T. Parker - Full Measure

Next he drove a squat dark pregnant girl from the Catholic church to the Fallbrook Hospital. He tried to use his limited Spanish but got nowhere. She neglected to tip him. By the look of her she’d arrived in the United States just days ago, if not hours. She said nothing but she paid Ted in U.S. dollars, carefully counted, which he assumed were given to her by the same nanny state that had taken away Mr. Hutchins’s driver’s license.

After that he took a family of four to the airport in Carlsbad and earned a ten-dollar tip, though the round-trip took nearly an hour and a half out of his workday. Back in Fallbrook he got a fill-up and a wash at the GasPro station because nothing reflected more poorly on a driver than a dirty cab. He talked briefly with Ibrahim, the manager, who had escaped Saddam’s police in Baghdad and fled to America. Ibrahim claimed to have been an oil engineer but the gas station job was as close to oil engineering as he could get for now. Ibrahim was a big man with quick eyes and he kept a Koran on the counter beneath the canned tobacco display.

Ted picked up his daily after-lunch fare, Mr. Rossie, a cheerful older man who claimed to be retired CIA. Rossie had had a stroke about a year ago, around the time Ted started driving, and he’d done physical therapy almost every day at one fifteen ever since. Rossie walked with a wide-stance quad cane and offered a nod, smile, and garbled words to almost everyone he met. Ted couldn’t figure out how much of Mr. Rossie’s mind was still good. But it was easy to figure the federal government pension and health insurance must be good indeed, because PT was one hundred and twenty-five an hour, which meant someone was coughing up $625 a week for the old spy’s rehab. Ted thought about Mayor Anders and the cartoon he’d posted of her and suddenly more cartoon ideas came swarming into his mind. He laughed softly and vowed again, in honor of Patrick, not to draw another cartoon of the good mayor.

While Rossie was in therapy Ted got a sandwich from the market and drove out to the Fallbrook Community Air park to watch the small planes take off and land. A beautiful old yellow Piper Cub that often arrived this time on Wednesdays came tilting in like a bulletin from the past. He could hear the artillery thundering out on Pendleton, which he thought of as the sound of peace. He thought of Patrick and hoped he’d be okay. He ate in the car and listened to Cruzela Storm, the new hit singer. She had grown up in San Diego. She was unbelievably good, in his opinion, with beautiful melodies and mysterious lyrics and a voice the color of honey. Ted was prone to obsessing over small noncuddly animals, certain people, music, books, TV, computers. He was about to start the CD again but remembered that he had to be waiting for Mr. Rossie at two fifteen for the ride home.

Later in the afternoon, dispatch called Ted to say he had a fare waiting outside the smoke shop in Village Oaks. When he pulled up a big Mexican kid pushed through the door and came outside. Ted noted the pomade and the killah wrap-arounds, the Raiders windbreaker, baggy black shorts, white knee-highs, and Dickies work boots. Of course, tats everywhere. The boy threw open the back door and got in and Ted felt the car rock.

“Henry?” Ted asked. “Going to Ammunition Road?”

“That’s what I told your boss.”

“I’m making sure.”

“Then make sure you take me to the liquor store first, the one by the Kyoto restaurant.”

“It’s your time.”

Ted hit the meter and watched the five-dollar pickup charge register. Henry — probably not even eighteen, Ted guessed — stared out the back window through his shades. Ted had seen him around, hanging out with the Fallbrook Kings, a street gang. The boy’s name was actually Edgar, Ted was pretty sure. Edgar had a girlfriend who dressed provocatively and often clung to him in public. Hard to miss her, thought Ted. He wondered why Edgar used a fake name just to procure a taxi ride.

He parked in front of Lucky Liquor and the big boy-man got out. Ted watched him in the sideview. With both hands stuffed into the windbreaker pockets, Edgar looked around, then warily walked into the store. He took a long time inside but Ted couldn’t see him through the tobacco and beer ads on the windows.

And, of course, another Evelyn Anders campaign poster. There was also one for her opponent, Walt Rood. Rood had a warm smile. His campaign poster said: SMALL GOVERNMENT THAT WORKS. He was an investor with a good reputation. Ted knew he was being endorsed by the Chamber of Commerce and that the Village View had called the race “a dead heat.” Still it seemed that Anders’s posters outnumbered Rood’s three to one.

Finally Edgar came out and took a hit from a half-pint of something in a dark flat bottle. The bottle glinted golden in the sunlight while he wadded and tossed the small brown bag into a trash can by the door. Ted watched him slide the bottle back into his jacket pocket and stride heavily back to the cab. The kid climbed in and slammed the door. “Ammunition,” he said again.

Ammunition Road was on the west side of town and ended at the entrance to the Naval Weapons Station on Camp Pendleton. Ted drove along the apartments where many of the Marines and their families lived. Not much to look at. The patios were littered with toys and barbecues and the drapes were almost always drawn. He could approximate the length of deployment by how neglected the yards and patios were. The military life was difficult, he knew. At eighteen, Ted had been embarrassed and angered at failing the physical for all branches of the armed services — his damned feet, of course.

“Pull into the lot and drive me down by the chain-link fence,” said Edgar. Ted pulled into the parking lot of Parkside Apartments. It was full of the muscle cars that young men like, and plenty of little tiny economy cars too. Three Marines stood beside a late-model Camaro with the hood propped open, looking down into the engine as if it was about to say something.

“This is the wrong place,” said Edgar.

“Looks wrong.”

“What’s that mean? What do you mean by that?”

Ted’s pulse rose and his breathing sped up. Anger. “This is mostly Marines, not Mexicans. We can drive around all you want, or you can just tell me where you really want to go.” By now he’d guessed that Edgar had something specific to do. Something not altogether pleasant. Thus, using a false name to reserve a cab. And the stop for liquid courage. And the bogus run to Ammunition, clearly not his turf. And his nervous mood.

“Old Stage,” said Edgar.

“That makes sense.”

“’Cause that’s where the Mexicans live? You’re full of shit and I don’t like you.”

Ted felt his vision constricting — gun barrel vision, he called it. It always came with anger. Along with the fast pulse and the rapid breathing. And with anger his hearing became acute: now he could hear the crackling tin turn of the half-pint lid, then the gulp and swallow. “You can get out here if you want,” Ted said. “But the ride is still nine dollars.”

“You take me to Old Stage or you don’t get paid.”

“Do you have the money?”

“I don’t have to show it.”

“I don’t have to take you to Old Stage, either.”

In the rearview Ted saw him brandish a wad of bills. Ted drove Fallbrook Street to Old Stage and made the right. The little houses of the barrio slid past his windows, then the Mexican shopping center with the Mercado, the taqueira, and the zapatería. On the right was the VFW Post 1924 where Ted assumed Patrick would soon be spending some time. Near the end of Old Stage, Edgar told him to make a left on Via Ventana, a small cul-de-sac rimmed by small stucco homes. There were cars parked along every inch of curb, and the driveways and garages were full of vehicles too, mostly older and American-made. Ted saw a nice lowered Impala painted candy-apple red. Four guys were in it, watching him.