Chapter 67 - IronSprings

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

I watched the party break up from my rental car. They weren’t making it very easy for me. It was twelve-thirty by then and more than a little cold. It was the cold that kept me awake. That and my chattering teeth, and the smell of garbage that followed me all the way back from the warehouse. The five of them had staggered out into the night too wasted to feel anything but good, talking and laughing and searching pockets for keys and cigarettes. They still had some rum left and they passed that around until it was all gone and then they started loading up. Graham wandered off into the dark somewhere and reemerged a few minutes later in an old van. He parked on the wrong side of the street, in front of the warehouse, facing me, his lights falling just short of the front end of my car. Dwight and Steve put the weapons and ammunition in through his back door, while Ringold piled bundles into the trunk of Evelyn Claxton’s car. She counted the bundles, about twenty of them, like she was counting money. In the soft light given off by Graham’s van, and with the cigarette dangling from her mouth, she looked very much like a fulfilled woman.

It was past one in the morning when they finally called it a night. William Graham and Dwight Claxton were the first to leave. They drove right by me, their lights forcing me down into the front seat. I could hear their CD player pounding through the night. Oldies but goodies: We’re an American Band. They were the ones I wanted to follow but couldn’t. Not with Ringold sharing a quiet moment with Dwight’s mother, Evelyn, only a glance away. He was leaning into her car window, kissing her goodnight. Beyond jail, I couldn’t imagine where they thought their relationship might be headed. The only good thing about it was that it wasn’t any of my business. But they necked for at least twenty minutes before she reluctantly pushed him away, started her car, and drove off, a hand waving back at him from her window. He watched her go, until she rounded a corner, then started his bike up and shoved off after her. Only Steve was left then, and it looked to me like he was cheered up by their departure. He yawned and scratched his crotch and backed into his warehouse and slid the door shut.

I broke out the cellular phone and pushed buttons. I called John Christmas and spoke with his wife, Katherine. She didn’t sound like she was overjoyed to hear from me, but at least she hadn’t been sleeping. There was music in the background and other voices and it sounded like somebody was throwing a party.

"Doc is not here," she told me, "and frankly I don’t give a damn where he is."

I couldn’t tell if she was drunk or not because of her accent. But I tried anyway. "It’s important," I said. "Is there someway I can get in touch with him?"

"It’s always important with people like you and him. Why don’t you try looking in the gutters, that’s where I believe he likes to sleep best."

"There are people who want to kill him."

"People are always wanting to kill him. Him and his friend."

"Frame Johnson."

"The same. Both of them together are no good. Doc by himself is bad enough. But with the other there is no surprise that some people despise them."

I counted voices in the background. There were several, men and women, and music behind them, jazz—I thought I heard Miles Davis—and I wondered what it was like being one of their neighbors. And then I heard the coughing. She muffled the phone and spoke in a whisper but I could still hear her clearly: "I told you it was nobody."

"Let me speak to Doc," I said.

"Damn," she said—but not to me. And then: "Here, it’s that woman of yours."

"Woman of mine?"

Doc took the phone.


"Ms O’Shea?"

"I have to talk to you," I said.

"Are you all right?"

Over the phone, in the background, I heard: "She calls Doc and Doc comes running…just like a dog"

"It’s about William Graham, Jon Ringold, and Dwight Claxton," I said. "They purchased some weapons tonight."

"What sort of weapons?"

"Assault weapons; Russian made."

"Well," he said, somewhat drunkenly, "why wouldn’t they?"

"They know where Frame Johnson is," I said. "They got that from Maxie Gray. Some place called Hooker’s Vineyard, somewhere in the Valley of the Moon."

Doc went quiet with that one. It took him about five seconds to think it over. "Can you drive?" he asked.


"If I have to," I said.

"Good, because I can’t, at least not in a straight line."

Neither of us spoke much about the police. I picked him up in front of his wife’s apartment on Green Street. It was cold and quiet, and in his hat and overcoat he looked the way I imagined an undertaker should look. He carried a small overnight bag in one hand and had his other hand buried deep inside his coat pocket where he was obviously holding something close to his body. That something turned out to be a sawed-off shotgun, which he placed on the floor of the back seat.

"You know how to get there, don’t you?" He forced a smile as he climbed in and cradling his flask between his legs pulled his coat tight across his chest. His breathing was labored and a film of perspiration covered his face. It occurred to me that conceivably the ride alone might just kill him.

"Maybe we should rethink this," I said.

"101 North," he said, ignoring my suggestion. "Jack London’s old stomping grounds. I believe they buried our old sailor on horseback beneath a rock or something."

"Or something."

I turned off the ignition and looked at him. His smile was no longer forced but genuine. He buckled his seatbelt across his upper body and, strictly for medicinal purposes, took a long pull from his flask.


"You want this over as much as I do," he said. "That’s why you called me and not your Godfather. The irony is that in this situation the authorities are more likely to be of greater benefit to the other side. William Graham, Jon Ringold, Dwight Claxton will be the ones presumed to be innocent. We are obligated by circumstance to avoid both law and presumption—simply because we know better. Start your car, Ms O’Shea, we have little time to lose."


I started the car.

"It was his ashes," I said.

Doc coughed.

"Whose ashes?"

"Jack London’s. He was cremated and his wife, Charmian, had his ashes placed under this boulder on their property. And later, after she passed away, her ashes were placed with his."

"Under a rock?"

"Yes," I said, shifting into drive. "A very large rock."

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

Glen Ellen was where we were headed, a small town tucked away among the hills of Sonoma. It took us about an hour to get there. And maybe thirty minutes more to locate Hooker’s Vineyard. There was, of course, no moon and it was dark, and the road winding, and the directions I followed were Doc’s which he offered to me in bits and pieces between his reminisces of growing up in his sweet Georgia. Several times I thought we had to be lost and then he would motion with his flask for me to turn at some point in the road that lay indistinguishable in the darkness. Twice I passed such a turnoff and had to shift into reverse to locate it, once getting out of the car to make certain a road was even there. But the road was there; a gravel road lined with tall trees that made the night even darker. Finally it led to a portal, which we drove through, and my headlights collided with what appeared to be a very old Spanish-Colonial mansion. There were no lights on inside or out and when Doc told me to park anywhere I had a hard time finding where anywhere was. I drove around a fountain twice before I gave up and stopped just in front of the veranda.

I was almost certain that the place was abandoned when I finally noticed there was a man with a shotgun watching us from the front door. A large German Shepherd stood at attention beside him, ears up, tail still. Doc got out first and started talking to the man. His name was Henry Hooker and he owned the vineyard. After a few words he shifted his weapon from his right to his left hand and greeted Doc like an old friend.

"It’s been a busy night," Hooker said. "Frame’s been on the phone most of this evening—since he heard from you. They arrested the Claxton woman. Fifteen minutes ago, at her home. Twenty kilos in the trunk of her car; he told me to tell you."

"Serves her right," Doc said.

I thought about Evelyn Claxton doing time; it wasn’t a bad idea. Then I remembered Ringold: "It’s not over yet…"

Hooker ushered us inside. His flashlight led us across a tiled floor, while his dog scouted ahead in the dark. Hooker was apologetic about the lack of lights, but as we all knew that in all likelihood there were some very bad men headed our way.

"Frame’s watching for them," Hooker said, as he steered me up a flight if stairs. "Just outside of town. He’s got two men with him. T.C. Vermillion and John Blount, you know them, don’t you, Doc?"

"We’re acquainted," Doc said.

"And McMaster’s outside. You didn’t see him, but he saw you. You can’t drive down that road without your lights."

"And if they were to come by foot, through the trees?"

"Got the dogs. We’d hear them before they even got close."

"The last time I saw Claxton and Graham they were both wasted," I said. "I doubt if they’d show up tonight."

"Unless they’re on speed," Doc said. "A little meth has been known to work wonders on psychos."

"They do speed," I said.

Hooker showed me to a room. It was mine for as long as I needed one. He switched on a light, saying that the windows faced the back and therefore would be relatively safe, although he strongly advised against spending much time in front of them. The small crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling revealed a large, feminine room that belonged to a time long past. The bed was thick and narrow and covered with an Indian blanket and looked so soft I knew it had to be uncomfortable. Against one wall there was a small chair and in front of it a desk supporting a small framed picture of a woman who had once been very young about eighty years ago. This had to have been her room about that time. It hadn’t changed much. There was a private bathroom, and a closet I could have sublet. Two narrow doors opened to a balcony and the courtyard below. A tall, thick adobe wall surrounded the courtyard and beyond that stood a grove of trees, possibly eucalyptus. In the small light the room gave off, I could see that on top of the wall broken glass had been mixed into the adobe as an impediment to intruders. I couldn’t tell at this late hour if this made me feel any safer or not—or if I was just too damn tired to care.

"I apologize about the room," Hooker said. "It belonged to my mother. I’ve been meaning to do something with it; we usually don’t get this many guests. The boys have the other rooms."

In the light he was a handsome man, somewhere in his sixties, with a full head of hair and a mustache as pure as snow. He was about my height and possessed an openness that you find in people who have money and nothing to hide.

"What happens next?" I asked.

"We rest our weary heads," Doc said. He was standing behind Hooker in the hallway, contemplating his empty flask. "In the morning I’m certain we’ll all see things in a different light."

"Banjo, here," Hooker said, scratching the ears of the German dog sitting beside him, "will look after your room. If you hear him barking then you know we have problems."

I looked at the dog; the dog looked at me. His eyes took on an eerie red glow that gave me the heebie jeebies. I remembered the last dog I made eye contact with: a psycho pittbull in the middle of a gunfight just seconds before it met its master.

"I’ll sleep better knowing that," I said. But I didn’t even try to pet the thing.

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

And sleep I did.

A deep, dreamless sleep disturbed by neither guilt nor responsibility. All I had to do was lie down for just a moment and close my eyes…

It lasted all of three hours. I didn’t remember setting the alarm but it went off around seven-thirty. I forced myself out of bed and stood by the door for a minute listening to the sounds of the house. The dog was still there, on guard, and appraised me cautiously, the fur on the back of its neck bristling. I did my best to ignore him and concentrated on the voices downstairs. I couldn’t hear a word they were saying, so I edged down the hall to the top of the steps where I was able to identify the speakers as Doc and Frame. They were debating whether they should assume a defensive position here, on these grounds, or assume an offensive one at some place called Iron Springs.


"We’re on thin ice here," Doc was saying.

"They’re here to kill us," Framed replied.

"Then perhaps," Doc said, "we should first be obliging enough to allow them the opportunity."

"They’ve had enough opportunity," Frame said. "I’m fucking tired of them."

A pause fell between them. I felt an unwelcome presence beside me. The dog brushed up against my leg. The damned thing was leaning against me, cocking his ears like radar at the various sounds people make in the morning: flushing and faucets and footsteps padding across floors. Without thinking about it I reached down and scratched his head and suddenly the whole demeanor of the beast changed. He looked up at me with large warm eyes like we were the best of old friends—something my cat, Sky, rarely did—and letting go of whatever menace he once thought I may have possessed he ambled down the stairs in the direction of the voices.

I could smell the coffee by now and although I wasn’t sure if it would do me any good or not I wanted some. I returned to my room and did what little I could to make myself presentable. Not much seemed to work. My eyes were bloodshot and my face seemed pale and splotchy. I looked like hell and suppressed the urge to crawl back into bed. I rubbed my face with warm, soapy water and brushed my teeth with my finger. As usual there was nothing I could do with my hair but push it out of my face. And lipstick only made things worse.

But Doc greeted me like I was the only woman in the world. Gentleman that he was, he even stood while I made myself comfortable. We were in the dining room, just the three of us. The table was at least twelve feet long, with eight chairs surrounding it, and was set with coffee and morning rolls. We occupied one end, facing a series of glass doors that opened to the back area of the house, and opposite, across the room, the portal leading to the foyer and the front entrance. White lace curtains covered the doors and through them I could see a patio and lawn and several trees. It looked like it could be wonderful day. Doc and Frame sat facing both the doors and the portal. They were both armed. I sat across from them, with my back exposed to any threat. And the only gun I had with me was upstairs in my purse.

"You located them," I said.

Doc smiled; Frame nodded. Doc poured a cup of coffee and placed it on the table in front of me. I added the cream and sugar.

"Well, Sherm did," Doc said. "Anyway, he spied Graham and Claxton early this morning, in the van you described. The two of them drinking and driving, it’s a wonder they weren’t killed in an accident."

Frame smiled fondly at the thought. "A shame," he said.

"Sherm?" I asked.

"McMasters, an old friend of mine," Frame said. "He spotted Graham and Claxton around three-thirty this morning, sneaking into town on one of the back roads. Apparently they didn’t know which road to take and they ended up back on the highway. I don’t think they were even aware of it. Sherm followed them into town, then up to someplace called Iron Springs. An old resort." "Sherm is watching the place now," Doc said. "We’re aren’t exactly certain how many boys Graham may have brought with him. There are several cars parked up there in the lot. A half dozen perhaps. In the meantime, Frame and I were taking a moment to devise a suitable strategy, whether we should wait here for the idiots to come charging in or just go over there and get it over with."

Frame appeared slightly uncomfortable at this admission and clearing his throat he quickly looked down at his hands, which he folded around his cup of coffee. "We were, of course, thinking of arresting them…"

"Of course" I said.

"Of course," Doc said.

"They’re armed with fully automatic assault rifles," Frame said. "Weapons that were smuggled unlawfully into this country, and which they purchased illegally with felonious intent. You informed us that yourself."

"And don’t forget the parking tickets," Doc said. "A slew of them."


"Parking tickets?" I would have laughed but I was beginning to feel seriously ill. My head was pounding from the inside out and the coffee had turned my stomach into knots. "But you resigned," I said. "You turned in your marshal’s badge. Have you informed Dodge of your intentions—or are we just going to go over to whatever this place is called and make a citizens arrest?"

"Something like that," Doc said. "You see it’s really the parking tickets that are going to undo our small but determined gang of malefactors. Apparently these boys just don’t give a damn about law and order. You see, there are at least five of them up there at this Iron Springs place, and all five of them have been issued bench warrants for contempt of court."

"Because they haven’t taken care of their parking tickets?"

"Because they’re assholes," Frame said.

"That too," Doc said, "but it’s really because of the tickets."

"So, we’re bounty hunters?"

"Sherm is," Doc said. "So are his colleagues, Mr. Vermillion and Mr. Blount. Certified, licensed, and bonded. Professionals, all three of them, and they have generously agreed to accept Frame as their apprentice. I, of course, am here in an official capacity, as a representative of the auto-insurance community, investigating the whereabouts of certain expensive but irrevocably missing vehicles. And if memory serves me, you were retained by Ivy Claxton to assist her in her divorce and custody proceedings against her estranged and incorrigible husband. That our paths should converge simultaneously at this point could only be natural."

"Purely coincidental," I put it—and, I thought, fairly generously.

Doc said: "Of course."

Frame looked like he thought we were both full of shit.

"What I’m proposing to do," he said, "might cost anyone who chooses to participate in this venture a great deal of suffering in the long run. I personally would not take offense at either of you dropping out now."

"Nonsense," Doc said. "You wanted me in on the end, didn’t you?"

Frame nodded but he was looking at me. "Frankly, Miss O’Shea, I would rather you weren’t here."

"It’s too late," I said. "They know where I live; they’ve been by there often enough. John Ringold told me himself that this wasn’t over. Do you believe they’d just leave me alone?"

"No," Frame said sadly. "I don’t believe that at all."

CHAPTER SEVENTY

Breakfast was served at eight-thirty. But Doc was the only one who could eat. Heuvos Rancheros, double helpings, since there was plenty leftover, several slices of cantaloupe, two glasses of orange juice, liberally dosed with vodka, and several cups of coffee. For a moment there he seemed almost healthy.

Vermillion and Blount sipped coffee and then went outside to smoke cigarettes. Frame thanked Hooker for his hospitality but told him we would all be leaving shortly. Things were likely to get hot and Frame wanted to leave a cold trail, at least where his friends were concerned.

"It doesn’t matter," Hooker told him. "You and your friends are welcome to stay here as long as you need to."

They shook hands solemnly; Hooker looked like he was going to cry.

I went outside.

Vermillion and Blount were loading their overnight bags into the trunk of a sedan. They were both big men in their middle thirties. They were dressed like lumberjacks, in heavy plaid shirts, jeans and boots. Vermillion wore his hair long and had it tied back in a ponytail, Blount wore his short like a marine, white walls and just enough on top to pass inspection. A gold earring sparkled from his right ear in the morning sun. These were guys who made their living tracking down other men. But they were friendly, even respectful, towards me, and absolutely loyal to Frame.

Doc joined me. He dropped his small bag in the backseat of my rental and propped his shotgun up against the passenger seat in front.

"How are you on fuel?" he asked. "Is your tank half empty or half full?"

"Depends on how you look at it," I said.

"Ms O’Shea," he said, "as you must well know by now, I always look on the bright side of things."

"We should probably fill it then," I said. "Before we go too far."

"I suspect that’s exactly where we’re headed."

We filled up at a small station just outside of town. I did the pumping my self and paid in cash. I wore sunglasses and acted like a tourist, asking for directions to Jack London’s State Park. The kid behind the counter didn’t even look me. Five minutes later we were parked on the side of the road in front of a fruit and vegetable stand waiting for the others.

They came in one car, the sedan. Blount was driving. Vermillion nodded at us from the front passenger seat, and I pulled out behind them. Frame was sitting in the back seat; he looked back at us, briefly, through the rear window.

"Frame has some good friends," I said.

"Some," Doc said.

"I don’t have any friends like that," I said—now that I thought about it: friends who might put their lives in jeopardy for me.

Doc laughed; he laughed until he coughed. "Well, you have at least one," he said. "And I believe that my wife sort of likes you."

"Sort of?" I said.

He shrugged, pulling his flask from inside his coat. "Somewhat," he said, "but I wouldn’t ask her for any favors."

We followed Frame’s car for miles up some winding road. It was busier than I expected it to be. I counted a dozen SUV’s the first mile, but I couldn’t exactly be sure how many because they all looked alike. Eventually the traffic thinned out. Oak trees lined the road and through them I caught glimpses of hills rolling back and the occasional barn or farmhouse. Once or twice I saw a horse or a cow, but no people. At one spot I caught a glimpse of blue sky and silhouetted against the blue a kettle of turkey vultures circling gracefully in the morning light.

After about five more miles we slowed down to cross a small, narrow bridge. A creek ran beneath it, the bottom strewn with pebbles, visible beneath the water, mossy green, and the water white where it rushed downwards against the larger rocks. About sixty feet past the bridge Blount signaled that he was turning right onto a side road, a road that had once been paved but was now mostly dirt. It was a road to nowhere. At least it stopped there: an iron-gate, rusted shut long ago, denied vehicular access. On the other side of the gate the road was lost to vegetation, but there was still something of it you could follow on foot. An old sign hung sideways from the gate; it was dented and rusted over but it looked like it said Iron Springs Spa to me. Blount, Vermillion and Johnson climbed out of their car. I pulled up behind them and shut off the engine. Doc took a swig from his flask.

"So here we are," he said.

The air was cold and still. I zipped my coat up to my throat and buried my hands inside my pockets. I looked up through the trees and saw the sun rising into the sky, unsure if the cold was coming from within or from without me. When I looked back down a man was standing by the gate. He was about forty and solid, with curly blond hair and a reddish complexion. He was wearing an old leather jacket and some sort of floppy, button-down cap that made him look like he stepped out of some depression era movie. He was rubbing his hands together for warmth and, as he conferred with Frame, staring at me like I had no business being there.

"That’s Sherman McMasters," Doc said.

"He doesn’t seem too pleased to see me," I said.

"Nonsense," Doc said. "Sherm is just old fashioned; he doesn’t believe women should be involved with vigilantes."

"Is that what we are?" I asked.

"Well," Doc said, "some of us, I suppose, are slightly more vigilant than others. But I do like to think that justice is on our side."

"I would hope so."

"There is nothing wrong with hoping."

Frame took the lead. McMasters followed him, and then Vermillion and Blount, while Doc and I brought up the rear. They were all carrying shotguns. Except for me. I carried my pistol in my jacket pocket. And I felt quite inadequate.

The road was little more than a path, more dirt than asphalt. Oak trees lined it, on either side, their branches forming a canopy. What sun there was broke through the trees in shafts. A raven flew low, over our heads, a black foreboding thing, cawing loudly, and darted to a high branch where it found a perch and proceeded to measure us with a series of sidelong glances.


We walked for fifteen minutes, the road arcing lazily upwards. To my left, glancing down, through the trees, I could see the stream and faintly hear its current, and beyond the stream by twenty or thirty yards a row of rooms, like a wing of an old motel, and some vehicles parked in front of them. One of the vehicles looked just like the van I saw Graham and Claxton driving off in last night. I gradually became aware that I was hearing music. A radio was on somewhere, hot guitar licks rocked through the cold air. But I didn’t see anyone and nor did I think anyone saw us.

We paused here to reconnoiter. I counted ten rooms and four vehicles, the van and three older and nondescript American cars. The rooms were constructed in an L shape and connected by an open porch to a larger structure, what probably once housed the office, dayroom and living quarters for the management—back when there had been a business to run and a management to run it. Most of the windows were boarded shut, except for the rooms where the boards had been pried away and the windows smashed. The yard in front was mostly a pool. An empty, Olympic sized pool that had been turned into a dump. All sorts of things had been tossed into it, pieces of old furniture and car parts and empty paint and soft drink cans and two or three feet of dirty water.

"No one’s been in or out since Graham and Claxton arrived early this morning," McMasters said quietly. "Least ways, not that I’ve seen. At dawn I followed this road as far as I could, it just sort of ends over there." He nodded to a point, where there was no more discernible trace of road or path left but just growth. "But if we stay within the foliage we should be able to make it almost down to the lodge without attracting much attention."


Frame faced McMasters.

"Which rooms?" He asked.

"One through five from the main house. Six through ten are empty. Graham and Claxton are in the house. I haven’t seen Ringold. They partied hearty last night. I don’t imagine anyone waking up much before afternoon."


"How are we going to serve them," Blount asked.

"Over easy," Doc said, "or sunny side up—however you prefer them."

"How about scrambled?" Blount said.

The guys laughed, except for Frame and me.

"How about we get it over with," Frame said. "Now, while they’re sleeping?"

He looked at each of us; he looked at me last. McMaster’s followed his gaze to mine.

Frame said: "Evelyn Claxton’s was arrested last night for drugs: Crack—and lots of it. She called her lawyer—not Maxie Gray—and he cut a deal, this morning, while we were on our way over here. She’s smart enough to know she’s too old for prison. She’s turning state’s evidence; she’s even given up her own son. All we have to do is bring these jokers in for traffic warrants. If we do that then Graham and Claxton are going up shit creek without a paddle. All we have to do is see that they get on the boat."

"We can do that," McMasters said.

Frame went first, following a deer path down through the trees, towards the lodge. Again Doc and I brought up the rear; Doc keeping just ahead of me, pushing branches out of our way, chivalrously willing to protect me with his own body. I didn’t know if I should feel relieved or not over the decision to place these bastards under a citizens arrest. I was here because I was afraid and I wanted to do something about it and the truth was I didn’t believe for a moment that any of them would ever go to jail. I knew that much because I knew their lawyer. Maxie Gray wasn’t about to let any of his boys down. He was too deep in it himself. And as long as that was true I would never again be safe in the city where I was born.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

The shooting started almost immediately. We were still in the trees, and hadn’t yet crossed the creek, a good thirty-five yards from where the old lodge stood. It was full automatic and seemed to be directed at us from everywhere at once. I didn’t even hear the first shots fired until they were long gone. Doc, of course, was quicker than I was when it came to this sort of thing. He shoved me face down into the cold earth before I had any idea of what was actually happening. By the time I realized we had just stumbled into an ambush, the air had become an earsplitting wall of explosions. Bullets thumped into trees, scattering splinters and leaves, and dug into the earth, throwing up dirt and rock. Doc was kneeling beside me, pumping shell after shell into the foliage. I wiped dirt from my eyes and tried in vain to get a fix on the situation. A burst of rounds forced Doc back onto the ground, where he lay facing me as he fed 12-gauge shells into his weapon.


He looked as surprised as I was. He rolled over to my side and shared the cover provided by the trunk of a thick oak tree. He struggled violently for air, and the sound his lungs made was like that of a man breathing under water. When he finally caught his breath he propped himself up against the trunk and cautiously peered around it.

"Christ," he muttered. "I can’t see a Goddamned thing."

The shooting stopped but it took us some time to realize it. Gun smoke clouded the air; it’s heavy odor mingling with that of the wet earth and my own dear sweat. I wrested my pistol out of my jacket pocket and grasped it firmly in both hands. I turned over onto my stomach and keeping just as low as I could, crawled to the other side of the tree. From there I could see most everything: the lodge in the distance, beyond the creek; to my right, five yards away, Vermillion and Blount crouched behind a fallen tree, and in front of them, by about ten yards, Frame kneeling behind an oak tree of his own, loading his shotgun. And just behind him, McMasters, lying facedown in the dirt, bleeding from the holes in his back.


Of our enemy I could see very little. A set of eyes peering quickly over a pile of wood from the far side of the creek; on this side, the barrel of an AK-47 poking out from behind a bush; a shadow passing swiftly through a tight group of trees in front of us, some twenty yards away. When I felt certain there might be only three of them, a sudden fusillade tore into us from our far left. I heard someone cry out—and caught Blount stanching the flow of blood from his right shoulder with his hand as he worked to make himself smaller behind the tree. Vermillion spun around on his knees and leaning over Blount discharged three twelve-gauge shells, one right after another, in the direction of the shooters. But before he could get a fourth round off another fusillade from our front sent him reeling backwards over his heels.


He was lying on his back, dazed but unhurt. Blood streamed down his face from some blow to the head he received while dodging bullets. He wiped some of the blood away and looked at me. I saw his mouth form words, and I’m positive I read them correctly.

"We’re fucked," is what he said.

"No shit," I countered.

Doc coughed blood. He washed it down with vodka from his flask.

Blount shouted out: "Hey, Frame, what the hell are we going to do now?"

Someone else from the other side of the trees shouted back: "That’s a pretty good question, Frame. What the hell are you going to do now?"

I placed the voice easily enough. It was husky and mocking and full of ill will and belonged to one William Graham.

And there was other laughter behind it: Dwight Claxton and Billy Claymore.

"They’re going to die is what they’re going to do," Dwight shouted gleefully through the trees. "Everyone of the sons of bitches!"

"Goddamn right!" Claymore shouted back.


There were others also, laughing, maybe four or five more, but I couldn’t see any of them through the trees. I looked back over my shoulder at the small trail we had come down. The road to nowhere looked hopelessly out of reach to me. I could see the sun overhead, and feel its warmth on my face. A fly appeared from out of the smoke and buzzed my head. I calculated our cars were a quarter of a mile away. I knew Doc wouldn’t be able to make it that far. And so did he. A cough burst from his lungs at that precise moment, as though to underscore the point. Looking at me sadly he pressed a fresh linen handkerchief to his lips and shrugged.

"I might be able to cover you somewhat," he said, "but I do believe my running days are over."

"Mine too," I said.

I looked over at Frame and saw him looking at his cell phone. He was pushing buttons and not getting any answers. Everybody could hear him swearing. Finally he threw the damn thing away. When he saw me looking at him he sighed.

"Shot through," he said.

Nobody else had one. We were all too old fashioned or eccentric. Speaking for myself, I was half convinced cell phones were downright unhealthy, but at that particular moment I regretted not having one so much I could have cried. Especially when I caught a glimpse of two men running up through the trees towards the spot where we had started down. Doc watched them with me. He took a drink from his flask and smirked.

"That about sums it up," he said.

It was an illuminating moment; I could see my own death unfolding before my very eyes. Not that I liked it much, but it seemed perfectly logical. Suddenly and clearly I could trace the course of my life, from my birth to this exact moment, every step of the way, and all I could really say for it was that to wind up here, at this particular time and place, I must have really screwed up somehow.

And then something weird happened. It started with Graham, with his taunting us. He cheerfully pointed out from his place of cover, behind a clump of trees, just across the creek, that Claxton and Claymore were going for positions behind us, effectively cutting off our line of retreat, and would, in about two minutes, start pouring some shit down on us. That started the laughter rolling among his cronies. It rolled around us like a nightmare on wheels, each of them, letting us know exactly how they were going to just pick us off, one at a time. What they seemed to like best about the whole thing was that they weren’t planning on taking prisoners. None of them were feeling very merciful. No, it was going to be just like the Alamo or Custer’s last stand or Dien Bien Phu, one of those places, where everyone died.

Except for the woman.

"She’s mine," Dwight shouted out from somewhere above us. "That bitch broke up my marriage!"

There was a lot of laughter between the assholes over that one. Then Graham shouted back: "Sure, Dwight, why not?"

And that’s when Frame stood up and pumping a shell into the chamber of his ten-gauge shotgun, started down through the trees in the direction of Graham’s voice. Everybody on both sides took pause from their hostilities to watch him, awestruck, as it were, over the audacity of his act. Heads popped out from behind bushes to get a better view as he moved, almost leisurely, towards the creek, the shotgun held in his hands, its barrel out before him, like a divining rod. Nobody said a word; there was nothing to say. The only sound I was even remotely aware of during those few moments was the pounding of my own heart.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

When Frame Johnson stepped into the creek dividing him from William Graham the reality of the situation rushed back at us with all the speed of sound. It was like being slapped awake. He stood there for what seemed to be a very long time, what could have been a small eternity, the cold force of water streaming noisily around his legs, as he lifted his shotgun to his shoulder and took deliberate aim down the short length of its barrel. He pointed it towards some trees just as William Graham, who, with a large, murderous grin plastered across his face, and his AK-47 held waist high and leveled directly against his opponent, strode out from behind them.

"Goddamn you, Frame Johnson!"

The weapons spoke for themselves. Much louder than any of us there could have anticipated them to sound. I knew I almost jumped out of my skin. A dozen bullets appeared to strike Frame before he even got his first shell off. Graham, shouting in rage, stepped into the creek firing. It took only seconds for him to empty the thirty rounds in his banana shaped magazine and when they were gone and Frame was still standing he lobbed his weapon at him and still kept coming. Frame gracefully sidestepped the rifle and moved forward, and as Graham was just reaching out to try and yank the shotgun away from him he fired.

Twice.

Graham doubled over and was blown back simultaneously. He was dead before he hit the water. The explosion of the shooting reverberated through the trees. Graham’s blood turned the swift, shallow current into a sickening red. I wasn’t even aware I was screaming until Doc put a gentle hand across my back and pulled my face into his shoulder.


A deep and bewildering moment of silence followed, broken only by my crying. It was like nobody there quite knew what to do next.

And then the shooting started over again. I couldn’t say who on the other side fired first, but it came from our far left. I pulled away from Doc and scrambled to the edge of the tree. Everyone was shooting now. I caught one glimpse of Frame before I was forced to turn my attention back up the trail behind us. He was standing there in the open, returning fire every which way with his shotgun, spinning on his heels in the direction of each burst fired against him, the ejected shells arcing over his right shoulder, and his coat torn ragged from where bullets had chewed their way through.

I believed I was looking at a dead man.

Suddenly a flurry of bullets struck the tree just over our heads. They were fired from behind us, at the point where the road ended, and I remembered now there were assholes up there too. Apparently Dwight Claxton and Billy Claymore had, between the two of them, managed to remember why they had been sent up there in the first place: to finish us off in a crossfire. Doc and I both rolled over onto our backs and started firing at the first person we saw and that person happened to be poor, hapless Dwight. He was standing there stupidly in the open, firing on full automatic and screaming like Rambo. He was even wearing a red bandana wrapped around his head. But what cracked me up was how the expression on his face shifted under the abrupt realization that he himself had become a target. He looked like he didn’t care very much for that at all. He did sort of a very quick double take as though it had just occurred to him that by sneaking up behind us he might actually have placed himself in mortal danger. It was something he didn’t have to think about for very long.

By then he was gone.

Like magic.

The only trace left of him was the AK-47 he had let go of, suspended in the air for a prolonged moment, or so it seemed, by the speed of his retreat. And a man-sized hole in the foliage, along with a few receding glimpses of his back and the soles of his boots. Doc and I were still shooting when his weapon touched ground.

No fool, Claymore followed suit. He threw his weapon away and ran after Dwight. They ran like hell, both of them, arms and legs pumping furiously. For the first time that morning I started to feel like I might just live through it. Doc and I looked at each other and laughed. I told him I would buy him a drink at the first opportunity; he told me the first one would be on him.

And all the while Frame was still shooting. He had thrown away his shotgun and had drawn his pistols. Two mean semiautomatic Colt forty-fives. He was really tearing up the place, pointing them at his intended targets like fingers and then firing, at the speed of thought, like his life—all our lives—depended upon it. Through the trees I caught glimpses of men running, back towards the lodge; somewhere in the background I could hear the roar of engines, and the squeal of tires. Dust rose from the dirt road that led from the lodge up and back to the main road.

The shooting stopped before I realized it; Frame was running on empty, spent like his pistols, he turned and started back up through the trees, and when he saw Doc he stopped and sat down breathlessly on a stump beside us. The pistols in his hands were hot and smoking. He was in shock, his face was covered with sweat and grime, and his eyes possessed that empty, thousand-yard stare.

Doc, supporting himself with the butt of his shotgun, kneeled beside him. "You must be shot all to pieces," he said.

Frame nodded and looked down at his legs. "I believe so," he said. "My left foot."

Doc gave him a cursory examination, gently opening the front of Frame’s Jacket—daylight streamed through a dozen small perforations—but there were no wounds. Nor were there were any sign of bleeding. The only damage inflicted upon him seemed to have been done to his coat, and to the heel of his left boot, which had been shot away.

"McMasters?" Doc asked.

"Dead," Frame said.

"And Blount was hit," Doc said. "Looks like his shoulder from here. Vermillion is working on him now."

Frame looked at me.

"I’m all right," I said. "I’m fine." But I don’t think he believed it anymore than I did.

He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. The air was very still and thick with gun smoke and flies and in the distance, headed this way, the high-pitched wail of sirens. Vermillion joined us; behind him, Blount, his shoulder bandaged, rested against the fallen tree. Vermillion squatted, facing the three of us.

"We’re fucked up," he said. "How does it look from where you’re sitting."

"Like parking tickets," Doc said. "And Ms O’Shea, here, is representing Dwight Claxton’s estranged wife."


Vermillion nodded in agreement. "I have the warrants right here," he said, patting the large right pocket on his cargo pants.

"When the locals get here," Frame said, referring presumably to the police, "just tell them what happened."

I forced myself up and walked the short distance through the trees to where McMaster’s lay dead. The holes in his back were larger than I expected them to be and I had to look away the very moment I saw them.

I walked down to the stream, counting shotgun shells. Brass casings glimmered in the slender beams of sunlight that fell through the trees. The sound of the stream was soothing and I sat on my heels beside it and washed my hands and face in the cold water. There were more casings here, from Frame’s forty-fives’, and across the stream at least thirty from Graham’s AK-47. Those formed an uneven line reaching back to the clump of trees, I recalled, that Graham had used for cover. And just to my left, less than a yard away from where I was sitting, was a large splotch of blood staining the muddy impression where Graham had fallen after taking two direct loads from Frame’s ten gage. The blood was thick and sticky and a swarm of flies hovered over it obscenely. I stared at it for a long time until it hit me that the only thing missing from this bleak picture was his body.


CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

Three cops in two squad cars arrived first. They pulled up in front of the lodge and parked one in front of the other. There were two officers in the lead car and one in the car behind them. All three of them were young and sunny enough to make me nervous. When they climbed out of their cars they used their doors as shields and kept their hands on the butts of their weapons, but they didn’t draw them. They sized things up from their side of the creek and the cop who had been riding shotgun in the lead car wasted no time getting on the radio. An hour later another squad car, along with an ambulance, showed up. But by then we were all friends.

They liked Frame best. He was one of them, a cop’s cop—or at least he used to be, that is, before he turned in his badge. They had read all about him in the papers. They had read about Doc, too, but you could tell by looking at them that they found the frail, sickly looking man, who acknowledged them over his flask with a just the slightest suggestion of a nod, to be something of a disappointment. As for me, I was merely a woman, and probably just a little too old to pay much attention to.

Frame walked the young officers through the initial stages of their investigation. They let him; it was fascinating to watch. He had them taping off the area, calling in for forensics, admonished them about not touching evidence, and conducted them through the preliminary search of the Irons Springs Lodge. They followed him with almost childlike devotion as he explained the events leading up to our presence in the Valley of the Moon, and the ambush that had claimed one of our team. I admired his intestinal fortitude; while he described the ambush with the cool detachment of a disciplined professional, I was still shaking in my running shoes.

Hours passed. More cops arrived. Several were older and wiser and after casting suspicious glances in Frame’s direction they took over. Frame faded into the background with the rest of us, except for Blount who was rushed in the ambulance to emergency. We were then separated from each other and taken to the local police department, where we spent the rest of the day and most of the evening telling and retelling our stories. None of us asked for lawyers; and none of us deviated from the story. Which was about as close as we could afford to get to the truth: we had tracked the bikers down to the Iron Springs Lodge with the intention of bringing them in on outstanding warrants for, of course, the rewards.


The first person I heard use the word vendetta was a balding, middle-aged cop with sad eyes and a paunch he’d learn to live with years ago. He entered the interrogation room I had been left waiting in, with a brown take-out sack and offered me an espresso, a bottle of Calistoga water and a gourmet vegetarian sandwich, which I accepted gratefully. I had no idea how hungry I was until I started eating. He introduced himself simply as Bob and sat down across the table from me and pretended to read the report as I wolfed down the sandwich. I watched him the way any conscientious suspect might—casually, as though from a state of innocence. I concluded that he was either some very good, perhaps jaded former big city cop who wisely opted for a slower, stress free pace in the country—or as Vermillion speculated back at the lodge, some dumb country cracker who if he fucked us would do so purely by accident.

I saw no reason to hurry the point; I sipped my espresso as I waited for him to lift his sad eyes from the report to mine. I amused myself by watching the clock on the wall. By the time he finally cleared his throat the caffeine had worn off and I was nearing the land of nod.

"You know," Bob said, "We’ve been following Johnson’s career up here pretty closely. We get the same papers you get in the city. For a while his name made the news almost everyday. Back when he was running for office and later after that gunfight. It was kind of a vice, you might say, following the trials and tribulations of a famous cop like him."

I shrugged and he looked at me. I was wrong about his eyes being sad; on closer inspection they were simply humorless: dark brown pools that absorbed more light than they reflected. Like the eyes of a predator.

"I saw your name in the papers too."

"It couldn’t be helped."

"At the gunfight at Oakley’s Garage. You were also there. You and some kid."

"And a pitbull."

"A pitbull?"

"But I didn’t kill it. I was just trying to help the kid."

"Dwight Claxton’s daughter?"

"Yes."


"And how is she?"

"She’s with her mother."

Bob had to think that over. He didn’t take his eyes off mine. Neither did he blink. "And Dwight Claxton was one of the men who ambushed you today?"

"Yes."


"And Billy Claymore?"

"Yes."

"And William Graham?"

"Yes."

"And the others—there was no one else you recognized?"

"No."

"That’s funny."

We looked at each other for awhile. There was a clock on the wall and the seconds ticking by was the loudest sound in the room. I counted about sixty ticks before curiosity got the better of me.

"What’s funny," I asked.

"What you and your friends aren’t telling us," Bob said.

"I’m not sure what you mean," I said.

"You had a little war out there is what I mean," he said. "They were expecting you or you were expecting them. One or the other, I don’t really care which, but somebody got caught with his pants down. Maybe your side, maybe theirs, maybe both sides. But this wasn’t over parking tickets or bench warrants or bail jumping. This was one good old fashioned vendetta."

I didn’t say anything; I let him do all the talking.

"Frame Johnson was up here to get even," he said. "He’s got one brother dead and another brother crippled. Two men associated with his problems are dead. One of them was a member of the San Francisco Police Department. He was the one killed in Oakland. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure this out, not after this morning. The bikers were here for the same reason. We found three AK-47’s out there at that old spa, and about twenty thirty-round magazines, close to 1500 spent casings, and enough blood for two people but only one corpse. You were either chasing them or they were chasing you. Like I said before: I don’t care which, but as far as I’m concerned, you’re all a bunch of hoodlums."

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR


With that Officer Bob got up and, in great disgust, left the room, slamming the door shut behind him. It was a thick, gray metal door and I sat there staring at it for about ten minutes, trying to figure out if I was feeling bad or just stupid. Finally I settled on just stupid, largely because I was exhausted, but also because bad was too closely related to guilt. And that was when it hit me that I was free to go. At least for the moment I wasn’t being charged with anything—none of us were—which I assumed was one of the reasons why Bob was so pissed.

After signing for my personal items, a purse, flashlight, notebook and pens—the police were holding onto my pistol and extra rounds pending the outcome of their investigation—I found Frame, Doc and Vermillion waiting for me outside in the parking lot. The four of us of were dead weary and cold, and Doc, looking like a guest at his own wake, was the only one with a drink. Huddling together in the streetlights we must have looked like a sad and desperate lot. One member of our party had been killed and another was in emergency. In all likelihood Sonoma County would call for a grand jury to examine this morning’s gun battle. The ice was so thin where we were skating you could look down and see the swift and deadly currents running beneath it. The good news, however, was that the police had not impounded our cars, but had brought them down to the station with us. All we had to do now was leave and everybody, except for Officer Bob, would be happy.

"And then what?" I asked Frame.

"You mean if we’re not indicted?" He said.

"Something like that."

He looked at me wearily, then he looked at the asphalt, and then he looked back up at me.

"I think we’ve taken this just about as far as we can," he said.

"But we’ve come so far," Doc said. "It would almost be a crime not to finish it."

"Maybe we did finish it," Vermillion said. "Graham is dead, isn’t he, who else is left?"

"Ringold," Doc said. "I don’t believe I remember seeing him this morning."

"Hell," Vermillion said. "Once he hears about this, I suspect he might start looking elsewhere for his troubles."

I looked at Doc; our eyes met. We shared the same thought. He said: "I don’t think so—it wouldn’t be like Jon just to leave without a farewell."


I drove Doc back to the city; Frame and Vermillion went to the emergency room in Napa to check on Blount. They would spend the night in Napa or wherever they could find rooms and then call us in the morning.

"By then," I sort of joked, "everything will probably look a lot worse."

"Probably," Doc said, "but as I may have pointed out earlier, my flask is always half-empty."

We remedied that by stopping at a convenience store where Doc purchased a quart of Russian vodka for himself and cup of strong black coffee for me. I felt a little cheated, but then I was the designated driver. However, by the time we reached San Rafael the shock stemming from the day’s events, along with the caffeine, had started to wear off and I started getting the shakes. Doc poured a couple of shots into my empty coffee cup and that alone saw us through.

I don’t even remember dropping him off. Or how I even managed to get home. All I know was that when the phone woke me a little before nine the following morning I wasn’t feeling particularly good. Each ring hit me like a hammer. By the time I heard Eugene’s voice shouting at me over the speaker to pick up the goddamned phone I was crying. He only swore when he had no choice or when he was angry and I figured at this point he was probably both. When I didn’t pick up he called right back. We did this three times before I answered him.

"You should have stayed in Costa Rica," he said before I could even get the receiver to my ear. "Did you hear me?"

His voice was bouncing off the walls of my apartment. "I heard you," I said.

"Well, it’s too late now. You can’t go anywhere." He waited a moment for that to sink in. When it didn’t, he said: "They’re pissed in Sonoma."

I took the phone with me into my small kitchen and started the espresso. I had a difficult time waiting for it to cook. I repeated what he said: "Pissed in Sonoma?"

"You could lose your license, you could go to jail."

"We were the ones who were ambushed."

"Nobody believes that manure.

"What do they believe?"

"They believe Frame Johnson has started world war three. And that you’re on his side."

"And?"

"And Junior convinced the D.A. early this morning to issue a warrant for Frame Johnson’s arrest. From what I understand he wants one for each member of Johnson’s team. Only he used the word gang instead of team."

"On what charges?"

"Murder," my Godfather said. "And conspiracy to commit murder—which is where you and whoever else comes into it. Remember Detective Stillwell, and a petty crook named Cruz? They’re still dead, don’t you know?"


"I know," I said. It seemed like a long time ago; it all did.

"And Stillwell was a San Francisco cop—nobody’s forgotten that part."

Suddenly my head was splitting and I could hardly breath. I leaned over the sink and splashed cold water against my face. It didn’t help much. And now that the espresso was done I didn’t want any. I just felt like going back to bed.

"Christ," I muttered under my breath, "won’t this ever be over?"

"It is over," Eugene said. "Except for the consequences."

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

Except for the consequences.

I didn’t even want to start thinking about those yet.

Doc called right after Eugene hung up. He greeted me cheerfully. A little too cheerfully, I thought, considering the circumstances. He had of course heard about Junior’s warrant and, personally, he didn’t give a damn. "Your friend, Donahue," as he so deftly put it, "is pissing against the wind." However, Evelyn Claxton was not. She was, according to his sources (his sources undoubtedly being Frame Johnson), going with the flow. At an age where she could only fail to appreciate the redemptive benefits of serving hard time, she was now cooperating with the authorities with an almost Zen-like enthusiasm. So far she had given up virtually everyone she knew, including her own idiot son, Dwight. The cops were rounding them up as we spoke. Sixteen veteran bikers in all, who, well schooled in jailhouse jurisprudence as it turned out, were able to present their interrogators with sixteen ironclad alibis for their whereabouts yesterday morning.

And the only two people Evelyn Claxton had neglected to surrender were Maxie Gray and Jon Ringold. Fear, Doc presumed, having been the primary motivation for her reluctance to betray them. Not to mention love, I had to remind him. I had, after all, witnessed something of the affection that existed between her and her somewhat younger killer.

Doc murmured something over the phone about how powerful a force in this world love could be.

"Just the thing," he elaborated, "that might persuade a mother as protective as Mrs. Claxton to not only sacrifice her eldest son in order to spare her doomed lover—but also that of a former confederate-in-crime, the ambitious albeit maladroit Lieutenant Donahue."

I supposed I should have been able to see that one coming.

"For you see, Katy, the good lieutenant is the pawn she intends on trading for her dark knight."


"Does she have that much to offer?"

"I would think not. I really don’t believe she’s the sort Maxie Gray would have allowed into his inner circle. But she is desperate and she undoubtedly has accumulated over the past year or two more than enough innuendo to give all concerned pause."

"And Ringold?"

"Ringold is another story altogether."

A sudden bout of coughing interrupted his thought. Liquor cured it. Over the phone I could hear his wife, Katherine, berating him in Hungarian. After a few minutes his coughing ceased, but by then he had to catch his breath. It was like listening to someone who had just run the one hundred-yard dash. His voice was strained and hoarse, but so was that of his wife, who, as always in the background, continued muttering in her harsh Old World tongue.

"Now where were we, Katy?" He finally managed to ask. It took a great deal of effort on his part just to get that much out and sound normal at the same time. Which, of course he did not.

"Ringold," I said.

"Oh yes," he said. "I suppose you’ve heard the rumor?’

"What rumor?" I asked.

"The one about him wanting the three of us dead," he said, rather cavalierly. "You, me, and Frame."

"No, I missed that one," I said. "Where did you hear it?"

"From Dodge," he said. "One of the bikers they picked up this morning used it to get out of a parole violation."

"Ringold and who else?"

Doc coughed into a handkerchief or perhaps his hand; I heard him spit something out. "And a few of his friends. Biker-trash mostly, small time criminals, and the like. You know the sort."

I was afraid I did. And it seemed that I was getting to know a lot more of them by the minute. This was not glad news—our small foray into enemy territory yesterday morning had obviously failed to accomplish much. That’s when my legs started to buckle. A mere quiver at first and then moments later uncontrollably. I left my espresso on the sink and sank down to the floor. It seemed like the only secure place left in the house. Doc was still talking but I was having a difficult time listening. I had to force the phone back to my ear. And the only thing I could think of saying was "What?"

His voice sounded like it had traveled thousands of miles just to reach me.

"It seems we’ve been invited to leave the state."

"Leave the state?"

"Vamoose. Get while the going is good. No deposit, no return. It would seem that we now stand at last among the unwelcomed."

"We?"

"I think it is safe to assume that you were included in the recommendation."


"And what exactly are you and Frame recommending?"

"Well, for starters, lunch."

"But I’m not hungry."

"Well, Katy," he said, "perhaps we should just think of it as sort of like a Last Supper."

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

Harley-Davidson’s ruled the parking lot at the Kangaroo Court. I counted fifteen machines standing like war-horses in the cold winter sun. They made the SUV’s look like wus-mobiles. The one bike I recognized belonged to Maxie Gray. His had leather saddlebags decorated with a lot of fringe and beads, a personalized license plate that had printed on it his very own 1-800 number, and a black Teutonic-styled helmet locked to the row bar. Painted on the back of the helmet was a small Confederate flag.

Doc admired the flag. He personally hailed from Georgia, he elucidated: a state whose sympathies over the War Between the States were still, well over a century later, not quite resolved to everyone’s satisfaction. But then, wherever Maxie was from, it was certainly not from the south, and that was one small detail Doc thought worth noting.

We threaded our way through the bikes towards the entrance of the establishment. It was dark inside but I didn’t bother taking off my sunglasses. As soon as we pushed our way in through the doors everything came to a rushing halt. Words were left hanging as every face turned in our direction; drinks froze in midair, underlining the eyes peering over them. It was as though our arrival was not altogether unexpected and was now being weighed as to its significance. Doc of course never wore sunglasses. He claimed he enjoyed seeing things exactly they way they are. And there they were, spread across a dozen tables, some of the meanest looking hombres I had ever seen in my life. The dining room looked like a scene from some nineteen-sixties biker movie: oil-soaked jeans and boots, denim vests covered with fascist insignias, and slogans pledging allegiance to some obscure fate that could only find its deliverance through grief, and enough liquor between them to ensure its attainment.

The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. Only Doc was smiling, and John Ringold who occupied a table at the far end of the room next to the fireplace. Maxie Gray sat beside him. They looked just like the best of friends. Ringold leaned back in his chair against the wall, leaving his hands flat on table, smirking. In the brilliant, fluid light of the fire his face and balding dome took on a demonic radiance, and his eyes, from where we stood, glowed eerily like two small beady red lights. And the creepy thing was that those eyes were for me alone.

The hostess approached us cautiously—obviously confused by the number of the Court’s customers who were suddenly in a hurry to get their checks and depart. And sensing somehow that our arrival had something to do with this small exodus, she glanced nervously around as though for help and finding none she asked in a sweet stuttering voice if we had a reservation. She was, maybe, twenty years old and blond and when Doc asked her to repeat what she had just said she had to fight back tears.

But there was already a table waiting for us, on the other side of the room, which was occupied by the more regular and faithful clientele. Frame Johnson stood up amid a wash of gray flannel suits and motioned with his chin for us to join him. We helped ourselves to two menus and left our young hostess at a total loss. Angry faces followed us across the floor; their eyes mean little drills. I heard the word bitch muttered more than a few times. I heard other words too, none of them very nice.


We were hardly settled when a waitress brought us drinks, compliments of Maxie Gray. Three shots—one hundred percent blue agave. Frame was going to send them back, but Doc stopped him.

"No man is so low that I cannot drink his tequila," he declared, waving his southern accent like a flag. He toasted the lawyer over his shoulder, one shot after another. Then he asked the waitress to deliver his bitterest regards. "Would you please tell the gentleman that I would gladly return the favor if he weren’t such a low down, no good, lying son of a bitch."

She shook her head no. "That’s something you should tell him," She said.


"Miss, you are absolutely right-"

Doc struggled to get up, but Frame held him in his seat with one hand.

"Not now, Doc," Frame said.

"Then when?"

"When you’re sober."

"That may not be for some time."

"We’ll be gone by then."

"Why don’t we just leave now?" I asked.

"Because the boy you used to baby sit," Frame said, "the one you call Junior, has a warrant for my arrest and he’s been informed that I will be here between now and one-thirty."

I was beginning to feel worse by the moment. I formed a quick puzzler in my mind: if fifteen bikers have at least one pistol each, and the three of us have at the most only two, and if they all go off at once does that mean the redhead gets killed first?

In all probability, I thought.

"I can hardly wait," I said

I looked at my watch. It was twelve-thirty. The waitress brought us another round. This time compliments of William Graham. Doc asked her if she could point poor William out to us. She looked over both shoulders and shrugged.

I think he’s already left," she said. "He was just leaving when he ordered the drinks."

"I see," Doc said. "Can you at least tell us what he looked like?"

"Like a biker," she said, glancing over her shoulder. "Like the dude sitting next to Maxie."

Lunch was light. I skipped it completely. For dessert I had two antacids. Frame had coffee. And Doc drank his. I listened as Frame talked and I wasn’t certain if I was hearing him correctly. The big plan was that we were leaving the state. He spoke softly, leaning across the table for my benefit, his eyes, alert, on guard. Several times he stopped speaking altogether so that he could focus his attention entirely on this or that person. He kept his right hand below the table, close to the pistol concealed under his sports coat.


"New Mexico or Colorado." Frame nodded towards Doc. "For the drier climate…"

"It’s suppose to work wonders for my cough," Doc said.

"I want you to join us," Frame said. "Just for a while. This is all going to be over pretty soon. Graham is dead. Evelyn Claxton is states evidence. And Dwight’s definitely not going to stick around to take the fall. I’ll see to it that you’re employed in the meantime."


"And what about them?" I pointed a thumb over my shoulder at the bikers.

Frame sighed and looked unhappily across the restaurant at Ringold and Gray. "We’re being asked to leave, Katy. As soon as possible. I let things get way out of control. Yesterday should never have happened. There were alternatives but I deliberately ignored them. It’s not me I’m worried about; I’ve got plenty of time. But there’s you and Doc and Vermillion and Johnson. I’m afraid I’ve used up all my credit on this one. All other charges will henceforth be declined."


"In other words, Ringold and Gray are just loose ends?"

Frame looked away me, and nodded.

Doc shrugged sadly over his empty glass.

"A pity" was all he said.