Might as well check it out, long as you're already here. Park a hundred yards below the joint, behind a clump of chaparral that hides your car from the house, and walk up. The air is cooler, cleaner here than downtown. A balmy breeze, perhaps a harbinger of the Santa Anas, ruffles your hair.
A light burns in a downstairs window. The door to the screened-in front porch is locked when you try it. Heavy-metal music thumps inside. Somebody lives here. Wixom?
Cat-foot it around the side of the house. In the driveway sits an old beat-up dark Ford. Jot down the make and license plate number on the back of somebody's business card from your wallet, just in case. Might be worth extra cash to you.
At one of the side windows on the first floor is a half-inch gap between the shade and the bottom of the sill. Put an eye to it.
Living room. A detergent commercial plays on a silent TV set in one corner. In the middle of the room is a scarred coffee table piled high with newspapers, empty takeout food containers and Corona beer bottles. An arm's length away is the back of an overstuffed chair. A hand with a lit filtered cigarette stuck between the first two fingers appears on the armrest of the chair, goes away again, followed by a cloud of exhaled smoke.
Hike around back. The veneer of the door here is peeling away in strips. Knock.
After a minute, a yellow bug light comes on overhead. The door opens a few inches, letting out loud, so-called music. In the lemony glow of the bulb, the man peering out seems the right age, the right height, his hair dark and shaggy. His eyes narrow to slits, sweep you up and down. "Who're you?" There is surprise in his voice.
"Brent Wixom?"
The space between door and frame widens. He's wearing tank top and cutoffs. There's a dime-sized brown spot, like a drop of chocolate, where his neck meets the black mat of chest hair. "What if I am? How'd you find me?"
Moments like this, when you finally corner a slippery debtor, make the job worth it.
"Well, Brent," you say, voice rich with satisfaction, "I've brought you something." Reach for the paper in your breast pocket.
His star-tattooed hand comes out from behind the door. "No, you don't!" he yells, pointing a finger at you.
A finger that gleams.
A finger with a hole in the end of it.
A finger that roars and catches fire.
You jackknife away but something slams you in the gut, lets the air out, and collapses you like a punctured balloon. Drop in a heap at his feet, clutching yourself, trying to hold back thick, warm liquid seeping between your fingers.
Wixom stands over you, the gun aimed at your head. The bore looks big as a tunnel. "How you like that, jerk?" he sneers. "Thought you'd just waltz in and blast me, didn't you? Thought I wouldn't fight back, that I'd rabbit again, huh? Well, I'm through running. Gonna go to the cops, tell 'em what I know. What you think of that?"
What the hell is he yapping about? you wonder vaguely, drowning in a sea of pain.
He kicks you lightly in the thigh with the toe of a sneaker. "S'matter, big man, got nothing to say? You honchos always think you're tough. Don't look so tough now."
You want to tell him he's made a terrible mistake, that you're just a harmless process server, but you don't have the wind for it. Fumble with a bloody hand for the paper in your pocket.
"Don't try it." He jams the warm muzzle of the pistol against your temple and bends to slap your hand away. "I'll take the piece."
Feeling in your coat, Wixom finds nothing but the summons. He pats you down, then unfolds the paper with his name on the front, reads it, frowning, with frequent glances to make sure you don't pull anything.
When he lowers the document, his eyes are two bleak holes in a white mask. "This is all you came to see me about?" Doubt shreds his voice. "You're here to give me a crummy summons?" He leans, peers into your face. "You mean Andy didn't send you out to shut me up?"
You manage small nods and head shakes in response to his questions, trying not to moan in agony.
"Christ." Wixom runs shaky fingers through his hair. "I shot a damn process server. Now I'm really in trouble."
His eyes wander away and his body follows. "They put me in the lockup for this," he says to the side of the house, "I'm in deep tapioca. Be a sitting duck for Andy's boys. They'll pop me for sure." He bangs the butt of the gun against the faded clapboards and paint chips fly.
You try to say, "Help me." It comes out a ragged whisper.
Wixom walks back, the gun hanging loose in his fist. "Sorry, pal." He pats your shoulder in sympathy. "You might not think so now, but I got worse troubles than you. Got to get gone or I'm dead meat. But I'll call for an ambulance before I go. Honest." He jams the gun in the waistband of his cutoffs, gives a twisted smile. "So long, guy. Good luck. Hope you pull through. I really mean it."
Wixom stuffs the crumpled summons in his jeans and runs back into the house. A few minutes later, he charges out the back door, cheap suitcase in one hand. "I called 911," he says breathlessly. "Said they'd be right out. Hang on."
He disappears around the corner of the house. A minute later, the car starts and screeches away.
Pull yourself into sitting position, press your hanky to the wound. The slug has passed clean through at a shallow angle, giving you two new navels. It's messy. Hurts like hell. Doesn't feel fatal.
Insurance will pick up the tab on the repair job.
Worker's Comp will pay for the time you're laid up.
And Stein & Fleisch will shell out for another suit to replace the one Wixom ruined.
You'll come out okay. But Wixom's slipped away again. Damn!
"Better run, jerk, fast and far," you call feebly, raising a red-stained middle finger towards taillights receding over a distant hill.
Whoever else is after him may give up after awhile. But you won't. And the lawyers? Never!
For something to do before the medics arrive, something to take your mind off the fire in your side, fill in the form attached to your copy of Wixom's summons--he took the paper, didn't he?
The crimson fingerprints are a nice touch.
Don't forget to add the make of Wixom's car and his license plate number, too, because those are worth a bonus.
When you hear the wail of a siren, coming closer, stick the paper away, put your thoughts on hold of turning this incident into a Movie of the Week script, and tote up the day's earnings in your mind.
Counting Wixom, over four hundred bucks. Plus mileage.
All things considered, not a bad day. Not a bad day at all.