We hit it off big time. There was something genuine about him. For one thing, he cared about people, had sincere compassion for those of us who were less fortunate, but he still had a sense of justice and wanted to take down the bad guys. Couple that with a razor-sharp wit, mind-boggling intelligence, and an I don’t give a damn attitude and you had an idea who and what Sol Silverman was.
That day at lunch, I knew I’d found a friend-a friend forever. Of course, he bragged to everyone in sight how I had saved his life, pulled him to safety just seconds before his car blew up. He went on and on about my bravery. I didn’t mention that I wasn’t aware the car was about to explode. Hell, I wouldn’t have gotten near the thing if I’d thought it was about to blow up. At least, I didn’t think I would have. It’s funny, I never did find out why he was chasing that other Cadillac around South Central L.A. that night.
But all of that was over ten years ago. In the intervening decade, I watched Sol’s investigation business grow. It went from a one-man operation to being one of the largest security firms in the state with dozens of operatives and a support staff that the federal government would’ve loved to have if they had the money.
And during that same ten-year period, I had lost my job with the police force, became a drunk, and when Barbara sued for divorce, was ready to give up. But with Sol’s help, I took the AA cure and went to night law school. When I passed the bar exams, I hung out a sign: Jimmy O’Brien, Lawyer.
Ever since, when Sol and I were out somewhere having fun and there was a lot of drinking going on, someone would invariably ask why I wasn’t imbibing. And when that happened, Sol always said, “Jimmy quit. He wasn’t a drunk or anything. It’s just that when he went out for a cool one, he’d be gone for days at a time. He’d pass out, and maybe wake up in Mexico… at a dogfight.” Sol would laugh, “…in the ring on all fours, snarling at a pit bull.”
“I rarely won,” I always added.
Seven hours after pulling away from the dairy company’s loading dock, I blew through Barstow. I didn’t stop at the Bright Spot. When I turned off the highway onto the dirt road leading to the base, morning sunlight was creeping over the mountain ridge in the east, casting the wide sky in an endless expanse of burnished turquoise streaked with wispy, pink clouds. The promise of dawn, a new day.
I thought of a painting I’d once seen at the L.A. County Art Museum years ago when my mother dragged me there. It was a Monet, and the sky this morning reminded me of the one in that painting. It’s funny what you think about at a time like that, things like paintings and new beginnings, but I guess it was better than dwelling on the thugs at Rattlesnake Lake.
After an hour of kicking up spirals of dust in my wake, I drove through the rocky pass and down into the small valley. I could see the base ahead. From the distance, the base or gun club or teen drug center or whatever it was looked like a fortress. A high fence surrounded the camp with gun towers at the corners. Stanchions running the perimeter stood like giant sentries; their lights, mounted high, bathed the grounds in an eerie bluish hue. The road led directly to the main entrance. Outside the barricaded gate stood a guard shack made of solid concrete, just like a military bunker. Cut into the side was a metal door with a slit just wide enough for the guard inside to peer out as the enemy approached.
I’d been told to be there at six, but it was past 6:30 when I pulled up to the gate. I was nervous about being recognized, and drawing attention to myself by being late didn’t help matters. But I remembered what the blind hustler at the court had said: workers in uniform going about their business are not noticed. It gave me some comfort. I would just have to be cautious, that’s all. I’d keep my head down and act unobtrusive. I tugged at the bill of my milkman’s hat, shading my eyes and covering the scar on my forehead. I patted the name stitched above my left shirt pocket. We can we pull this off, Chip… can’t we?
A man in a camouflage-brown shirt wearing a fatigue hat, like the Marines wore, emerged from a steel door and moved over to my truck. Stitched above the bill of the cap, instead of the USMC emblem, was a bizarre logo. It appeared to be a snake impaled upon a cross. I had no idea what that was all about, but right then wasn’t the time to discuss it.
He had a buzz cut, a pock-marked face, and a crescent-shaped, jagged scar, a serrated scythe that ran down from under his right eye and followed the contour of his angular face: a face of hard edges that matched his hard-edged swagger. He had a sidearm holstered at his hip, and his hand rested on the butt of the gun.
I rolled down the window. Why didn’t he just open the gate and wave me through like the real driver, Roger, had said he would? I glanced in the rearview mirror: no sign of Sol’s limo.
“Hey, you.” The guard jumped up on the running board and stuck his head inside the cab, giving me the once-over. I glanced at his hands gripping the edge of the window. His knuckles were heavy with scar tissue. He had been a fighter in his day, maybe still was.
“What’s the holdup? I’m late on my route.”
“Where’s Roger?”
“Sick.”
The guard scowled. “You got a radio in this rig?”
The thump I heard was my heart dropping to my socks. Sol and his damn beeper. They nailed me, even before I got through the gate, I thought. I’d be lucky if the guy didn’t shoot me. “What radio?”
He pointed. “The one on the dashboard. What else?”
“Oh, yeah…” I felt a wave of relief. “What about it?” I leaned over and twisted the knob, turning on the truck’s AM/FM broadcast radio, a Motorola. Static came through the speakers. “Can’t get much way out here.”
“Tune in 106.7.”
“Why?” The pain in my side kicked in. Did everyone in the Mojave listen to 106.7?
“My radio inside,” he nodded toward the guard shack, “is beeping like crazy.”
I dialed in 106.7 as instructed and the beeping came through, loud. “Mine beeps, too. Must be the station,” I said and turned off the radio. “I hope it goes away by the time I leave. I want to listen to Humble Harve on the drive back.”
“It’s not the station,” he said coldly.
“What do you mean? It’s beeping on my radio, too.”
“You got a problem, buddy.” His right hand shifted from the edge of the driver’s window. Was he reaching for his gun? My back stiffened and my ribs felt like a boil on a carbuncle. I slipped my hand low, under the dash, ready to flip the panic switch.
“What kind of problem?”
“You got an FM transmitter, a tracker, planted on your vehicle.”
It took a moment for his words to register then the thought of the.45 automatic under the seat crossed my mind. I wouldn’t go for it unless he brought his gun out first.
“What are you talking about?” I tried to act dumb, but I knew the plan was over. They were on to me now. My cover was blown. I couldn’t blame Sol, though. I had brought it on myself. Why did I think no one would notice me sneaking onto the base? The thugs who attacked me had called me by name and, by now, everyone had to know about me, including the guard, the angry guy with a gun standing two feet away from me. Yet, there I was, driving through the night with the truck beeping like crazy, broadcasting a worldwide alert-hey, are the Russians coming? No, run for cover, it’s Jimmy O’Brien in a milk truck-God, was I a shmuck, or what?
“They think you’re a thief. Are you a thief, Mr. Milkman?”
What was this guy talking about? If someone warned him about me, then he knew I wasn’t here to steal anything. He’d know I was a lawyer. But, then again, maybe he couldn’t make the distinction. “A thief? I’m not a thief.”
“The beeper’s probably under the bumper, stuck on by a magnet. Your boss is tracking you. They don’t trust you.”
“Hey, I’m new. I think they do that with all the new guys.” I knew I’d just dodged a bullet-ooh, bad choice of words.