“Not local and no pull here as far as we can tell. We’d like him to reconsider taking the case.”
“Uh huh. And how do you suppose I convince him?”
“However you choose. As usual, I have no interest in your methods, just that you get it done. But don’t kill him. We don’t need any more attention than this is already getting.”
“And where might we find this feller?”
“I had someone tail him. He’s staying at Mel Feeney’s place on Eighteenth Street, room seven. Same motel the boy was at. Once we’ve got him out of town, we can steer a lawyer we know the boy’s way, a pro bono gesture of goodwill. Even the dumbest judge can’t help but convict him if we’re running his defense.”
“Okay then. A good scare it is,” Michelsen said.
“Let me know when it’s done and he’s gone.”
The call dropped.
“Jonah, Terry!” he yelled to the remaining card players. “Grab Diego and head on over to Feeney’s. There’s a feller in room seven, name of Bob Richmond. You go on down, give him a lesson, let him know what happens to fellers what get up in our business, you hear? But… don’t break nothing. We want him scared, not running to Five-O.”
Not that it bothered him too much if they got it wrong and beat the man to death. The real problem had been Hap Singh, not the kid they’d framed. And Hap Singh was dead.
Old news. And once the kid goes down for it, a shitload more money. Maybe get me a pad in Palm Springs, like Liberace. Get me a proper Boy Toy and a diamond-studded piano. Move on up in this world.
9
Sharmila provided a list of names, people her father had spoken with about the trailer park project. It was mercifully short, Bob noted as he parked the Buick in front of his motel room door.
He got out.
“Everything go okay?”
He looked right. Mel Feeney, the motel owner, was sitting in a rocking chair on the narrow porch, just ahead of the rooms and door to the main office. His face was heavily tanned, creased from years of sun damage. He wore a brown cowboy hat, a black leather vest over his denim shirt, and held a pipe in one hand and a book in the other.
“About as expected,” Bob said. “Thank you again for being so nice to Marcus since he’s been here. He mentioned you helped him get settled.”
“Uh huh… My wife’s passed sixteen years now, so I do have some time on my hands, and our kids… well, I’m getting on, so they’re long gone. Nice to be of some help. And he’s a fine kid.”
“That he is.”
“You find the police station okay?”
“Yeah, hard to miss. They were about as glad to see me as you’d expect.”
“Uh huh.” Feeney chuckled. “You’ll find Bakersfield’s sort of all of one and none of the other; by which I mean, they either love or they hate you, but either way, eventually you’re going to find out how they feel.”
“Yeah… about that, I get a lot of bleak messaging here, like being adjacent to a desert has sort of imprinted this whole stark vibe.”
Feeney looked uncertain. “Yeah… I mean, I guess. When life’s feast or famine, a whole lot of differing narratives spring up. I lived here my whole life, wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. Mind, I’ve always been healthy, had good parents, never lacked for work or things to do. And most of my years were before it grew so darn big, got so polluted. Lot of folks here, they don’t have it so good. But if you’re doing okay, working hard, making a buck… well, then Bakersfield is a fine community.”
“But with plenty of issues.”
“Son, I am seventy-two years old. If I spent my entire life just focusing on raising and solving problems, I would be one miserable sonuvabitch. Change comes real slow, and will take longer than I got. So, I take the good and bad, and there’s a lot of good here too: a great American tradition of country music, and rodeo, of wide-open spaces, of outdoor life and great food. Of family, and faith and looking out for each other.”
Bob understood. He’d just never felt it, that level of dedication to a singular place, a geographic home. And the closest he’d come to family after the deaths of his mother and Maggie had been with his units in the Marines, and with Team Seven.
The closest I had to family was a group of trained killers.
“Still…” Feeney continued. “Can’t say I like the idea of Marcus in the stir for any length of time. Meth is big business here and tweakers are unpredictable.”
Marcus.
And Dawn.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Bob. What did Dawn always say? You make your own family, right? But only if you treat them as such, and appreciate what you have.
“And that’s why I’m going to make sure he doesn’t spend much time there,” Bob said.
To their right, twin headlights swung across the narrow parking lot. A truck squealed to a halt, the back end sliding, fishtailing slightly, Kid Rock blaring from the cab, a country rock tune mangling the melody to “Werewolves of London.”
Or possibly “Sweet Home Alabama.” Bob wasn’t sure which.
Who’s this, now? “Friends of yours, Mel?” he suggested, as three men climbed out of the cab. They held beer cans and were laughing and hollering.
“I expect not,” Mel said. He leaned forward in his chair. “I best get my Remington from the office, just in case.”
Bob waved him off. “No… don’t worry about that. If they’re here for me…”
“You’re presently our only guest, and I’m pretty darn sure they ain’t here for me.”
“I’ll try and defuse this as politely as possible.”
