to two other men, who were identified as arson investigators. They got right to the point: did Inana Productions have any enemies?
I didn't laugh for too long before replying, "Well, we've got people in the world who hate us, I know that. Those people tend to hold a rather strict and punitive view of the Bible, they're heavy into the whole smiting thing in the Old Testament."
"Anyone in particular?" asked one of the investigators.
"At the moment, we've got an organization which has a bug up their ass about Skye Tyler, one of the Inana Girls...."
The other one said, "Oh yes, the Morality in Media people. I'm a fan of Skye Tyler, she's not letting them intimidate her, are they?"
I shook my head. "No. All the Inana Girls tend to have a lot of guts, especially those who have been around for a while. Skye has worked for Inana longer than I have. The AMM picketed her house last night, but they pretty much shot themselves in the foot. They'd called the local news stations to cover the picket, but then decided they wouldn't talk to the 'liberal media,' so other than footage of about eighty moral hysterics walking up and down a sidewalk, the news teams only spoke with Skye, Becky Page, and the neighbors. I'm sure the AMM intended to slut-shame Skye in front of her neighbors, but it didn't work. All her neighbors know who she is and what she does, and don't care. To them, Skye Tyler is a sweet young lady who bakes cookies for everyone at Christmas, engages with her neighbors well, and keeps her lawn tidy. She's just a nice girl with an unusual acting career to them."
"Do you think they'd be up to arson?"
"I wouldn't put it past them, at this point. Their spokesman at the national offices expressly stated AMM members who engaged in 'direct action' would obey the law, but I know those activists locally are feeling frustrated at this point. Their picket here was a total flop, their attempts to intimidate Skye in public just got them jeered by passers-by and thrown out of a mall, we don't give a shit about the letters they send, and like I said, their picket last night backfired. So yeah, I can see the frustrations of a few local AMM activists reaching the point of wanting to cause mayhem."
"But no way to identify any individuals," the first investigator commented.
"No." I smirked and said, "To be frank, it's never occurred to us to try and bother. These people are as threatening as attack sloths. They're overwhelmingly lily white, lumpy, suburban conservatives, and not a day under fifty. I've noticed a lot of heavy breathing on their picket lines, the exertion of walking at a snail's pace for several hours really taxes some of them. Causing mayhem usually requires a degree of physical fitness."
Another investigator-type approached and confirmed my suspicion about what bottles had been used. "Brown glass, like a beer bottle," he said.
I took a closer look and smiled. "I recognize that glass. It was someone who drinks cheap, that's pieces of a Lucky Lager bottle."
The second investigator raised his eyebrows at me and said, "You're sure about that?"
"Oh yeah. Lucky Lager bottles are short, wide, and rounded. $3.99 a twelve pack out the door in most places. Heh, the caps have puzzles on the inside. You know, where you try and figure out a phrase by looking at a series of pictures...."
"A rebus."
"Yeah, that's it. It's pretty funny to see a room full of punk rockers all staring at bottle caps, trying to work out those puzzles while they get a low-level buzz."
Just then my pager went off; I prayed it was only Bekka, telling me to stop by the 7-11 for milk. No such luck, it was Ellen's number on the display. Shit. I excused myself and went inside the studio, dialing Ellen from Gina's desk.
She answered on the second ring. "Lenny! Oh God.... We've got trouble here. Someone was going to firebomb the house."
"What!?" I yelled. "What happened?"
"It's a good thing Frankie is sleeping in the living room, and I guess he's a light sleeper. He heard a car pull up in front of the house, so he got up to check. Just as he stepped outside, a guy standing next to the car was lighting one of those homemade bombs, you know, just gas in a glass bottle and a rag..."
"A Molotov cocktail," I prompted.
"Yeah. He shot at the guy just as he was getting ready to throw the thing. The guy fumbled his throw, and the bottle hit the driveway right behind my car. The gas started burning, too. The guy jumped back in the car, so Frankie ran out and put a couple shots into them as they drove away. He didn't stop, though. Frankie ran in and grabbed the extinguisher from the kitchen and put out the fire before my car went up.... My poor Calillac, the rear end is all scorched...."
"The cops there?"
"Oh God, it's a circus here. Local cops, plus deputies, plus the fire department.... I think every neighbor on the street is awake, everyone left the flashing lights on their cars on, it's like a Tijuana disco outside."
"Okay, I'll see you in ten minutes. Those dumb assholes explain why they didn't bother to keep an eye on the picket last night?"
"I haven't even asked yet." Ellen sounded slightly breathless.
"Don't worry, I will ask," I growled. "I got troubles with bomb-chuckers too. I'm in Oceanside right now, someone lobbed three Molotovs at the studio. They didn't have the arm to pull it off, though, all they did was scorch a bit of the parking lot. Okay, I'm heading that way, see you in a few."
I re-armed the alarm, locked up again, and told the Oceanside firemen our bomb-chucker had just tried to hit Skye Tyler's house, same M.O., and I was headed there. The first man I spoke to said that if I unlocked the padlock on the gate, they'd repair the chain and lock up the gate when they left. I thanked them and took off.
Blowing down I-5, I tried to tamp down my anger. Teeing off on cops at 4:45 in the morning is a bad way to start the day. Sure enough, when I got to Ellen's street in Cardiff, it was blocked by about eight vehicles of officialdom. I backed up and parked on the cross street, walking towards Ellen's house.
Two doors shy of my goal, I was stopped by someone in an SDPD uniform, who wanted to know where the hell I thought I was going. "Ellen MacPherson's house, your current customer," I told him. "She called me, so here I am. To save time, Leonard Schneider, California license number P5542819, address 816 Neptune Street, Encinitas. Ellen is waiting, excuse me." I walked around him and continued towards Ellen's place.
The cop grabbed my shoulder, bringing me to a halt. "You're not going anywhere, this is a crime scene, stupid," he told me.
I was about to snap back at him when I heard Ellen's voice call my name. She jogged towards us barefoot, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. I'm sure her lack of a bra made Johnny Law very happy while they had talked to her. I asked Ellen, "Did anyone get hurt? Is Frankie okay?"
"Yeah, Frankie's fine..." she started.
"You know this person?" the cop asked Ellen.
With fire in her eyes, Ellen said, "Yes, I do, officer. This is Leonard Schneider, my boss, and the guy who runs Inana Productions. You know, the guy who produces all those movies of mine you and your partner wanted to talk about, instead of talking about the firebombing." It was obvious Ellen did not care for this oinker one little bit. "He'll be joining me inside."
The cop grudgingly let go of my shoulder, and I followed Ellen through the yard and inside. Looking over at Ellen's beloved Seville, it was obvious the thing had been through some flames. My own estimation, going by the burnt paint on the trunk, was that the Molotov had landed there, and not on the driveway.
Inside, Boss and Frankie No-Neck were both fully dressed. I was irritated to see Frankie was wearing handcuffs, standing in the living room with his usual blank expression. "Hey Frankie, why they got you cuffed?" I queried.
"Discharging a firearm within city limits," he replied calmly.
"Bullshit, Cardiff is technically county land. There is no real local government, just a community advisory board. That's why they contract with San Diego for law enforcement. Don't worry, if they're dumb enough to book you, I'll have you out in four hours." I took a breath and said, "So, what happened?"
Frankie gave me the same basic story Ellen had, adding a description of the bomb-chucker and the car, a brown Ford Taurus, an '88 He got the first four digits of the plate: 3OJU. I nodded and wrote it all down in a small notepad I carried in my denim. The perp was about fifty years old, heavy, caucasian, grey hair and balding on top, and wire-framed glasses. He was wearing a windbreaker with "Mesa Verde Country Club Staff" across the back.
The vehicle description scratched at my brain, then the penny dropped. The Taurus was one of several cars picketers had parked on the street, blocking driveways. The residents of the respective houses would walk up to the line of picketers and loudly announce that the dumb-ass driving such-and-such car, plate number so-and-so, better move the goddamn thing before it was towed. A brown Ford Taurus was one of these interlopers, and the plate number sounded very familiar.
Another San Diego cop approached Frankie and I, and just as he opened his mouth to speak, I asked him, "So where were you people last night, when we called you?"
Hood-lidded, he responded, "What do you mean, sir?"
"Well, we had about sixty-five yahoos picketing this house last night, a herd of moral hysterics who don't like Ellen's career. They pissed off the neighbors for a few hours and finally left. Ellen called both the sheriff's and SDPD to get some law present, keep things in line, and no one ever showed up. Someone could have tried to torch Ellen's house then, and nobody could have done anything about it. Dago PD let a load of protestors invade a street, and couldn't be bothered to send a unit or two to supervise. I'd love to hear the explanation for ignoring a local resident's request for assistance."
The cop got snotty. "Actually, sir, I did drive up this street last night, in response to Ms. MacPherson's call. The street was empty and quiet, no one around."
"Uh huh," I nodded. "Tell me, what time did your shift start?"
"Nine last night. I rolled through about 9:40."
"Well, that's damn special. Ellen called around 5:30 yesterday. A response time of over four hours, and the protestors left around 8:30. What, did everyone at the substation lock the keys in their cars, and they all had to wait on AAA to come out?" I gestured towards the front window with my head. "There's a high probability that our bomb-chucker was present yesterday evening, and got the not unreasonable impression that the local law in numb from the neck up. He knew he could try to murder three people with no interference in this neighborhood. Him and his friends could have done anything they wanted, and not have to sweat the law being around."
The cop's attitude grew. "Don't critique how local law enforcement does their job, sir, that can get you in trouble. Do I tell you how to do your job?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. Plenty of people do, you should read some of my fan mail. Are you a fan of Becky Page or Skye Tyler's movies? I'm the bastard that produces them, and writes a lot of them. Ever sent a letter to Inana Productions, telling us how you could have done a better job making a particular movie?"
The cop decided to ignore me and focus on Frankie. "All right, Wyatt Earp, time to take a ride. Let's go." He began walking Frankie to the door. Frankie looked unimpressed.
I said to the cop, "We'll have a lawyer down there posting bail before you even get him in the holding cells... stupid. You're not in city limits, Cardiff is county land." The cop ignored me and walked Frankie out to a squad car.
I went to the phone and dialed Angel, quickly filling him in on the events of the morning. "So SDPD has Frankie, the same way Encinitas busted Bekka way back when. They can't get the charges to stick, they're out of jurisdiction, but I need to get Frankie bailed out ASAP."
"I'm on it," Angel said. "Mouthpiece will be at the central jail in two hours, bail money at the ready. Don't worry about meeting Mouthpiece, you stick with Ellen. I gotta make a call, ciao." (The mafia-contracted criminal lawyer who always seemed to take care of business in San Diego had the nickname of "Mouthpiece," taken from the old gangster movies: "You doity coppers! I want a mout'piece!")
Actually, I had different plans for the morning. Boss could stay with her until Ellen went to work, and she'd be protected there. I'd have Mouthpiece give Frankie a lift back up to the Oceanside studio, and the day would continue as normal from there. Me, I was going to play a hunch and head up to Costa Mesa, home of the Mesa Verde Country Club, and prowl around a bit.
The Mesa Verde Country Club is a chi-chi place, very exclusive. Membership was by invitation only, initiation fees were $50,000, with monthly dues of $240. All this for access to tennis courts, a swimming pool, an admittedly good restaurant, and of coure golf. Jesus. My own feelings were anyone who built a golf course in Southern California should be put on trial at the Hague, for crimes agains humanity. People forget that SoCal is, essentially, a desert, with little natural resources for fresh water. Southern California got its water from either the Colorado River or the eastern Sierras, imported by massive canal projects. Fresh water is a valuable resource in the area.
So having millions of gallons of it diverted to keep fucking golf courses green was, in my view, a crime against humanity. Golf itself is a pathetic joke of a "sport." It's not even a sport, it's a game, barely more physically taxing than shooting pool... And a pool table is eight by four feet. The Mesa Verde golf course is 135 acres, all of it demanding to be drenched in potable water several times a week. To me, golf is a perfect analogy for how the rich behave in this country (and others, too): a sprawling waste of resources which the general public is usually barred from, where absolutely nothing of importance or relevance will ever happen. Fuck golf, and fuck the people who play it in Southern California.
I'd gone home to let Bekka know what was going on, and switched to the Fleetwood. This would be good camouflage, no one at a country club would give an ostentatious late-model Caldillac a second glance, unless they paid attention to the driver: a thug in his mid-twenties, with spiky blue hair and a ten-gauge septum ring. My fashion sense continued on below my neck, too. Studying my Thomas Bros. book map of Orange County showed the country club bordered by Gisler Ave. to the north, the Santa Ana "river" to the west, and residential neighborhoods on the other sides. According to the street address, the entrance was off Mesa Verde Dr., to the south. But the map also showed an entrance off of Gisler, which seemed to go into the course itself and dead end. My guess was it was where the army of groundskeepers entered, where all the lawn equipment was stored.
Off the 405, down Harbor Blvd, and into Costa Mesa. For whiter whites, live in Southern Orange County. It being a weekday morning in January, the country club lot was mostly empty, it was easy to scan the whole lot just by driving up the center aisle. A brown Taurus failed to show itself. I noticed a small spur lot to one side of the main building, and also poked in there. No luck.
Back out, up Country Club Dr., and onto Gisler, headed west. I missed the service driveway on my first pass, and had to turn around where Gisler dead ends at the (*ahem*) river. Moving slowly, I spotted it and turned in. After about 150 yards, I came to the groundskeepers' compound. Some sheds, a low workshop building, riding mowers the size of a Zamboni, and seven or eight cars parked in a row. One was a brown Ford Taurus, plate number 3OJU455. It even had two bullet holes in the rear. I turned around, then backed up so I was blocking the Taurus and pointed back towards the exit. A few Mexicans idled outside, getting ready to start the day. They ignored me completely.
Walking into the workshop, I looked around. Halfway down was a chubby balding dude who had a row of weed whackers in front of him. He seemed to be putting fresh cutting twine in the heads. My approach wasn't noticed, so I stopped ten feet off and said, "Excuse me!"
He took me in and said, "May I help you? If you're looking for work, applications are available at the club office."
With wide smile, I said, "No, actually, I was hoping you could help me."
"With?"
"I need a little gasoline, maybe a gallon or so. See, I've got some strips of rag and a bunch of empty Lucky Lager bottles I want to make into Molotov cocktails... you asshole."
Chubby did a double-take on me, his eyes growing huge. Then he jumped off his stool, throwing one of the weed whackers at me. I dodged it and went after him. Running fast is hard when you're built like a beer keg. I caught up with him and grabbed his collar with my left hand, pulling the Beretta out with my right, pressing it into his flabby neck. I hissed, "Okay, boy, time to talk. Who are you?"
"D-Dennis Greer." Sweat was beading on his forehead.
"Who was at the wheel of your car this morning in Cardiff and in Oceanside?"
"His name is J-John Wilson."
"Where does Mr. Wilson live?"
"Fountain Valley, same as me."
I let go of his collar, but moved the pistol up and rested the nose against his sweaty forehead. I told him, "Okay, I can already make some educated guesses about you. You're a member of Americans for Morality in Media, you think the country is going to hell, and you haven't had a satisfying orgasm since you were twenty-four. I'm curious, though, what the fuck prompted you to go rogue? The AMM makes a lot of noise about being law-abiding, and here you are, chucking Molotov cocktails at video studios, not to mention trying to murder people in their sleep by torching their house. If Skye's bodyguard hadn't heard your car pull up, you could have easily killed Skye Tyler, her boyfriend, and her bodyguard. Is that where your morality is? Porn is bad, but immolating people in a house is okay? Dude.... What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Greer looked like he was going wobbly, so I shoved him against a work bench, allowing him to lean. I still kept the Beretta leveled at his head, though. He gobbled, "A lot of us are feeling really... angry. Fed up. Morality in Media wants Skye Tyler to stop what she's doing and start leading a good life...."
"She already does. But go on."
"Nobody thought to take a look at where her movie studio is, so the picket there was a failure, I don't think the news people even bothered to air the story. Some of the activists went to confront Ms. Tyler when she went shopping, and they botched it, they said everyone around them were heckling and jeering them, defending Skye Tyler! The press.... God, they portay us as a bunch of wackos, hateful Puritans. The usual liberal bias...."
"Oh, bullshit," I replied. "I was at Skye's house last night, and I talked to some of the news crews. You all bitch about coverage being one-sided? All three crews tried to get the AMM's side last night, and none of you would talk to them. The people you oppose are willing to talk to them, so they're the ones who have their views broadcast.
"All you yahoos did last night was galvanize all of Skye's neighbors... in her favor. Here's a wild news flash. Skye Tyler likes gardening, knitting, petting her cats, being with her boyfriend of two years, and attending her local Episcopal church on Sundays. She is on friendly terms with her neighbors, to them, Skye Tyler is the sweet, friendly young girl who baked cookies for them at Christmas. She's been open and honest with them about her career, and they're okay with it, because they can tell Skye Tyler is a genuinely good person, she just has a weird job. Her neighbors, who are hardly a band of libertines, thinks the AMM sucks for giving Skye a hard time. They know her, you people don't.
"And see, that's what has me really pissed off. No one in the AMM knows Skye Tyler, or what she's like. But the AMM thinks porn is offensive, that it somehow will destry society. Instead of taking the obvious route and just not watching porn, you people decided that if if offends you, it should offend everyone, and Skye Tyler is a public enemy for appearing in porn. So you don't like the type of performance Skye Tyler does. Again, real simple, don't watch it if you don't like it. But plenty of people do like it. This is America, Jack, you don't get to dictate to anyone how they live or how they think. You wanna live like that, move to Iran, stupid."
I slowly lowered and holster the pistol. I went on, "Mr. Greer? I'm going to extend some trust to you, and also do you a favor. I will not let the police know I've located a bomb-chucker who tried to torch a couple place in North County early this morning. What you are going to do is disinvolve yourself from any more 'direct action' aimed at Skye Tyler or Inana Productions. I'm not telling you to quit the AMM, I should not and will not dictate who you, or anyone, associates with.
"But I'm giving you a verbal restraining order. You stay away from Skye Tyler and her studio, now and forever. Find a better hobby, dude. If I see you again in San Diego County, I'm going to keep an eye on you. And if you're anywhere near Inana Productions or Skye Tyler, your life will come to a very violent end. The same goes for John Wilson. Am I clear?"
"Yes," Greer slowly nodded. Sweat was dripping from his face, onto his shirt and the floor.
"Then good morning, Mr. Greer." I turned and started heading towards the door. Then I stopped and faced him again. "By the way, the fairways here are lovely. Top job."
"Th-thank you."
Back in the Fleetwood, I headed towards Harbor Drive, watching for a restaurant. I hadn't had breakfast yet.
I sat bolt upright, then relaxed some as the fireman continued, "Don't worry, no structure or vehicle was damaged. It would appear someone lobbed three Molotov cocktails over the fence towards the warehouse --- your studio --- but fell short with all three. Beyond some scorched places in your lot, there is no damage here. Nonetheless, if you'd be willing, we'd like you to come down and talk with us a bit."
"I'm in Encinitas, gimme twenty minutes," I told him. Bekka got nudged awake and told what had happened, and I'd be gone a while. I pulled on clothes, then stepped into the bathroom for a few quick hits off the glass pipe to clear the cobwebs. For whatever reason, I chose to drive Jane's Cutlass instead of my Fleetwood.
Oceanside FD had cut the chain which held the front gate locked at night. I briefly speculated on whether there was an open hardware store around at that hour, to replace the chain. A single fire truck and two red passenger vehicles were sitting near the front door, and a total of six men were standing around. One was taking a series of flash photos of the pavement about thirty feet from the now-sealed roll-up door. I pulled up and got out.
A man in civvies approached me, confirming that I was Leonard Schneider. He used a flashlight to show where the firebombs had hit the asphalt. My uneducated guess was the Molotovs weren't very large. like someone had used beer bottles to make them. The last Molotov I'd dealt with had been a half-gallon glass jug. The scorching from spilled/sprayed flaming gasoline made it obvious the bottles had been thrown from a distance towards the studio, but whoever had done the job didn't have the arm to reach the target. Given the distance, I'd have been surprised if Dan Fouts could have made that throw.
I was introduced to two other men, who were identified as arson investigators. They got right to the point: did Inana Productions have any enemies?
I didn't laugh for too long before replying, "Well, we've got people in the world who hate us, I know that. Those people tend to hold a rather strict and punitive view of the Bible, they're heavy into the whole smiting thing in the Old Testament."
"Anyone in particular?" asked one of the investigators.
"At the moment, we've got an organization which has a bug up their ass about Skye Tyler, one of the Inana Girls...."
The other one said, "Oh yes, the Morality in Media people. I'm a fan of Skye Tyler, she's not letting them intimidate her, are they?"
I shook my head. "No. All the Inana Girls tend to have a lot of guts, especially those who have been around for a while. Skye has worked for Inana longer than I have. The AMM picketed her house last night, but they pretty much shot themselves in the foot. They'd called the local news stations to cover the picket, but then decided they wouldn't talk to the 'liberal media,' so other than footage of about eighty moral hysterics walking up and down a sidewalk, the news teams only spoke with Skye, Becky Page, and the neighbors. I'm sure the AMM intended to slut-shame Skye in front of her neighbors, but it didn't work. All her neighbors know who she is and what she does, and don't care. To them, Skye Tyler is a sweet young lady who bakes cookies for everyone at Christmas, engages with her neighbors well, and keeps her lawn tidy. She's just a nice girl with an unusual acting career to them."
"Do you think they'd be up to arson?"
"I wouldn't put it past them, at this point. Their spokesman at the national offices expressly stated AMM members who engaged in 'direct action' would obey the law, but I know those activists locally are feeling frustrated at this point. Their picket here was a total flop, their attempts to intimidate Skye in public just got them jeered by passers-by and thrown out of a mall, we don't give a shit about the letters they send, and like I said, their picket last night backfired. So yeah, I can see the frustrations of a few local AMM activists reaching the point of wanting to cause mayhem."
"But no way to identify any individuals," the first investigator commented.
"No." I smirked and said, "To be frank, it's never occurred to us to try and bother. These people are as threatening as attack sloths. They're overwhelmingly lily white, lumpy, suburban conservatives, and not a day under fifty. I've noticed a lot of heavy breathing on their picket lines, the exertion of walking at a snail's pace for several hours really taxes some of them. Causing mayhem usually requires a degree of physical fitness."
Another investigator-type approached and confirmed my suspicion about what bottles had been used. "Brown glass, like a beer bottle," he said.
I took a closer look and smiled. "I recognize that glass. It was someone who drinks cheap, that's pieces of a Lucky Lager bottle."
The second investigator raised his eyebrows at me and said, "You're sure about that?"
"Oh yeah. Lucky Lager bottles are short, wide, and rounded. $3.99 a twelve pack out the door in most places. Heh, the caps have puzzles on the inside. You know, where you try and figure out a phrase by looking at a series of pictures...."
"A rebus."
"Yeah, that's it. It's pretty funny to see a room full of punk rockers all staring at bottle caps, trying to work out those puzzles while they get a low-level buzz."
Just then my pager went off; I prayed it was only Bekka, telling me to stop by the 7-11 for milk. No such luck, it was Ellen's number on the display. Shit. I excused myself and went inside the studio, dialing Ellen from Gina's desk.
She answered on the second ring. "Lenny! Oh God.... We've got trouble here. Someone was going to firebomb the house."
"What!?" I yelled. "What happened?"
"It's a good thing Frankie is sleeping in the living room, and I guess he's a light sleeper. He heard a car pull up in front of the house, so he got up to check. Just as he stepped outside, a guy standing next to the car was lighting one of those homemade bombs, you know, just gas in a glass bottle and a rag..."
"A Molotov cocktail," I prompted.
"Yeah. He shot at the guy just as he was getting ready to throw the thing. The guy fumbled his throw, and the bottle hit the driveway right behind my car. The gas started burning, too. The guy jumped back in the car, so Frankie ran out and put a couple shots into them as they drove away. He didn't stop, though. Frankie ran in and grabbed the extinguisher from the kitchen and put out the fire before my car went up.... My poor Calillac, the rear end is all scorched...."
"The cops there?"
"Oh God, it's a circus here. Local cops, plus deputies, plus the fire department.... I think every neighbor on the street is awake, everyone left the flashing lights on their cars on, it's like a Tijuana disco outside."
"Okay, I'll see you in ten minutes. Those dumb assholes explain why they didn't bother to keep an eye on the picket last night?"
"I haven't even asked yet." Ellen sounded slightly breathless.
"Don't worry, I will ask," I growled. "I got troubles with bomb-chuckers too. I'm in Oceanside right now, someone lobbed three Molotovs at the studio. They didn't have the arm to pull it off, though, all they did was scorch a bit of the parking lot. Okay, I'm heading that way, see you in a few."
I re-armed the alarm, locked up again, and told the Oceanside firemen our bomb-chucker had just tried to hit Skye Tyler's house, same M.O., and I was headed there. The first man I spoke to said that if I unlocked the padlock on the gate, they'd repair the chain and lock up the gate when they left. I thanked them and took off.
Blowing down I-5, I tried to tamp down my anger. Teeing off on cops at 4:45 in the morning is a bad way to start the day. Sure enough, when I got to Ellen's street in Cardiff, it was blocked by about eight vehicles of officialdom. I backed up and parked on the cross street, walking towards Ellen's house.
Two doors shy of my goal, I was stopped by someone in an SDPD uniform, who wanted to know where the hell I thought I was going. "Ellen MacPherson's house, your current customer," I told him. "She called me, so here I am. To save time, Leonard Schneider, California license number P5542819, address 816 Neptune Street, Encinitas. Ellen is waiting, excuse me." I walked around him and continued towards Ellen's place.
The cop grabbed my shoulder, bringing me to a halt. "You're not going anywhere, this is a crime scene, stupid," he told me.
I was about to snap back at him when I heard Ellen's voice call my name. She jogged towards us barefoot, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. I'm sure her lack of a bra made Johnny Law very happy while they had talked to her. I asked Ellen, "Did anyone get hurt? Is Frankie okay?"
"Yeah, Frankie's fine..." she started.
"You know this person?" the cop asked Ellen.
With fire in her eyes, Ellen said, "Yes, I do, officer. This is Leonard Schneider, my boss, and the guy who runs Inana Productions. You know, the guy who produces all those movies of mine you and your partner wanted to talk about, instead of talking about the firebombing." It was obvious Ellen did not care for this oinker one little bit. "He'll be joining me inside."
The cop grudgingly let go of my shoulder, and I followed Ellen through the yard and inside. Looking over at Ellen's beloved Seville, it was obvious the thing had been through some flames. My own estimation, going by the burnt paint on the trunk, was that the Molotov had landed there, and not on the driveway.
Inside, Boss and Frankie No-Neck were both fully dressed. I was irritated to see Frankie was wearing handcuffs, standing in the living room with his usual blank expression. "Hey Frankie, why they got you cuffed?" I queried.
"Discharging a firearm within city limits," he replied calmly.
"Bullshit, Cardiff is technically county land. There is no real local government, just a community advisory board. That's why they contract with San Diego for law enforcement. Don't worry, if they're dumb enough to book you, I'll have you out in four hours." I took a breath and said, "So, what happened?"
Frankie gave me the same basic story Ellen had, adding a description of the bomb-chucker and the car, a brown Ford Taurus, an '88 He got the first four digits of the plate: 3OJU. I nodded and wrote it all down in a small notepad I carried in my denim. The perp was about fifty years old, heavy, caucasian, grey hair and balding on top, and wire-framed glasses. He was wearing a windbreaker with "Mesa Verde Country Club Staff" across the back.
The vehicle description scratched at my brain, then the penny dropped. The Taurus was one of several cars picketers had parked on the street, blocking driveways. The residents of the respective houses would walk up to the line of picketers and loudly announce that the dumb-ass driving such-and-such car, plate number so-and-so, better move the goddamn thing before it was towed. A brown Ford Taurus was one of these interlopers, and the plate number sounded very familiar.
Another San Diego cop approached Frankie and I, and just as he opened his mouth to speak, I asked him, "So where were you people last night, when we called you?"
Hood-lidded, he responded, "What do you mean, sir?"
"Well, we had about sixty-five yahoos picketing this house last night, a herd of moral hysterics who don't like Ellen's career. They pissed off the neighbors for a few hours and finally left. Ellen called both the sheriff's and SDPD to get some law present, keep things in line, and no one ever showed up. Someone could have tried to torch Ellen's house then, and nobody could have done anything about it. Dago PD let a load of protestors invade a street, and couldn't be bothered to send a unit or two to supervise. I'd love to hear the explanation for ignoring a local resident's request for assistance."
The cop got snotty. "Actually, sir, I did drive up this street last night, in response to Ms. MacPherson's call. The street was empty and quiet, no one around."
"Uh huh," I nodded. "Tell me, what time did your shift start?"
"Nine last night. I rolled through about 9:40."
"Well, that's damn special. Ellen called around 5:30 yesterday. A response time of over four hours, and the protestors left around 8:30. What, did everyone at the substation lock the keys in their cars, and they all had to wait on AAA to come out?" I gestured towards the front window with my head. "There's a high probability that our bomb-chucker was present yesterday evening, and got the not unreasonable impression that the local law in numb from the neck up. He knew he could try to murder three people with no interference in this neighborhood. Him and his friends could have done anything they wanted, and not have to sweat the law being around."
The cop's attitude grew. "Don't critique how local law enforcement does their job, sir, that can get you in trouble. Do I tell you how to do your job?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. Plenty of people do, you should read some of my fan mail. Are you a fan of Becky Page or Skye Tyler's movies? I'm the bastard that produces them, and writes a lot of them. Ever sent a letter to Inana Productions, telling us how you could have done a better job making a particular movie?"
The cop decided to ignore me and focus on Frankie. "All right, Wyatt Earp, time to take a ride. Let's go." He began walking Frankie to the door. Frankie looked unimpressed.
I said to the cop, "We'll have a lawyer down there posting bail before you even get him in the holding cells... stupid. You're not in city limits, Cardiff is county land." The cop ignored me and walked Frankie out to a squad car.
I went to the phone and dialed Angel, quickly filling him in on the events of the morning. "So SDPD has Frankie, the same way Encinitas busted Bekka way back when. They can't get the charges to stick, they're out of jurisdiction, but I need to get Frankie bailed out ASAP."
"I'm on it," Angel said. "Mouthpiece will be at the central jail in two hours, bail money at the ready. Don't worry about meeting Mouthpiece, you stick with Ellen. I gotta make a call, ciao." (The mafia-contracted criminal lawyer who always seemed to take care of business in San Diego had the nickname of "Mouthpiece," taken from the old gangster movies: "You doity coppers! I want a mout'piece!")
Actually, I had different plans for the morning. Boss could stay with her until Ellen went to work, and she'd be protected there. I'd have Mouthpiece give Frankie a lift back up to the Oceanside studio, and the day would continue as normal from there. Me, I was going to play a hunch and head up to Costa Mesa, home of the Mesa Verde Country Club, and prowl around a bit.
The Mesa Verde Country Club is a chi-chi place, very exclusive. Membership was by invitation only, initiation fees were $50,000, with monthly dues of $240. All this for access to tennis courts, a swimming pool, an admittedly good restaurant, and of coure golf. Jesus. My own feelings were anyone who built a golf course in Southern California should be put on trial at the Hague, for crimes agains humanity. People forget that SoCal is, essentially, a desert, with little natural resources for fresh water. Southern California got its water from either the Colorado River or the eastern Sierras, imported by massive canal projects. Fresh water is a valuable resource in the area.
So having millions of gallons of it diverted to keep fucking golf courses green was, in my view, a crime against humanity. Golf itself is a pathetic joke of a "sport." It's not even a sport, it's a game, barely more physically taxing than shooting pool... And a pool table is eight by four feet. The Mesa Verde golf course is 135 acres, all of it demanding to be drenched in potable water several times a week. To me, golf is a perfect analogy for how the rich behave in this country (and others, too): a sprawling waste of resources which the general public is usually barred from, where absolutely nothing of importance or relevance will ever happen. Fuck golf, and fuck the people who play it in Southern California.
I'd gone home to let Bekka know what was going on, and switched to the Fleetwood. This would be good camouflage, no one at a country club would give an ostentatious late-model Caldillac a second glance, unless they paid attention to the driver: a thug in his mid-twenties, with spiky blue hair and a ten-gauge septum ring. My fashion sense continued on below my neck, too. Studying my Thomas Bros. book map of Orange County showed the country club bordered by Gisler Ave. to the north, the Santa Ana "river" to the west, and residential neighborhoods on the other sides. According to the street address, the entrance was off Mesa Verde Dr., to the south. But the map also showed an entrance off of Gisler, which seemed to go into the course itself and dead end. My guess was it was where the army of groundskeepers entered, where all the lawn equipment was stored.
Off the 405, down Harbor Blvd, and into Costa Mesa. For whiter whites, live in Southern Orange County. It being a weekday morning in January, the country club lot was mostly empty, it was easy to scan the whole lot just by driving up the center aisle. A brown Taurus failed to show itself. I noticed a small spur lot to one side of the main building, and also poked in there. No luck.
Back out, up Country Club Dr., and onto Gisler, headed west. I missed the service driveway on my first pass, and had to turn around where Gisler dead ends at the (*ahem*) river. Moving slowly, I spotted it and turned in. After about 150 yards, I came to the groundskeepers' compound. Some sheds, a low workshop building, riding mowers the size of a Zamboni, and seven or eight cars parked in a row. One was a brown Ford Taurus, plate number 3OJU455. It even had two bullet holes in the rear. I turned around, then backed up so I was blocking the Taurus and pointed back towards the exit. A few Mexicans idled outside, getting ready to start the day. They ignored me completely.
Walking into the workshop, I looked around. Halfway down was a chubby balding dude who had a row of weed whackers in front of him. He seemed to be putting fresh cutting twine in the heads. My approach wasn't noticed, so I stopped ten feet off and said, "Excuse me!"
He took me in and said, "May I help you? If you're looking for work, applications are available at the club office."
With wide smile, I said, "No, actually, I was hoping you could help me."
"With?"
"I need a little gasoline, maybe a gallon or so. See, I've got some strips of rag and a bunch of empty Lucky Lager bottles I want to make into Molotov cocktails... you asshole."
Chubby did a double-take on me, his eyes growing huge. Then he jumped off his stool, throwing one of the weed whackers at me. I dodged it and went after him. Running fast is hard when you're built like a beer keg. I caught up with him and grabbed his collar with my left hand, pulling the Beretta out with my right, pressing it into his flabby neck. I hissed, "Okay, boy, time to talk. Who are you?"
"D-Dennis Greer." Sweat was beading on his forehead.
"Who was at the wheel of your car this morning in Cardiff and in Oceanside?"
"His name is J-John Wilson."
"Where does Mr. Wilson live?"
"Fountain Valley, same as me."
I let go of his collar, but moved the pistol up and rested the nose against his sweaty forehead. I told him, "Okay, I can already make some educated guesses about you. You're a member of Americans for Morality in Media, you think the country is going to hell, and you haven't had a satisfying orgasm since you were twenty-four. I'm curious, though, what the fuck prompted you to go rogue? The AMM makes a lot of noise about being law-abiding, and here you are, chucking Molotov cocktails at video studios, not to mention trying to murder people in their sleep by torching their house. If Skye's bodyguard hadn't heard your car pull up, you could have easily killed Skye Tyler, her boyfriend, and her bodyguard. Is that where your morality is? Porn is bad, but immolating people in a house is okay? Dude.... What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Greer looked like he was going wobbly, so I shoved him against a work bench, allowing him to lean. I still kept the Beretta leveled at his head, though. He gobbled, "A lot of us are feeling really... angry. Fed up. Morality in Media wants Skye Tyler to stop what she's doing and start leading a good life...."
"She already does. But go on."
"Nobody thought to take a look at where her movie studio is, so the picket there was a failure, I don't think the news people even bothered to air the story. Some of the activists went to confront Ms. Tyler when she went shopping, and they botched it, they said everyone around them were heckling and jeering them, defending Skye Tyler! The press.... God, they portay us as a bunch of wackos, hateful Puritans. The usual liberal bias...."
"Oh, bullshit," I replied. "I was at Skye's house last night, and I talked to some of the news crews. You all bitch about coverage being one-sided? All three crews tried to get the AMM's side last night, and none of you would talk to them. The people you oppose are willing to talk to them, so they're the ones who have their views broadcast.
"All you yahoos did last night was galvanize all of Skye's neighbors... in her favor. Here's a wild news flash. Skye Tyler likes gardening, knitting, petting her cats, being with her boyfriend of two years, and attending her local Episcopal church on Sundays. She is on friendly terms with her neighbors, to them, Skye Tyler is the sweet, friendly young girl who baked cookies for them at Christmas. She's been open and honest with them about her career, and they're okay with it, because they can tell Skye Tyler is a genuinely good person, she just has a weird job. Her neighbors, who are hardly a band of libertines, thinks the AMM sucks for giving Skye a hard time. They know her, you people don't.
"And see, that's what has me really pissed off. No one in the AMM knows Skye Tyler, or what she's like. But the AMM thinks porn is offensive, that it somehow will destry society. Instead of taking the obvious route and just not watching porn, you people decided that if if offends you, it should offend everyone, and Skye Tyler is a public enemy for appearing in porn. So you don't like the type of performance Skye Tyler does. Again, real simple, don't watch it if you don't like it. But plenty of people do like it. This is America, Jack, you don't get to dictate to anyone how they live or how they think. You wanna live like that, move to Iran, stupid."
I slowly lowered and holster the pistol. I went on, "Mr. Greer? I'm going to extend some trust to you, and also do you a favor. I will not let the police know I've located a bomb-chucker who tried to torch a couple place in North County early this morning. What you are going to do is disinvolve yourself from any more 'direct action' aimed at Skye Tyler or Inana Productions. I'm not telling you to quit the AMM, I should not and will not dictate who you, or anyone, associates with.
"But I'm giving you a verbal restraining order. You stay away from Skye Tyler and her studio, now and forever. Find a better hobby, dude. If I see you again in San Diego County, I'm going to keep an eye on you. And if you're anywhere near Inana Productions or Skye Tyler, your life will come to a very violent end. The same goes for John Wilson. Am I clear?"
"Yes," Greer slowly nodded. Sweat was dripping from his face, onto his shirt and the floor.
"Then good morning, Mr. Greer." I turned and started heading towards the door. Then I stopped and faced him again. "By the way, the fairways here are lovely. Top job."
"Th-thank you."
Back in the Fleetwood, I headed towards Harbor Drive, watching for a restaurant. I hadn't had breakfast yet.
Comments
Post a Comment