Halfway home, I vomited out the window of my car. The pain in my head almost closed my eyes, and I had a hard time steering the car in a straight line. Every breath felt like a left hook to the ribs. I rubbed my hand over my temple and felt a mushy lump. A hematoma. Probably a concussion. A couple miles from home, I made a right instead of a left onto Genesee and headed for Scripps Memorial Hospital in La Jolla.
It was a quiet night in the emergency room. No one was moaning, and I was the only one bleeding and walking sideways. After filling out forms and waiting forty-five minutes, a doctor finally stitched me up, iced me down, and delicately probed my ribs.
Concussion. Bruised ribs. Seven stitches.
Treatment: a lot of ice, Tylenol, and an alarm clock to wake me every couple hours.
The doctor insisted I shouldn’t drive, so the nurse called Kim, an ex-girlfriend, to come pick me up. She was waiting for me when I came out from my curtained-stall consultation with the doctor. She wore jeans and a sweater that only hinted at the curvy, athletic body beneath. Her green eyes and mouth made “Ohs” when she saw me. Not the good kind. I thought I was doing just fine, but I couldn’t seem to keep my hand off the wall as I walked.
“Rick!” She hurried over and wrapped an arm around my back and got her shoulder underneath my armpit. “My God! What happened to you?”
My groan stopped her. My stitched forehead was visible. My ribs were not.
“I’m sorry!” She backed away from me like I was a quail egg teetering on the edge of a nest. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Most women never do.
“How can I help?” Her hands were open at her side, palms outward like she was defending against a bounce pass or waiting to catch me when I fell out of the nest.
“Other side would be great.”
She delicately assumed her earlier position, now on my right side.
“What happened, Ricky?”
“Short story.” I let her take some of my weight and it felt good. “I’ll tell you later. Sorry you had to come pick me up.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
We shuffled outside and Kim leaned me up against a “No Parking” sign and went to get her car. She drove up in a BMW 335i convertible. On warm days when she dropped the top and let her blond hair fly in the wind, she looked like just another beautiful daughter of privilege. That is, until you looked a bit closer and saw the intelligent gleam in her eyes. I slid into the leather seat and my ribs hurt. But not as much as if I had sat down onto my own car’s seat.
When I first met Kim five years ago, she’d been a bartender at night and learned the real estate biz during the day. She’d learned well and now sold homes in La Jolla. Even in a down market, the leased Beemer hadn’t been an extravagance. Easier to sell homes when you look like you belong in the neighborhood. And now, with her success, she did. Much more so than on the arm of a restaurant manager, where she’d been until I broke her heart.
The first time.
But that had been three years ago and she had rebounded well. Dating the top realtor in La Jolla. He smiled at me from bus stop benches all over town. A grin saved just for me. “You screwed up, pal.” I couldn’t argue.
“Take the 5 south.”
“I know the way to your house.” She patted my hand. “I was your real estate agent. That concussion must be really bad.”
“We’re not going home yet.”
“Why?” Her voice rose in concern. “Where are we going?”
“To talk to a wannabe Rastafarian.”
On the drive over to Fellows’ house, I told Kim only that I’d been on a case and had been jumped outside a bar. Not what bar. Not what kind of case. Not that I’d had a gun barrel stuck in my eye. I trusted Kim with my life, but clients trusted my discretion. Besides, I didn’t want to make her worry even more.
We circled Fellows’ street and ended up back in front of the house he lived behind. No motorcycles in sight. I had to find out if Fellows had set me up. And, if not, I needed to know who the “he” the bikers thought had sent me was.
“Just drop me a couple houses up and park where you can find a space.” I pulled the bag of ice the nurse had given me from my head and dropped it onto the car floor. “Wait in the car. I won’t be long.”
“You should be home in bed. Can’t this wait a few days until you’re better?”
“Five minutes, tops.” I held up my hands.
I slow-motioned out of the car. Walking had been easier with Kim under my arm. The vise squeezing my head cinched down another notch. My ribs throbbed with each wobbled step.
Maybe I should have listened to Kim.
I made it back to Fellows’ cottage. His bicycle was still out front. No motorcycles. I crept to the door and put my ear to it. The murmur of a TV, nothing else. I took a deep breath that hurt like hell and knocked on the door.
Fellows didn’t have a peephole, so I’d get a chance to read him when he opened the door.
Muffled footsteps, then the doorknob twisted and the door opened, exposing a triangle of light.
Adrenaline pushed all my pain aside and I stood up straight, chest out.
Fellows’ red-rimmed eyes went round. Genuine surprise. His eyes stayed on me, up to my jagged forehead then back down to my face. No side glances or eyes to the ground.
“Dude! What happened to you?” Sincere.
If he’d set me up, he should move to LA and start auditioning. Still, I needed to be sure.
“Mind if I come in?”
“Yeah, no problem.” He stepped back and swung the door all the way open. “You don’t look so good, bro.”
I stepped into the studio and got the marijuana ambience. The bong and weed were still on the table, but there wasn’t any smoke in the air. There didn’t need to be. It was in the furniture, the curtains, his clothes. I made sure I didn’t bump into him on the way in so I could avoid a contact high. A flat screen in the corner was paused in mid-Housewife. Orange County, Beverly Hills, or Miami. Some city where reality was as fake as the boobs and hair color.
“I met some of your friends tonight.” I found the loveseat I’d sat on earlier and pretended that my body didn’t hurt like hell when I lowered myself down into it.
“Who?” A confused smile. He sat down in the recliner.
“The Raptors.”
“What?” He stood up. Terror took the place of the smile. “You didn’t talk to Steven, did you? Tell him what I said?”
“No. He wasn’t there, but his sister and his friends were.” I pointed at my stitched forehead.
“What did you tell them?” He was pacing now.
“That I was checking you out for worker’s comp fraud and wanted to talk to some of your friends.”
“Why’d you have to do that?” His eyes ballooned. “They’re not my friends.”
“Then why do you hang out at their bar?”
“I like to shoot some stick and have a beer every now and then.” He kept pacing but hid his eyes from mine.
Sarah Lunsdorf, the bartender who orchestrated my beating, had said Fellows didn’t drink. Someone was lying. I stood up and almost broke a molar hiding the pain caused by the movement. Fellows stopped pacing and let out a little breath as if the inquisition was over and he could get back to his Housewives. I walked toward the front door, then made a quick left and into the tiny open kitchen. Fellows moved toward me when I whipped open the refrigerator door. No beer bottles. Just some milk, fruit, veggies, condiments, and a couple to-go containers.
This seemed to put the lie on Fellows. I started to shut the door, then stopped. The gold lids of nine or ten large mason jars pushed behind the produce and milk on the bottom shelf caught my eye. I took Fellows for a bit of a nature boy, his TV taste notwithstanding, but I doubted he canned his own preserves.
“What’s up, bro?” Tiny quake in Fellows’ voice. “Do you need something to drink?”
I could feel his breath on my neck.
Fellows had a surfer’s body, lean, long ropey muscles, and skin too tight to pinch. If he had the heart and the know-how, he might present a challenge. I doubted he had either, but I was already battling a concussion and bruised ribs.
I turned to face him, and deliberately put my hand in my bomber jacket pocket where my .357 Magnum had been at the beginning of the night. “Go sit down, Trey.”
He looked down at my pocket, then up at me. His eyes were a question mark. Mine were certain. He let out a “Dude,” then went and sat down in the loveseat.
I bent down, swallowed the pain, shoved my hand behind the fruit and veggies and came out with a mason jar. Full of marijuana buds. I set the jar down on the kitchen counter. Fellows stood up, but didn’t make a move toward me.
“Medical, bro.” High pitched. Nervous. “That’s medical.”
“Only if half the glaucoma patients in San Diego live here.” I pulled out the other nine jars and put them on the counter. “There has to be over four or five pounds here. Possession with intent to sell. Even with California’s ever-changing weed laws, that’ll get you jail time, bro.”
“Dude, I can’t…you gotta give me a break.” He edged toward the front door. “I can’t do time.”
“Sit back down.” I pointed my pocketed hand at the loveseat. “Let’s talk about this.”
“Whatever you want, man. I can cut you in. Whatever.”
Two years ago, another drug dealer had offered to cut me in on his business. I flushed his stash down a toilet and broke his nose. Back when I had a temper. And thin skin.
“So you deal weed for the Raptors. That’s why you hang out at The Chalked Cue and how you know Steven Lunsdorf.”
“No…I…” He shook his head and his eyes blinked like hummingbird wings. “They’re not…I don’t deal with them.”
“I used to be a cop, Trey. I got friends on the force.” I lied. About the friends part. “You want to talk to them or me?”
A pause like he was actually thinking about it. “You, I guess.”
“You lie to me again,” I pulled my cell phone out of my jeans. “And I’ll have a couple narco detectives here in five minutes.”
He gulped and nodded.
“I don’t care about the weed. I just need to know how tight you are with the Raptors, and if your Lunsdorf murder story is bullshit.”
“It’s all true, man.” Whiny. Like a kid alibiing to his parents.
“Uh, uh.” I pursed my lips and shook my head. “The Raptors have you scared shitless. No way you’d rat one of them out without a better reason than you just being a good citizen. The assholes who jumped me thought somebody had sent me. Somebody who wasn’t you. Is that who put you up to this? This mystery man the Raptors are scared of?”
“Nobody put me up to anything! I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He sounded like he was about to cry.
“You’re lying, Trey.” I held up my phone and slid my thumb across the screen to unlock it. “Time to talk to the police.”
“No!” He jumped up. “I’m telling the truth! You gotta believe me.”
“Okay, okay. I believe you.” I didn’t, but put the phone back in my pocket anyway. He was going to hold onto his story, and I had no intention of calling the police. “Just sit back down. Take it easy.”
Fellows did as told. He put his head in his hands and shook it back and forth. My own head was wobbling a bit. Nausea crept up my throat. I couldn’t break Fellows. Not tonight in my condition. Maybe not ever. Could he be telling the truth?
“How long you been dealing for the Raptors?” I still needed to tie up a few loose ends.
“They just supply me the gange.” He pulled his head from his hands and glanced at the wall opposite him. “I don’t really deal for them. I do this to make a living. I can’t live off disability for the rest of my life.”
“Call it what you want. How long?”
“About four years.”
“Three and a half years before you went on disability.” I said that just so he knew I wasn’t buying all his bullshit. “How did you get hooked up with the Raptors?”
“One of them used to work with me at UPS.”
“Name.” I put my hand on the counter and tried not to show that my legs were shaking.
“I can’t give you his name!” His eyes went round. “You don’t understand, dude. These guys will kill me!”
My ribs and head made me a believer. The room started spinning, sweat pebbled my forehead, and bile shot up my throat. I stumbled over to the kitchen sink and puked into it. Then the ceiling crashed down on me.
“Dude!” Fellows stood over me, his dreadlocks spiraling down.
“I’m okay.” I wasn’t. I reached a hand up to grab the counter, and Fellows grabbed my arm and hoisted me up until he could get his shoulder under me. My ribs screamed, but I managed not to.
“I’ll take you to the emergency room, dude. You’re messed up.”
“No.” I tried to straighten up on my own but still needed his shoulder to stay upright. “Just help me outside. I’ve got a ride waiting for me.”
Fellows and I did a drunk shuffle-walk out to the street. He held tight, and never once tried to grab the phantom gun in my jacket pocket. Kim’s Beemer’s engine revved on, and she pulled away from the curb where she’d parked when she’d dropped me off.
I broke away from Fellows and stood on my own. “Thanks.”
“Be careful, dude.” He turned and went back to his tiny cottage just as Kim pulled up.
As I opened the car door, a thought spun around my already gyroscoping head. Maybe this guy was a Good Samaritan. Could he really be willing to risk his life just to do the right thing?