Chapter 12

The traffic through East Paradise Valley’s main drag was much busier, almost brisk, but it was a different kind of nightlife. The kids of East Paradise Valley consisted mostly of yuppie spawn masquerading as street trash. A lot of teens and twenty-somethings dressed down to some fashion designer’s conception of street. No wonder the real street trash west of the river laughed at them. The hookers and pushers were real enough though, and very obvious. They were the ones who looked like they actually belonged on the street. I didn’t know how many ties Finke might have on this side of the river, so I turned off Main at my first opportunity and threaded my way through the mostly deserted commercial streets.

The river was a kind of dividing line between the classes in Paradise Valley. The middle and upper-middle class tended to settle east of the river, the lower class, like yours truly, on the west. The notable exception to that rule was Snob Knob, former home of the late Candice Reynolds, AKA Candy Roche. Snob Knob was so far removed from the grungy downtown that most didn’t count it as part of the West Valley.

The West Valley’s seedier elements did good business with the yuppie spawn of East Valley but didn’t tend to linger once business concluded. Hanging around rich kids for too long can be a real downer when you’re not one. Even classless scumbags have feelings.

Now that I was on somewhat safer ground it was time to cool my heels for a few minutes. I had a few calls to make, starting with Candy’s business partner, Honey Beloi.

I aimed the Ventura away from downtown, up through the sleeping residential streets, toward the suburban sprawl that overlooked the downtown.

Toward my port in the storm.

* * *

I remember mentioning that my uncle was quite the entrepreneur, but I think I only touched on about half of his ventures. He has a half-stake in a dozen other small enterprises, including a large block of storage units near the airport, up in the highland portion of East Paradise Valley known locally as The Heights. The half of ABC storage that he owned was the actual storage units, the land belonged to a local tosspot who had inherited it but didn’t have the business sense to do anything with it. The guy’s first attempt at business was a restaurant, his last a nightclub that did a slow business for almost a year before he lost his liquor license, something about the bartender, his stepson, admitting underage girls and doing naughty things with them in the stockroom.

Uncle Higheagle loathed the man, but he never let violent hatred get in the way of a good business arrangement. The landowner wanted to make a living without working, Uncle Higheagle didn’t want to have to buy that particular piece of land, only use it.

And good old Uncle Higheagle, he made it work. What his partner hadn’t been able to fill with people, Uncle Higheagle filled with all their crap.

I didn’t have much to do with this particular venture. Every once in a great while he’d call on me to clear out an abandoned unit, just throw up a few yard sale signs on the outer fence and leave the gate open and the bargain hunters swarmed like flies on yesterday’s breakfast. Uncle would take enough of the cash to cover the unpaid back rent on the unit and what was left over was my bonus. I did some odd maintenance around the place and hosed the dust and cobwebs off the rows of long tin buildings every spring and fall.

The pay for my work at ABC Storage was permanent use of a double unit at the far end of row C, my office. It had a bay door and a regular door. I furnished it with a sofa, a smallish desk with a rolling office chair, and an often-used coffee pot sitting on a mostly empty file cabinet. It was like Finke’s garage but without the hookers and bad music. I’d thought about setting up a computer but decided against it. Hours stuck behind a computer screen was one of the things about my old life that I didn’t miss.

The anxiety that followed me all the way from Redwolf Bridge began to settle as I neared the top of the 17th Street grade into The Heights and the airport came into view. The airport was a small two-terminal job with a half-dozen ticket counters, a couple rental car counters, and a coffee stand. During the daytime, traffic in and out of the airport is just this side of deadly. But the terminal closed between ten in the evening and six in the morning, so late night traffic was light. Once I turned past the airport and onto the meandering two-lane road that wandered toward the landfill, shooting range, then out to the shit-kicker boonies, there was none.

A mile later I rounded and turned the corner at the far side of the fenced in airfield, and my home away from home came into view. Another fence, and behind it four long warehouse-like structures.

On the backseat Phil began to groan.

I stepped on the gas, pushing well past the thirty-five-speed limit. I wanted to be on the other side of that fence before he came around.

Phil began to mutter as I slowed, thumped his head against the back of my seat trying to sit up when I turned the corner onto ABC Storage’s short drive, muttered sweet nothings as I rolled my window down and punched my pass code into the security panel.

The fence was electrified and topped with razor wire. Signs posted around the perimeter warned off potential trespassers, threatened them with fines, imprisonment, death. Even more convincing was the occasional smoked bird or squirrel. A larger sign on the gate informed potential burglars of the closed-circuit security cameras posted strategically to capture every square inch of the property.

With a click and a hum, the gate began to slide away. A few seconds after I passed it by, turning parallel to the storage units, it slid shut.

My guest was good and bottled in now. Even if he got away from me, he wasn’t getting out of ABC Storage.

“Wha...who the fuck are you?”

Phil poked his head between the headrests of the front seats, and I clobbered him.

“Aw! Fuck...my nose!” Buck...by dose!

“Sit still, man, I’m trying to drive.”

“Fuck you!”

“Don’t be such a baby.”

“You broke it!”

I didn’t bother replying. It wasn’t broken. He was just being a pussy.

His phone rang again.

“Hey man, give me my phone back.”

“Nope,” I said.

“It’s my fucking phone, man!” His voice grew louder, more strident with each exchange. “Gimme the phone man, I need it!”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Who the fuck are you anyway? Did Cam send you after me?”

Interesting, I thought, and opted to answer with silence.

“Did he?”

I turned down my row, popping the glove box open and digging for the remote.

“Ah shit man...ohfuckohshit!” The man’s panic sobered him.

Very interesting, I amended.

I held my silence. The guy was building up to a fantastic monolog. I saw no reason to interrupt.

I found the remote, pushed the button, and the bay door on the furthest unit slid upward.

My guest saw this and began to panic in earnest.

“Jesus Christ man, I didn’t do nothin!” He began to climb between the seats again, grabbing at my shirt.

I half-turned in my seat again to feed him another knuckle sandwich, then had a better idea. I popped the glove box open and withdrew my favorite new toy. A short yellow wand with a pair of sinister looking brass prongs on the business end.

He was half over the seat now, his sweaty hands trying to get a grip on my throat. He grunted and thrust forward against the back of my seat as I gently applied my brakes.

I feared for the Ventura’s upholstery.

I shrugged him off like an ugly jacket and gave him a sharp prod with his girlfriend’s Wasp.

He didn’t like it much more than I had, but that was okay. I was starting to enjoy myself again. I knew it probably wouldn’t last long so I savored it and gave him another quick zap.

He flopped back against the rear seat screaming a high soprano and began to rave, blithering in a language that was half English, half fear.

“Do you want to live?” I tried to think of this question as a non sequitur rather than a threat.

There was a long pause, during which I reached my unit and swung the Ventura wide to pull inside. A motion sensitive flood lamp lit my way.

“Are you going to kill me?” Scumbag or not, the fear in his voice made me hate myself a little. I had to remind myself that this gentleman’s friends had already tried to kill me.

“Only if you make me,” I answered with complete sincerity. I hoped he’d read the most sinister of possibilities into my response—cooperate with me, tell me what I want to know, and you might walk away from this—but the truth is that I’m not a killer, at least not of the cold-blooded variety.

Well, there was the one time, but there’s some back-story I haven’t shared with you yet regarding that. If you knew it I think you’d probably understand.

I coasted to a stop inside the empty half of the storage unit, the half that served as a garage and auto shop, shifted into neutral, and killed the engine. I turned to regard my guest, and he looked up at me from the floorboard with naked fear, then shock as he took in the face that not even a mother could love.

“You,” he said, and seemed to sink a little further into the old car’s well-worn carpet.

He remembered me.

I was touched.

The bay door closed with a bang and he cringed at the sound, closing his eyes against it.

At last, he opened his eyes again, and looked up at me.

“I’m sorry. I’ll go back to jail now if you want.”