tomeubanks.com

    One year ago today, The American Writer was introduced to the blogosphere.   At the time, I was told the blog would last about three months, since that was supposedly the life-span of most blogs.  That encouraged me to make sure my blog had a long life.  

    I want to thank all the readers and Googlers out there who have been entertained, enlightened and educated by my blog for your support, comments and participation.  I've made some friends and revived friendships from long ago through these weekly writings.  The benefits and rewards of writing this blog far exceeds my expectations.  

    I'd like to thank five writers for their contributions to this blog:

                                                                    Marri Bernier
                                         Lisa Snyder
                                         Tracy A. Phillips
                                         Louis Kraft
                                         Daniel McGinley

    I look forward to 2011 in the hope that more writers will contribute their stories and essays.  I invite any writer who would like to contribute randomly or regularly to contact me at tom@tomeubanks.com and submit your work.

    Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!  Onward!  To THE PLUNGE!



                                            CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
                                                        Winkle's

4:30 p.m.

Josh Paley rapped his Harley's engine and killed it. He swung his fat leg over the seat, grunting, and waddled over to Otto's black, lime-covered Lincoln, sweat rolling down his forehead, chest heaving under his beard from the effort of moving on his own. From the Lincoln's passenger seat, Reggie tried to get Otto's attention. He wanted to get to town.

"Look what the goddamn cat drug in," Josh growled at Otto, who stood ready to get behind the wheel. Otto shaded his eyes to see who'd come from the swirl of dust.

"Josh," Otto said, offering his hand. "Long time."

"Not long enough." Josh's crooked grin made Reggie wonder if he was kidding. He shook Otto's hand, then wiped it on his jeans.

"Sorry about Chris," Otto said solemnly. "Nobody told me or I'd've been here for the funeral."

Nodding, Josh mumbled, "Like the sign says: shit happens." He tilted his head at Reggie. "Living proof."

Otto chuckled, glancing over at Reggie. "Go easy on my boy."

I'm not your boy, Reggie thought. He ignored his internal response to yank Otto out of the car and kick his butt to prove it. Instead, he put his head back against the headrest, closed his eyes, and tried blotting out their drone of conversation.

Get some answers. Or get the hell out of here. Things are standing still. When the world starts moving again, it might move against me. The police must be looking for me. If they find me here, the whole enterprize is dead. Gotta find out the name of the cop Jackie left with.

And Brenda lingered in his head, too. Packed in his brain in boxes marked "Mixed Emotions." On one hand his feelings desired to reach for her companionship–especially now–yet, on the other hand, Jackie's death hacked at the feelings with a dull knife. He achingly wondered if Brenda had told anyone about Jackie in the bathtub. Don't play the sly fox. You're better as a bull. Snorting. Kicking ass. Find a damn China shop.

Otto slithered behind the wheel of the Lincoln, winked at Reggie. Josh bent down into the window. "When you plan on getting started, shithead?"

"What about the move?" Reggie said, wishing they didn't have to talk in front of Otto.

"Can't do it. So where you goin', shithead?"

"Be civil, now," Otto said.

"Church," Reggie said flatly.

Josh scowled dubiously. He lowered his head to talk passed Otto. "You fuck up this deal, man, and–"

"Joshua," Otto said sternly. "It's okay."

"Shithead runs off every time there's work to do." He pointed back over his shoulder at I.Q. sitting sadly on the motorhome bumper looking like a little boy left behind by big brother. "Not him. He's part of the fucking team."

Reggie reached over and turned the ignition key. The engine rumbled to life. "Drive," he said.

"It's okay," Otto soothed. "Just do your part. He'll do his."

Josh stepped away from the car and spit. "We'll see." Otto acts like he knows what's going on here. Giving orders. Josh taking them.

Otto said goodby, looped the Lincoln around the Harley. I.Q. ran up to the passenger window, held on, walking beside the car.

"Let me go, Reg."

"Somebody's got to keep an eye on the lab."

"I'm sick of this place. Let me go with you–please."

"Not this time."

"If Jackie were here it wouldn't be so bad," he whined. "Why can't I go? Everybody's acting funny around here. What's going–hey!" Stumbling into a rut, he banged his head on the side of the Lincoln. "Shit!"

"Get Adams to give you those flying lessons–you'll love it! Hang in there, man. I'll be back later and we'll get cookin', all right?"

I.Q. stopped beside the road. In the side mirror, Reggie watched him fan himself to keep from breathing the Lincoln's dust.

After a few moments, Otto asked: "This cookin' you're going to do. It ain't gourmet, I take it."

Reggie hesitated. He didn't want the greedy son-of-a-bitch to get in on it, and that's what he'd try to do if he knew what was going on. If he didn't know already.

"Josh wants Ivan to cook some speed for his buddies."

"How much?"

Reggie shrugged. "Pound. Personal stash."

Otto looked at himself in the rearview mirror. "Hmm. Thought it said stupid in big letters across my face."

"Otto, look. You paid me two grand to come here and find out if Lucilva knows you helped Chris get rid of her mother. I didn't want to do it. But I'm here. You want your money back, say so."

"So far, looks like all you done is set yourself up with this other deal."

"Like I said: you want your money back, say so–otherwise, shut the hell up. And another thing: you ever call me your boy again, I'll rip your tongue out. I got everybody on my fuckin' case, I don't need you–"

The Lincoln lunged from sixty miles an hour down to zero, throwing Reggie into the dashboard, and skidded to a stop across the dirt road. Otto raised his finger like some kindergarten teacher. He didn't say anything. Reggie's rage heated his face, choked him. The pounding in his chest accelerated. He leaned back in the seat and glared across at Otto's finger.

SLOW MOTION: Arms wrap around the rat's head. One hand claws his nose; the other clutches his chin. A quick jerk. The rat's neck cracks, eyes bulge, blood runs from his pointy ears....

Softly, Otto said: "Think what you want. Say what you want. But show respect, asshole."

Reggie punched him square in the nose and calmly leaned back against the door, folding his hands in his lap, and watched the blood pour down Otto's tan silk tie.

Not one word was exchanged for the rest of the ride to town. Otto dropped Reggie off in front of the car rental office and squealed the Lincoln's tires as he sped up Second Street.

* * *

Outside the station, Joe had mentioned to Lee that he and Leah had seen Reggie and the deaf waitress together about one on Sunday morning and that he'd told Leah he was going to be checking out. Lee had informed Joe that the manager said Reggie Thomas had checked out of the Lakeshore Cabins sometime Saturday night or early Sunday morning. Lee's final words had been, "But if you scare him off I'll have to...." He hadn't finished the sentence, but Joe filled in the blank with barely a blink of worry.

Joe drove Teddi back to the Desert Inn. In the parking lot, she asked him what he was going to do next. He didn't know exactly. By now Thomas could be almost anywhere. There was something peculiar about last night at the cabin. And the cabin was close to the spot where Jackie's body was discovered. Then Leah poked her head out of her door. She had a beer in her hand. He followed Teddi upstairs.

"How'd it go?" Leah asked her as she entered the room. Teddi shook her head. Leah patted Teddi on the shoulder.

"You got the kid in there?" She nodded, sipping the beer. "You call his mother?" She nodded again. Joe stepped into the room. Robby was munching Lay's potato chips, drinking Mug Root Beer, watching a Ram's exhibition game on T.V. He didn't appear to be enjoying it. On the floor beside the bed was a pile of junk, including a gym bag, a plastic trash bag full of dirty clothes, and a snorkel still encased in its sealed package.

Teddi sat beside him, her hand on his back, lost in thought.

"Thank you for trying to help, Robby," she said. He tried to smile, but it didn't come too far. They'd told Robby about Jackie. He tried not to cry, but his boyish emotion got the best of him. He was still shaken by the news.

"Wish we'd found her before...."

"You just go home," Teddi said. "Leah and Joe will take care of it now. Your mother's worried about you. Don't ever worry your mother."

Robby looked down, nodding. Then he looked up at Joe.

"I can help, though, Mr. Cox."

"You've caused enough trouble."

Leah raised an eyebrow. Joe didn't care. He had too much to think about. Too many people to talk to. As far as Joe was concerned, Robby was a closed case. His sights were on two things: finding T.J. Kenny and tracking down Jackie's killer. That meant getting Robby out of the way. Subliminally, too, he understood that meant getting Leah out of the way, but he convinced himself it was necessary for her to take Robby back and that was the only meaningful point worth recognizing.

"I know T.J. better than anybody. I know how he thinks."

"So where the hell is he?"

"He's around."

"Once he finds out Jackie's...gone...why would he hang around?"

Robby shrugged. "He just would. He'd want to find the guy who"–he glanced at Teddi– "who did it."

"I called Mrs. Kenny, Joe," Leah said. "I let them in on what's going on. He hasn't shown up or called. Good news is, they want us to find him." Leah looked a little too happy for the situation, caught herself and added: "I told them we'd work out the financial details later."

"Really," Joe said, keeping down his enthusiasm over the prospect of making more money. He couldn't remember ever having assignments coming in such rapid, connected order as these three.

"If he sees you, he'll split," Robby said. "I can get close to him, maybe get his attention, you know, and then you can grab him or whatever you're going to do."

"I'm going to knock him up side the head, shove him in my trunk, and drive him back home."

"Where he'll walk out the back door and be gone again," Leah predicted.

"Not my problem."

Teddi stood up. "This isn't mine either. Could I use your room, Joe, to lay down?"

Joe nodded and started for the door, but Teddi insisted she could find her own way.

"Mr. Cox," Robby continued, "T.J. finishes what he starts. Jackie was the only girl who ever gave him the time of day, you know? He came here to find her and bring her back, and now that she's dead...God, I can just see him, somewhere balling his head off, talking to himself, pissed at the world. And planning his next move."

Something came to Joe for the first time. "Is he carrying a weapon?"

Robby shrugged. "Didn't see one."

"What did he bring with him?"

"Clothes, toothpaste and that kind of stuff. Sleeping bags for both of us, in case we ran out of money and had to sleep outdoors, cooking stuff–you know, for camping. He has a compass, uh...some freeze-dried food that tastes like Styrofoam–God, it was horrible."

"He intended to camp?"

"Not really. More as a back-up. T.J.'s one of those 'Be Prepared' kind of guys."

"What else?"

"A little suitcase, couple books. One was a survival guide called, uh...Walking in the Wilderness, or something like that."

Leah asked: "What was the other book?"

"Novel. I don't remember the name of it, but it's one of his favorite writers–that cop writer–Wombat."

"You mean Wambaugh?" Leah corrected.

"That's it. He reads that stuff all the time. Like I said, he wants to be a cop."

Joe's eyes fell on the pile of belongings beside the door. "Why the snorkel?"

"What?"

"The snorkel."

"I don't know. Found it in my room this morning."

"Whose is it?"

"Heck if I know. It was under the bed."

"We found it," Leah explained, "when we got his things together."

Joe couldn't believe no bells went off. Leah's face remained disinterested in the discovery.

"Anything else?" Joe pressed her.

"Like?"

"Fins. Mask. A shark cage."

"Funny," she said unamused. "No. Just the snorkel."

Joe picked it up. It was a cheap snorkel toy, something a kid used a couple times in the pool before the little plastic cage holding the tiny ball would break and render it useless.

"Is it important, Mr. Cox?"

"You see T.J. with it?"

"No, sir."

"See him with anything else for swimming?"

"No, sir."

Leah said: "Probably left there by a previous tenant of the room. It's obviously a child's toy; not something a teenage boy would use."

"Maybe that's why he left it behind." And as he said that, his finger ran along the edge of the cardboard backing that held the snorkel. It was perforated. Something had been attached to it. Something had been torn away from the snorkel package.

"This mean something?" Leah asked, then finished off her beer.

Joe let his thoughts swim for a moment, then he said: "Probably not."

Joe pulled Leah by the sleeve to get her outside and closed the door behind her. He stared at the beer can in her hand, thinking.

"What? I can't have a damn beer, for cryin' out loud?"

Joe emerged from the depths of his thoughts. "What did you tell me Reggie said yesterday when you gave him the ride? About some bar or something. Some place where he wanted to meet you."

"You mean Twinkies?"

"Yeah. You couldn't remember the name exactly–is that it? Twinkies?"

"I don't know. Maybe it was...Winkies or Blinkies–something like that. But you know what? He told me he didn't drink. So why would he want to meet me at a bar?"

Joe eyed the beer can. "Get you drunk."

"Get real."

The door opened. "So," Robby said. "Can I help out?"

Joe and Leah said in unison: "No." Leah pulled the door shut.

"Hold down the fort for awhile," Joe said.

"I hate babysitting."

"You aren't. You're...you're body guarding."

"You're out of your mind."

"Talk Teddi into going home. There's nothing she can do here. Let her sleep awhile. Maybe she can take the kid home. They seem right for each other." His better judgment surfaced with that suggestion. It meant Leah would stay in Paley. He had a lot of ground to cover; he might need her.

He slipped quietly into his own room. Teddi was asleep on his bed. He found the phone book, looked under Bars. It read, See Lounges. There were three. Two were annexed to restaurants and had names that sounded nothing like those Leah gave him. But the third was a bar on Second Street called "Winkle's."

* * *

On Second Street, tucked between a self-service car wash and a windowless, rock-faced bar called Winkle's, Reggie climbed behind the wheel of a blue Oldsmobile Calais in the front lot of Oasis Rent-A-Car. He'd decided there was too much at stake to go without transportation. With the motorhome stuck out there in the desert, he needed a way to get the hell out of town in a hurry if it became necessary.

As he drove away, passing the bar, the name hit him. He parked around the corner and wondered what he should do. When he'd wondered if that ditz Tammy was who she said she was, he'd dropped the name of the bar on her to watch her reaction, see if she was connected at all with Wallace or Quinn, but she didn't seem to know it. What if she took him up on his offer and was hanging out in there? She seemed disinterested in doing that, though. It was too early for anyone but hardcore drinkers anyway. Like his old man. No, she wouldn't be in there. But it was the place November Wallace frequented. Maybe he could find out where to find Wallace. Maybe someone could tell him who drove Wallace's pick-up Thursday night. Wallace and Quinn had something going–whether it had anything to do with Jackie's death or the grave robbing, he didn't know. But they might know something. And if Wallace knew something, he'd get it out of him. Get him drunk and he'd talk.

Sitting in the heat of the car, he felt a brain-movie coming on, but it faded. For the last couple of days, the brain-movies were shorter and less frequent. He wondered what it meant. Was he losing his creative mind? Temporary thing maybe. Once he got back to his own life, they'd return in living color. He missed those minutes in the day when he'd slide off into some cutting room in his mind and clip away at scenes of his life that he could put on celluloid one day. It would happen. He couldn't live like this for very long. For now, he'd have to be someone he was not.

He stepped into the cool, gloomy place. He hated bars. Nothing about them appealed to him. Came from canvassing the Sepulveda Boulevard bars in the Valley for his father and dragging his drunk ass home. Teenagers shouldn't have to do that.

There was a crack of billiard balls on the break. Three old men in work clothes played pool, quarters lined up on the rail like a silver centipede. The smoke in the room was thick enough to feel on his face, but he made out the shape of a man sitting in the back in the dark watching the pool shooters. Two women, whose ages were invisible in the dark, sat at the bar talking to the bartender. The bartender was a scruffy man of about fifty. A silver lock of hair hung into his eyes, his mouth was the size of a dime, and his nose resembled a used eraser. The jukebox played something country. Reggie inspected the song list, using the time to check the place out before coming to the bar. No one seemed to give him a second look.

To hell with caution, the bull snorted from deep inside him. They're a bunch of damn drunks–hick-drunks at that. I haven't done nothing wrong–yet. The dope isn't cooked–yet. The bartender snapped a red cloth and wiped down the counter as Reggie took a seat two stools down from the women, who sipped draft beer and argued. The bartender tossed the hair from his eyes.

"Whaddaya have?" he said, barely moving his lips, reaching under the counter. He set down a cocktail napkin in front of Reggie. The ladies, both drawing on their cigarettes, looked his way, then returned to their discussion.

"Michelob."

The older woman tapped the ash in the ashtray and said:

"Not appropriate? Shit, darling, he started the whole damn place. What's a little statue hurt?"

The younger woman shook her head, wagging her long black hair across her shoulders. "He was a creep. A little Hitler, for Pete’s sake, and would you raise a monument to that bastard? No."

"Apples and oranges," the older customer responded, gesturing with her hands as if she were juggling.

"You know damn well who's gonna pay for the damn thing, don't you? Us."

The bartender set the frosty draft beer in front of Reggie. "Buck-fifty." Reggie laid a five on the counter. The bartender tapped it and went back to the women.

"Hey, Wink," the older woman said, "what do you think?"

"Waste of money, waste of space."

So the bartender was the man Reggie wanted to speak to. But Reggie had grabbed onto the gist of the conversation. It sounded like they were talking about Chris Paley. He'd found his China shop.

"What statue?" he asked off-handedly.

The younger woman leaned back on her stool to check him out. "Know the mayor?"

"The dead one?"

"That's him."

"Somebody up at city hall," Winkle said, "got the dumb-ass idea that the town should foot the bill for some kind of monument in his honor. Want to put it right in the middle of the park."

Reggie nodded passively. "What's wrong with that?"

"Where you from?" he asked.

"L. A."

The woman rolled their eyes at Winkle. The younger said:

"Kind of early."

"Miss the crowds," Reggie said. "Thought I'd come out and see how my old buddy November was doing."

The bartender's eyes narrowed. "You a friend of Wallace?"

"Not really. He was kind enough to let me borrow his pick-up last year when my car blew up."

"That old drunk," the older woman said without further explanation.

"Yeah," Reggie continued, "Wednesday I saw his pick-up going down the main drag, but he wasn't driving it."

The bull shakes his horns. The China rattles but doesn't fall.

"Everybody drives that old piece of shit," the older woman commented, stubbing out her cigarette. The song on the jukebox ended. She got up and went to it.

"Know how I can find him? Last time I found him in here."

Winkle's lip curled back. "Eighty-sixed him. Knows I'll kick his butt out the door if he shows his face."

The bull lowers his head, points his horns at a stack of China.

"Heard," Reggie said. "Man likes to put his hand in places that he shouldn't."

Winkle's lip uncurled. He glanced at the woman for her reaction. Reggie did, too, but she hadn't a clue that he was talking about Wallace putting his hand up Winkle's wife's dress. Winkle moved down the bar and leaned over the counter at Reggie. His breath smelled like Binaca. "How do you know that, fella?"

"Wallace."

"Then why you coming in here to find him?"

Reggie smiled. "I thought maybe you changed your mind. And, besides, he owes me money."

Winkle snorted and stepped back. "You and everybody. Good luck, fella."

"Where's he live?"

Winkle hesitated then answered, "Over on Gratzke. Corner house across from the mini-mart. House needs paint, yard needs...a miracle. Can't miss it. If you see him, kick his butt for me."

"Fill my glass," Reggie said, "and I'll be happy to."

Another country tune came on the jukebox.

"Give him a whack for me, too," the older woman said, sitting on her stool. The younger woman cackled.

Winkle filled Reggie's glass. "You said you saw him Wednesday night?" he asked.

"Saw his pick-up."

Winkle thought a moment. "There was another fella in here on Wednesday–in the afternoon–looking for him."

The older woman picked up a newspaper from the counter and thumbed through it. The younger woman swiveled around to watch the pool players.

"Did you know him?" Reggie asked.

Winkle stuck out his lower lip, shook his head and threw back the hair from his eyes. "Young fella. Good looking. Joann, you saw him, didn't you?"

"Who?"

"Wednesday. The fella looking for November."

A drunken smile rolled her lips back. "What about him?"

"Who was he? Ever seen him?"

"Yeah. A doll. Seen him around. Don't know his name. Looked familiar–can't place where I've seen him, but seems I've seen him around town last few weeks."

"Notice what he drove?"

Winkle took a real interest in Reggie's question and studied his face. "You sound more interested in this fella than you do November." He looked hard at Reggie. "You know...I've seen you somewhere before. Where do I know you from?"

"Your dreams?" Reggie quipped, already feeling the second beer.

Winkle pointed at Reggie's face. He suddenly snatched the paper out of the woman's hand, checked a section and pointed to something on the page. "Your name Reggie Thomas?" Reggie shook his head. The bartender ducked under the bar, came up with a stack of old papers. Reggie knew where this was going. Time for the bull to exit the China shop. He stood up.

"Thanks," he said.

Winkle frantically threw pages open. Reggie nodded to the women at the bar, but they were busy watching Winkle. Reggie pushed open the door, squinting against the glare of the sun. From inside the bar, Winkle shouted:

"Here it is! Damn! It's him! There's his picture in Friday's paper! He's the fella they're looking for who killed that girl!"