Jeff Sherratt - The Brimstone Murders

“Yeah?” I said. “When James Bond rescued Ursula Andress from Dr. No, he didn’t give a damn about spilling a little wine.”

“Hey, buddy, you ain’t no Ursula Andress,” he said, and we all laughed. We laughed real hard, and the laughter helped the pain go away.

The long thin stretch ofconcrete spooled out in front of us as we drove through the sun-baked desert heading back to Downey. The Deacon patched my gunshot wound using a serious first aid kit, which I figured was de rigueur on all spy limos. I declined the proffered shot of morphine.

I quickly took Sol through my ordeal and described the base layout, the bunkhouse, the maze of locked cubicles, and how Jane had helped in my escape effort. I also told him what she’d said about the kids being kept locked in their rooms at night and about Robbie not being on the base, that they’d taken him away. We agreed that we were back at square one when it came to finding Robbie, but now we knew for sure that Moran was the head honcho at the Rattlesnake Lake base and was heavily involved in exploiting vulnerable teenagers. We figured he worked with unsuspecting church groups that sent the troubled or abandoned kids to his so-called “Christian redemption center.” His motives for this escaped us, but we knew his intentions regarding the teens were more than just saving their souls.

Neither of us mentioned what a huge failure the day had been.

I glanced at Sol, who sat quietly with a chilled gin martini in his hand. “Sol, this whole affair borders on the absurd. A religious nut in cahoots with a gang of neo-Nazi thugs imprisoning teenaged kids in the middle of the Mojave Desert.”

“Aw, Jimmy,” he said, and took a small sip of his drink. “Realism and absurdity are often similar in the lives of overzealous true believers, but Moran is more than that. He’s a smart son-of-a-bitch, and he’s got some kind of scheme working. But now we’ve forced his hand. Moran is not going to sit on his ass while you run around looking for Robbie. He’s gonna act. You can bet on it. We’ve gotta come up with a new approach.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t worry about it, my boy. We’ll think of something.”

I thought about the dairy truck still backed up to the dock, riddled with bullets. “Van Hoek is going to be pissed,” I said.

“Who gives a damn about the truck? Van Hoek will send somebody to get it.” Sol paused, then added ominously, “But I am concerned about the gun.”

“Steve at Mathew’s Gun Shop always gave me a good deal when I was a cop. I’ll get you a new one.”

“Damn it, that’s not the point. The bad guys have the gun now. It’s not registered, can’t be traced, but I’m trying to remember if you handled it.”

I stared out the window, silently watching the Joshua Trees that grew by the thousands out on the bleak wasteland drifting by. The Mormons named the species Joshua because they thought the cactus mimicked the Old Testament prophet waving them, with upraised branches, on toward the Promised Land. They gestured at me now, but they weren’t guiding me to any Promised Land. They waved and laughed. You’re an idiot, Jimmy. First that ridiculous milkman routine and now the gun with your fingerprints all over it. Shimmering in the desert heat, a vivid image formed. Ben Moran came to life holding Sol’s.45 by the trigger guard. I knew for a fact I hadn’t seen or heard the last of him or the last of the gun that he’d dropped into the pocket of his bib overalls.

Earlier, as the Deacon tended my wounds, Sol had insisted that when we get back to Downey he was going to have a doctor check me out. I told him I’d be fine, that I was tired of doctors. I just needed some rest.

“No way,” he said. “Forget about the bruises, but the bullet wound… you could get an infection. I would’ve stopped at the emergency room in Barstow, but the doc there would have reported it to the police, and from what you tell me, the chief is involved up to his fat ass with Moran and the Rattlesnake Gun and Torture Club.” He paused, lit a cigar, and continued: “I’m taking you to my guy, a doc who owes me. He won’t report a thing.”

“Sol, maybe it’s time we turn it all over to the state police,” I said.

“Are you crazy? You’re still not off the hook for Hazel Farris’ murder. Nobody would believe you. Besides what do we have? The FBI cleared the gun club. It would be your word against the chief of police. And besides, how long do you think Jane would live if the word got out about a police investigation? Let’s wait until we have absolute proof. Then somehow we’ll take them down.”

“I see your point. But what are we going to do?”

“We’ll figure it out later. After you’ve rested, after the doc gets through with you.”

“What kind of doc is this guy, anyway?” I asked.

“He’s good,” Sol said. “He’s got penicillin and everything,”

“Sol, what kind of doctor is he?”

“A vet. So what? If he can stitch up a snarling Rottweiler, he ought to be able to handle you. Do me a favor, though.”

“Yeah, I know. Don’t bite the guy.”

It wasn’t long before we arrived at Doc Tully’s Animal Clinic in Pico Rivera. I stripped out of the bloodstained milkman uniform, put on one of the doc’s lab coats, and sat on a stainless steel table holding my arm above my head while the doc finished his Frankenstein stitch job.

When Tully was through, he gave me a handful of pink pills that looked as if they could choke a horse. Maybe they could, but he explained how I was supposed to break them up and take a quarter of one every six hours. I put the pills in my pocket. I’d take the first dose after I had my oats.

By the time we left his office, I was starting to feel weak again. I wondered if I’d ever get out of this mess. But all I wanted at that moment was to get to my apartment and ask Rita to bring me some of Foxy’s wonderful, therapeutic chicken soup.

The Deacon and Cubby practically carried me back to the limo. Sol was talking on his mobile radiophone when Cubby opened the passenger door and I slid into the back seat.

Sol said, “Ten-four,” and cradled the receiver. He turned to me. “Jimmy, we’re taking you to a safe house. Don’t argue, because it won’t do any good. I don’t want to take any chances. No telling about Moran and his goons.”

I was too beat to argue. I didn’t care where he took me. All I wanted was to eat some soup and lie down. “Okay, Sol.” I glanced at my watch: just after four in the afternoon. Rita would still be at the office. She could bring the soup to the safe house.

“Sol, can you get my office on the horn, please?”

He didn’t respond. Cubby started the car and we drove out of the parking lot, heading south on Rosemead.

“Sol, I’ve gotta call the office. I want to talk to Rita.”

He just glanced at the floor of the limo. “Don’t push it, Jimmy.” My pulse quickened. “Sol, something is wrong!”

“Calm down, my boy, it’s nothing like that.”

“What’s the matter? Damn it , Sol, I’m talking to you.”

“Don’t get hot. Rita’s a trifle upset, that’s all.” A crooked grin appeared on his face. “You know how women can get.”

“What do you mean a trifle upset?”

“Well, Mabel said she just quit. She doesn’t want to have anything to do with you.”

“What the hell?”

“She said she can’t be your lawyer anymore. Can’t trust you. Mabel told her you got a little worked over out at the base.”

“Goddammit, how’d Mabel know?”

He shrugged. “Ah, well, I might have said something.” Then he perked up. “Hey, you want I should get Morty to take your case?”