Т Паркер - The Last Good Guy

I half read and half watched. Saw headlights on the cathedral parking lot asphalt, then the silver SNR Security vehicle, with Adam Revell barely visible behind the heavily smoked window.

I was surprised when he didn’t backtrack down to the coast but headed east on Del Dios and onto I-15.

South to Santee, where he stopped for gas. I adjusted to the idea of a long night. I watched him from a competing station across the intersection, topping off my own main tank, an oversized thirty gallon. While the pump pumped, I got into the big toolbox bolted to the bed of my truck and claimed my night-vision binoculars, my holstered .45, and a small cooler stocked with jerky, candy, and drinks. Kept an eye on Revell. Set my provisions on the passenger seat.

Then off to I-8 East, which winds through the rough mountains and scorching desert and Imperial County farmland, tight to the Mexican border, then up almost to Tucson, where it joins I-10 for its long run to the Atlantic.

I varied my lanes and distance from the SUV, used the I-8 traffic for cover. Plenty of cars and tractor-trailers for that, even as we dropped down from the cool of the mountains to the September heat of the Imperial Valley and the dashboard clock hit midnight. Eighty-one in Ocotillo.

Onward to Coyote Wells, Plaster City, and Dixieland. Seeley and El Centro. Just past Buena Vista, the SUV got off at Rattlesnake Road and I had to slow way down as I came to the ramp and followed him off. He California-stopped at Rattlesnake, swinging left, which would take him through Buena Vista. I went right and continued on, his dust rising in my mirrors. I saw him make a right onto what looked like a dirt road, unlit, then disappear.

I made a slow U-turn and crept back along Rattlesnake, through tiny sleepy Buena Vista — part of it in California and the other part in Mexico, with a twenty-foot-high steel wall to prove it. The gas station was closed. The convenience store open. A restaurant and a bar and signs for the post office and library. Houses scattered back in the dark, low hills.

The dirt road was wide and well graded. I cut my lights and used the nearly full moon, clear as a bulb in the north. Revell’s dusty taillights shimmered far ahead. Headlights sprayed left and right in his turns. The shadows of creosote and ocotillo, leaning away from the moonbeams. Narrow dirt roads, one marked by a pile of rocks and another by a tire half buried in the sand. No signs, no mailboxes.

A trickle of nerves. Because there is no backup for PIs. No one to help you but you. No partners or departments, no cavalry to bugle in. You have your wit and skills, a phone that may or may not be in range, binoculars, a gun if you’re licensed to carry one. Maybe a little cooler of food and drinks for those long hours on watch. Maybe even some luck. I believe in luck.

The road narrowed and got rougher. From the top of a slight rise I could see that the SUV had stopped, and the driver’s door stood open. I glassed the low-beamed silhouette of a man dragging open a rickety barbed-wire-and-scrap-wood gate. A moment later he drove past it, then came back and escorted the wobbly gate back to its rustic post. Dropped a loop of chain over it. A breeze swirled around the SUV and it was gone.

The next gate was nothing like the first. Far ahead, bathed in the floods from a tall metal stanchion, the gliding wall of steel poles looked ten feet high. When it closed I saw the security guard accelerating away. And the metallic glimmer of two chain-link fences running in opposite directions as far as my night-vision glasses could follow.

The sign on the gate showed a fruit-heavy palm tree against a pale background. Beneath the fronds, heavy dark letters declared:

I sat tight. Watched the taillights rise and fall and grow smaller. It was twelve fifty-five. One minute later the gate lights went off. I gave the scene another good long look with my night glasses, saw no way in except through the gate, which I doubted would open to welcome the curious PI Ford.

Which meant you jumped the fence. I glassed it with an eye for electrical or razor wire. No and no. Ten feet was ten feet, but I could do it. There was a chance of my truck getting broken into by the time I got back. More practically, I tried to guess how far I would have to walk. All I had to go on was a low ridgeline that looked to be less than half a mile away. Over which the SUV had passed less than a minute ago. And from behind which shone soft light.

I lowered the glasses and thought about my first professional boxing match, Trump 29 Casino in Coachella, 2005. It was less than a year after Fallujah. Back then I was Roland “Rolling Thunder” Ford, a United States Marine Corps vet, weighing in at 210 out of San Diego, California. My opponent was Darien “Demolition” Dixon, a veteran not of war but of the ring.

I knew before the first round was over that I was outmatched. But when he knocked me down in the ninth, I refused to surrender. I got myself off the canvas and nodded to the ref and commanded my legs to move, and Darien promptly knocked me unconscious. I still remember seeing my mouthpiece sailing out through the lights. Next thing I knew I was on my stool, dazed in a not unpleasant way, seeing myself from the outside at the same time I was looking out at the crowd. I was learning something I’d never learned as a college student or a Marine: defeat. In that moment I became mortal. I’ve fought again since then, but never in the ring.

So my question is: Is it better to fight a fight you can’t win or to give up and take the loss so you can fight again?

I found a stand of tangled greasewoods to watch over my truck. Spooked an owl that fell into flight when I opened the door. Worked the paddle holster into place inside my waistband, pushed the gun in snug, and snapped the strap. I loaded a small backpack with the binoculars, a compact thirty-five-millimeter camera with a great zoom, and a bottle of water. Pulled on some gloves. Chugged an energy drink from the cooler, locked up, and deployed.

The desert floor was flat, the sand packed hard for stretches, then softly rippled in the dunes. Lumps of creosote and brittle bush and scattered stands of mallow. A hundred yards away from the gate I climbed the fence, gloves a blessing but boots treacherous on the chain. Felt exposed as a moth on a wall. Easier going down.

A straight trot toward the ridgeline. Light good enough to see the rocks and dips and cacti. A breeze kicked up. Between the intermittent gusts I heard the far-off sound of a beehive, which reminded me that bees are commercially raised in the Imperial Valley but reminded me of other things, too.

Took me just fifteen minutes to make the ridgeline. Closer, but steeper than I’d guessed. The soft glow still came from beyond it. When I reached the top I took a knee, breathing deep and steady. Looked out at the date palms — acres of them — tall and droop-topped and elegant in the moonlight. Spacious rows for easy harvest. Medjools. I knew them from Iraq.

In the middle of the palms was an agricultural compound that looked more Mexican or Middle Eastern than Southern Californian. Low-slung, boxy buildings in a loose circle around a packed-dirt campus. Built decades ago for the heat. The main house was a white two-story stack of rectangles, large and sprawling and flat-roofed. It looked added-onto over time. There was a packing house and a large corrugated metal hangar from which floodlights blanched the grounds in bright, buggy light. And a stately red barn with white trim, American-style. Three long bunkhouses stood on one side of the barn, facing one another in a horseshoe. On the other side stretched a row of eight squat cottages — white plaster, flat roofs, and hard edges. Various metal sheds for equipment and tools. A helipad.