J. Rain: Hail Mary

“ Please, mister. Not my boss.”

“ Fuck you, muthafucka.”

And he sped off. I watched him go, weaving through traffic, high on his own adrenaline rush. At one point, he nearly sideswiped a little Miata. He promptly flipped the bird to the driver of the Miata. Probably threw in a “muthafucka,” too.

With the excitement over, I went back to studying the bar. According to Hansen’s file, Mitch had been having a drink with two fellow activists who worked for Shark Heroes, the non-profit organization owned and operated by Mitch and Heidi. Both workers were contacted by Hansen. Both gave in-depth interviews. Both had watched Mitch Golden head to his car. Neither had seen him enter his car or leave in his car, which wasn’t surprising since his car had been found in the same parking lot the next day.

He never made it to his car, I thought.

Someone had either been waiting for him, or Mitch had entered another person’s car willingly, or forcibly.

I thought about that as I watched a heavy flow of pedestrians work their way down Second Avenue. Most of the pedestrians were young people. Most seemed drunk. All were loud.

From where I sat in my van, I could see behind Panama Joe’s. There was a small parking lot where Mitch Golden’s car had been found. Although two single lights illuminated the parking lot, it looked dark and forgotten. I suspected a surprise attack on someone would go unnoticed. Also, according to Hansen’s notes, there was no parking lot surveillance, even though a sign near the driveway entrance into the lot proclaimed there to be one. False advertising.

My cell rang. I glanced at the faceplate. The call was being forwarded from another number. My fake plumbing number.

“ Al’s Plumbing,” I said.

“ Lemme speak with fucking Al.”

“ You fucking got ’em.”

“ Good, ’cause you’ve got a real asshole working for you.”

“ We don’t like assholes here at Al’s Plumbing, where the customer’s always right, except when they’re wrong. Did you get his name?”

“ Hell, no.”

“ What did he look like?”

“ Hell if know.”

“ Did he have a sort of roguish charm, an impish smile?”

“ More like a dumb jock with a big head.”

“ Right. What was he driving?”

“ A white van that was blocking the B of A.”

“ So, there was no room to pull in behind him?”

“ Hell no.”

“ None at all?”

“ Shit, I don’t know.”

“ Would careful and considerate driving have solved your problem?”

“ Fuck that. And fuck you, too, muthafucka.”

“ Will do. Here at Al’s Plumbing, the customer always comes first.”

“ Fuck you.”

“ Tell a friend.”

“ Muthafucka.”

Fifteen minutes later, I pulled away from the curb and parked illegally again, this time directly behind the bar’s back door. I took off the “Al’s Plumbing” sign and replaced it with a “Joe’s Catering” sign.

Did he say big head?

I sighed and headed inside the bar, where the bartender was a good-looking Asian guy with spiky hair. He had a big, friendly smile, which might be why all the ladies were sitting in barstools around him.

He turned his attention from a beautiful blond who might have actually batted her eyes at him, and focused on me. As he did so, one of the women must have said something flirty that I missed, and the guy looked genuinely embarrassed.

“ What can I get you?” he asked.

Spiky here was my guy. He fit Hansen’s description in his notes to a T. Or to a spike. Sometimes, as a private investigator, you get lucky.

“ Bass Pale Ale,” I said. “And some information.”

“ What kind of information?”

I took out one of my business cards and handed it to him. As I handed him the card, he handed me a dark bottle of the good stuff. Now that’s what I call a hand-off.

“ I’m here about Mitch Golden, a customer of yours.”

“ They still haven’t found him?”

“ Not yet.”

“ Sorry to hear that.”

“ You spoke to Detective Hansen?” I asked.

“ Yeah, he came by a few days ago.”

“ You mind if I ask you what you told him?”

He shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

Actually, I knew exactly what he told him, since his statement was in Hansen’s report, but it’s always nice to corroborate a witness’s facts.

“ I told him that guy Mitch had come in for a couple of drinks with two other guys. They sat at that table over there.” He pointed to a table near the big glass window at the front of the bar.

“ Any reason why you might remember three random guys?” I asked.

“ They’re regulars, actually. I see them all the time.”

“ You told Detective Hansen you’d seen them only a few times.”

“ Same thing.”

“ Not really,” I said.

“ You see someone three or four times in my business, and they start feeling like regulars.”

Actually, I know a little something about drinking, since I happen to do a lot of it. Too much, sadly. Regulars at bars are a lot different than the casual drinker. Casual drinkers come in maybe once, twice a week with friends. Regulars get shit-faced nightly.

So, which was it?

Except that Spiky and his good-natured smile had suddenly turned a little defensive. It could have been my imagination, but his spiky hair, held in place by an unknowable amount of gel, might have quivered a little in irritation.

I didn’t want to lose Spiky, and I didn’t want his female admirers to attack my giant head with pitchforks, and so I said, “Okay, I get it. Same thing. Did you happen to notice if they met with anyone?”

“ Just the three of them.”

“ No one came up to them?”

“ Not that I remember.”

“ Were you busy that night?”

“ Sort of.”

According to the police report, it had been a quiet night. Strike two. A good witness he would not make. Bad witnesses were generally bad for a reason: they had something to hide.

I sipped on my beer. I could see the bartender’s mind working. I knew it was working because his spiky hair was shivering. I also knew he was trying to remember exactly what he had told Hansen just a few days earlier. He knew the importance of having his testimony line up.

“ How long were Mitch and his two friends here?”

“ Hard to say. An hour or two.”

An hour or two didn’t help anyone. Too big of a gap. I decided not to press him with this, as I sensed I was losing him. I wasn’t a cop. He didn’t have to answer my questions. Hell, he didn’t have to answer a cop’s questions, either, if he really wanted to play that game.

So far, he was cooperating, which was telling in itself. He knew something, but not much. So what was he hiding? Maybe nothing. Maybe he always panicked when interviewed about anything. I suspected his good looks and perfect spikes had gotten him far in life.

I asked, “Do you know if Mitch Golden was involved in drugs?”

“ What do you mean?”

“ Did he sell drugs?”

His eyes shifted slightly, and I knew I had nailed it. Strike three. His eyes came back to me quickly. “I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

He went back to the group of four or five women who looked visibly relieved to have their object of affection back. I placed a ten-dollar bill on the counter, and me and my big head left.

I was drinking an iced tea and working my way enthusiastically through a large bag of fries at a McDonald’s in Huntington Beach, waiting for the one I knew would come.

Mind you, this wasn’t an ordinary McDonald’s. Sure, it had the prerequisite two-story jungle gym, geeky cashiers, and partially masticated chicken nuggets scattered randomly throughout the store. Sure, it had the filthy mop bucket in one corner, old-timers talking over coffees, and a large, plastic Ronald McDonald display that gave even me the heebie-jeebies.