Time Bomb Town - Chapter Six
BongBoards Surfshop dated back to the sixties. Sitting on Venice Beach between a tattoo parlor and a t-shirt shop, it had been there forever. As the parade of the strange went up and down the boardwalk, old dudes in tank tops and board shorts sat outside drinking “iced-tea”, smoking and playing backgammon. Blond, tan and wrinkled, they nodded to Wyatt as he went past them into the shop itself.
The store itself was part headshop, part surf store. Elegantly crafted bongs filled the glass display cases by the checkout counter, along with various pipes and other gear. Wyatt ventured back further into the shop, past the name brand shirts, shorts and wetsuits, past the shortboards made by the big guys like Channel Islands or Firewire and pushed through a swinging door into a workshop.
Fiberglass shavings filled the air in this custom workshop. Shortboards, neo-classics and longboards, in various states of completion, lined the walls. Bombora, wearing goggles and a respirator, was bent over his latest masterpiece. He glanced up when he saw Wyatt come in.
Pulling off his respirator, Bombora smiled and grasped Wyatt in a huge hug.
“Hey kid! How you doing? What brings you down my way?” Bombora had a thick mop of greying blond hair and a trim beard with more than a touch of grey as well.
“I need a favor, Bom.”
“Sure, kid. You know I owe you and your brother. Anything you need.”
“I need a connection for something called golden noseflake.”
Bombora laughed. Then he realized that Wyatt was serious. “What? Oh...no. Nah... no way, dude. You're kidding, right?”
“No, Bom, I'm not kidding.”
Bombora lowered his voice even though there was no one around that could possibly hear them.
“Look, Wyatt, brother, that is serious stuff. It's meth on meth. Highly addictive. And seriously messed up. I did one line once and was up for five days straight. I hallucinated...like evil stuff. Hardcore evil. Golden Noseflake is the reason I'm never, ever snorting anything ever again...” Bombora shuddered at the memory.
“I need you to trust me and let me know where I can score some. And not just enough for personal consumption. I need a substantial quantity.”
Bombora sat down on a stool, heavily. “Well, hell, Wyatt, you can order it off his website. How weird is that? Order all you want, but don't say I didn't warn you.”
“That won't work. I need it today. I need a...personal connection. I know you know someone that can hook me up.”
“Aww, cripes, kid. Why don't you stick with your mom's stuff? That's good for you, all natural,” With that he pulled out a joint and lit it up. Taking a toke, he offered it to Wyatt. Wyatt shook his head.
“Bom, are you gonna help me out or not?”
“Are you gonna tell me why you need this shit?”
“Maybe later. Just...you know me. Trust me.”
Bombora sighed. “Awright, kid. I know one place to maybe get it. In the Valley. A bad part of the Valley.”
Wyatt grinned, “Is there a good part of the Valley?”
Dalton was driving his father's convertible Corvette. The top was down and in early September, the San Fernando Valley was hot. Ninety-five degrees. Making his way through the traffic on Ventura Boulevard, Dalton pulled into a two story office building/medical plaza.
Parking, he hurried to the front door of a non-descript storefront with a sign that read 'Clinic For Alternative Health'. Dalton pushed the door open and was greeted by the pungent smell of marijuana wafting past him. Normally, Dalton would never come here. He had only been inside once before. Truthfully, he was embarrassed by his mother's new passion, but he also couldn't argue with results. Veronica Vance had suffered for years from a serious case of Crohn's Disease. It had been debilitating. She tried all the drugs prescribed by her doctor. He had altered her diet significantly to try and limit the effects of the disease but to very little avail. She was on the verge of requiring intestinal surgery when she read about treatment through smoking marijuana. When she ran it by her doctors they did not discourage the suggestion.
And thus began the big fights with her husband, Carter. But his angry disapproval didn't stop her. She smoked two joints a day for several months and her Crohn's went into complete remission. If that had been it, it probably would have just been forgotten. But it wasn't over. Veronica became a passionate advocate for the medical uses of marijuana. She opened her own clinic to help those who, like her, were in real need. The marriage, however, didn't survive. A surface excuse for deeper issues in their relationship, but Dalton wouldn't allow that thought into his mind.
Dalton just let the two violently opposed perspectives of his parents on the issue exist together in his mind. What was that phrase about irresistible forces and immoveable objects? That described his parent's relationship.
The shop was a colorful affair, but neatly and professionally laid out. Products were sealed in glass display cases, clearly labeled. A bakery case was at the front of the shop, filled with homemade baked goods. On the walls were inspirational and encouraging posters, which Dalton also found slightly embarrassing in their earnestness, but he knew his mother loved them. A slightly cheesy side to her that not many people knew about.
The clerk at the counter waved at Dalton.
“Hi Wyatt!”
“I'm Dalton. My mom around?”
“She's upstairs in the office with her new 'friend'.” The clerk winked at Dalton.
“Uh, what?”
“They seemed real close when they came in, if you know what I mean.”
Dalton just ignored this, went behind the counter to the back door and ran up the stairs to the office.
Veronica Vance's office was very conservative, in contrast to the shop downstairs. Dark woods, a large desk. Walls lined with bookshelves. Ronni sat behind her desk, scanning her computer screen. Her gun, as well as Agent Turner's weapon, lay on the desk next to the keyboard. “We need to come to an understanding, Agent Turner.”
Agent Turner was seated, handcuffed to a chair, across from her. His face was starting to show bruises from where Wyatt and Dalton hit him. One eye was turning purple and swelling.
“You're really, really stupid, lady. I'm a Federal Agent.”
“So you keep telling me,” she leaned forward on the desk. “If we can agree to leave my boys out of this entire situation, have them vanish from your memory, I will be happy to let you go. Once I have assurances.”
“Oh, oh, you mean the legally adult males who physically assaulted me?”
“You were in their house, doing a warrantless, illegal search.”
“Lady, this is the United States of America. Law enforcement doesn't need warrants anymore or haven't you been watching the news?”
“You're a toad.”
“And you're going to prison. For a long time.”
“Oh, please. I was married to a Federal Agent. I handcuffed him many times and there were never any criminal complaints.”
“Funny. Ha. Ha. Look. If you let me go and you are willing to testify against Carter, I'm pretty sure we can work something out.”
“How considerate.”
“You think I'm letting Carter get away with murdering my men? You've got a choice. You can go down with him or you can cut the monster loose and help me hang him.”
“I'm curious. What do you think Carter actually did?”
“You playing dumb, lady?”
“Let's just pretend I am dumb. Let's say I don't know Carter at all, even though I was married to him for twenty-six years and we dated all through high school and college and I bore him four children. Humor me. Indulge me. What horrible thing has Carter done?”
Turner looked at her dully. “Maybe it was all your idea. Maybe it was you. It all seems to have started around four years ago, around the time you two got divorced. When you started dealing drugs and left him.”
Veronica prickled at that, but let it go. “So...what was this idea?”
“Systematically undermining and disrupting law enforcement efforts directed against Midas Jones and his operations in exchange for cash. Large amounts of cash. Carter was tipping off Midas about raids, messing up addresses or skewing the intel just enough to make it look like human error. But when you take it all together the conclusion is undeniable. Carter was working for Midas Jones.”
There was a knock on the door and Dalton entered.
“Mom, we gotta go. The F.B.I. somehow knows this guy is missing. They're gonna be here soon, I'm betting.”
“Where's Wyatt? Is he okay?”
“He's fine, Mom, he's working on a plan we have and we need your help for it. But we have to go, right now!”
“A plan? I need to talk to him.” She pulled her cell phone from her purse.
“NO, MA! No cell phones. Not yet.”
Dalton went behind Turner and jerked him to his feet. “Come on, Agent Turner. You're coming too.”
“Great. Maybe when I put you all in Federal Prison, I'll see if I can get you the family suite.”
“As long as I can have my own room. Wyatt's a slob.” Dalton shoved the man towards the stairway.
The late afternoon sun burned down on North Hollywood. It was a squalid little neighborhood, with tiny houses built in the forties. Some were carefully maintained but most were poorly cared for and falling into disrepair. Wyatt turned his Dodge Challenger off Strathern onto a dismal side street. In the passenger seat, Dalton watched for the address. He pointed it out and Wyatt parked the car.
As they walked up the driveway, Dalton was getting more and more uncomfortable. The house was a mess. There were stacks of trash on the sides of the driveway. The shingles on the roof were sliding off and the front rain gutter had been torn away. The lawn was long dead and brown. Weeds overflowed what must have once been flower beds. Most disturbing of all, the windows had all been papered over and sealed, closing out any possible light.
“You know, this might not be our best plan ever,” said Dalton apprehensively.
“Just let me do the talking.”
They reached the porch and Wyatt knocked. Several times. Dalton tried the door bell. Nothing. No response. They were about to step off the porch and look around when the door cracked open.
It was a woman. She was only twenty-four, but she looked forty. She was too thin and her skin was covered with sores that she obviously spent far too much time picking. Her teeth were a disturbing combination of gray and yellow. The pupils of her eyes were totally dilated. The way she moved, nervously, with repetitive, obsessive hand motions, made it clear she was tweaking hard.
Wyatt smiled at her. “Hi, Michelle? Bombora from Venice Beach talked to you today, remember? I'm Wyatt. The guy he told you about. This is my brother Dalton.”
“Oh sure...Come on in. Bom's the bomb! You're not cops are you?”
The dim inside of the house was unlit by even a single bulb. Only the barest slivers of late afternoon sunshine penetrating the cracks in the window-coverings provided any illumination. The house was a nightmare. Swirls of trash, clothing and food waste were strewn around the living room.
Several empty vodka bottles and glass pipes littered the coffee table. Dalton looked stricken as if he was torn between a desire to clean the place or run screaming back into the daylight.
“No, we're not cops.”
“'Cause they have to tell you if you ask. If you ask them specifically. And, anyways I can read minds. I know what you're thinking. I'm the devil's sister, you know? But sometimes Jesus comes and talks to me. He says some crazy stuff.”
“That nutty Jesus.”
“Seriously, you know? But the devil loves me and thinks I'm perfect just the way I am. And I am perfect don't you think?” Michelle twirled like a ballerina.
“You are...something else,” said Wyatt, shooting a look at Dalton to keep his mouth shut. “Hey, Michelle. We need to score pretty big and pretty fast. We have some clients that want the best. Golden Noseflake. And they're willing to pay top dollar to get it today.”
“Sure. How much you want?”
“A kilo.”
“Shit...that would be like forty-five grand.”
“Seems a little high.”
“It's Golden Noseflake, baby.”
“Right. Ok. Well, can you deliver?”
“You're gonna have to show me some cash.”
Dalton pulled a thick wad of hundred dollar bills out of his back pocket. “I can bring the rest on delivery.”
“Damn. Ok. Lemme make a call,” Michelle wandered off, down a long hallway.
When she was out of earshot Dalton muttered, “She's a poster child for legalization.”
“We are not having that discussion right now,” hissed Wyatt.
“I'm having serious doubts about this plan.”
“Just relax.”
“What if all we do is end up with a kilo of meth we can't actually pay for? What if-”
Wyatt cut him off, “Are you really bringing up these objections now?”
Michelle stuck her head out of a doorway down the hall. “Hey. Wyatt Earp and Texas Ranger. Come on back.”
Dalton and Wyatt headed down the dark hallway towards the light coming from the open doorway Michelle was standing in.
“What did you guys say you did again?”
“We're college students,” said Dalton.
“Geez. Not very bright college students.”
“What?”
Three large men came out of the door behind Michelle. One of them was holding a baseball bat.
“Yeah...see Midas just told me what he wanted for Christmas. He wants you guys all wrapped up, with a bow on top.”
The three men moved past Michelle.
“Oh, damn...this is going to hurt...” said Wyatt.
“I knew this was a bad plan,” said Dalton through clenched teeth. Wyatt swung first.
About forty-five minutes later, a plain white panel van backed up into the driveway of Michelle's rundown crackhouse. Two rough-looking men got out and opened the back. Michelle's three toughs came out with a misshapen roll of carpet. They tossed it in the back of the van and went back for one more. When both were loaded, the van was closed up and pulled away.
Across the street and down the block, a motorcycle rider sat astride a Suzuki GS500F. Wearing a helmet and leathers that matched the bike, the rider watched the van leave. The mirrored visor hid the rider's face. The rider spoke, activating the bluetooth built into the helmet. It was Alina.
“They took the bait. I'm on 'em”
She started the bike and gunned it, taking off after the van.
The store itself was part headshop, part surf store. Elegantly crafted bongs filled the glass display cases by the checkout counter, along with various pipes and other gear. Wyatt ventured back further into the shop, past the name brand shirts, shorts and wetsuits, past the shortboards made by the big guys like Channel Islands or Firewire and pushed through a swinging door into a workshop.
Fiberglass shavings filled the air in this custom workshop. Shortboards, neo-classics and longboards, in various states of completion, lined the walls. Bombora, wearing goggles and a respirator, was bent over his latest masterpiece. He glanced up when he saw Wyatt come in.
Pulling off his respirator, Bombora smiled and grasped Wyatt in a huge hug.
“Hey kid! How you doing? What brings you down my way?” Bombora had a thick mop of greying blond hair and a trim beard with more than a touch of grey as well.
“I need a favor, Bom.”
“Sure, kid. You know I owe you and your brother. Anything you need.”
“I need a connection for something called golden noseflake.”
Bombora laughed. Then he realized that Wyatt was serious. “What? Oh...no. Nah... no way, dude. You're kidding, right?”
“No, Bom, I'm not kidding.”
Bombora lowered his voice even though there was no one around that could possibly hear them.
“Look, Wyatt, brother, that is serious stuff. It's meth on meth. Highly addictive. And seriously messed up. I did one line once and was up for five days straight. I hallucinated...like evil stuff. Hardcore evil. Golden Noseflake is the reason I'm never, ever snorting anything ever again...” Bombora shuddered at the memory.
“I need you to trust me and let me know where I can score some. And not just enough for personal consumption. I need a substantial quantity.”
Bombora sat down on a stool, heavily. “Well, hell, Wyatt, you can order it off his website. How weird is that? Order all you want, but don't say I didn't warn you.”
“That won't work. I need it today. I need a...personal connection. I know you know someone that can hook me up.”
“Aww, cripes, kid. Why don't you stick with your mom's stuff? That's good for you, all natural,” With that he pulled out a joint and lit it up. Taking a toke, he offered it to Wyatt. Wyatt shook his head.
“Bom, are you gonna help me out or not?”
“Are you gonna tell me why you need this shit?”
“Maybe later. Just...you know me. Trust me.”
Bombora sighed. “Awright, kid. I know one place to maybe get it. In the Valley. A bad part of the Valley.”
Wyatt grinned, “Is there a good part of the Valley?”
* * *
Dalton was driving his father's convertible Corvette. The top was down and in early September, the San Fernando Valley was hot. Ninety-five degrees. Making his way through the traffic on Ventura Boulevard, Dalton pulled into a two story office building/medical plaza.
Parking, he hurried to the front door of a non-descript storefront with a sign that read 'Clinic For Alternative Health'. Dalton pushed the door open and was greeted by the pungent smell of marijuana wafting past him. Normally, Dalton would never come here. He had only been inside once before. Truthfully, he was embarrassed by his mother's new passion, but he also couldn't argue with results. Veronica Vance had suffered for years from a serious case of Crohn's Disease. It had been debilitating. She tried all the drugs prescribed by her doctor. He had altered her diet significantly to try and limit the effects of the disease but to very little avail. She was on the verge of requiring intestinal surgery when she read about treatment through smoking marijuana. When she ran it by her doctors they did not discourage the suggestion.
And thus began the big fights with her husband, Carter. But his angry disapproval didn't stop her. She smoked two joints a day for several months and her Crohn's went into complete remission. If that had been it, it probably would have just been forgotten. But it wasn't over. Veronica became a passionate advocate for the medical uses of marijuana. She opened her own clinic to help those who, like her, were in real need. The marriage, however, didn't survive. A surface excuse for deeper issues in their relationship, but Dalton wouldn't allow that thought into his mind.
Dalton just let the two violently opposed perspectives of his parents on the issue exist together in his mind. What was that phrase about irresistible forces and immoveable objects? That described his parent's relationship.
The shop was a colorful affair, but neatly and professionally laid out. Products were sealed in glass display cases, clearly labeled. A bakery case was at the front of the shop, filled with homemade baked goods. On the walls were inspirational and encouraging posters, which Dalton also found slightly embarrassing in their earnestness, but he knew his mother loved them. A slightly cheesy side to her that not many people knew about.
The clerk at the counter waved at Dalton.
“Hi Wyatt!”
“I'm Dalton. My mom around?”
“She's upstairs in the office with her new 'friend'.” The clerk winked at Dalton.
“Uh, what?”
“They seemed real close when they came in, if you know what I mean.”
Dalton just ignored this, went behind the counter to the back door and ran up the stairs to the office.
* * *
Veronica Vance's office was very conservative, in contrast to the shop downstairs. Dark woods, a large desk. Walls lined with bookshelves. Ronni sat behind her desk, scanning her computer screen. Her gun, as well as Agent Turner's weapon, lay on the desk next to the keyboard. “We need to come to an understanding, Agent Turner.”
Agent Turner was seated, handcuffed to a chair, across from her. His face was starting to show bruises from where Wyatt and Dalton hit him. One eye was turning purple and swelling.
“You're really, really stupid, lady. I'm a Federal Agent.”
“So you keep telling me,” she leaned forward on the desk. “If we can agree to leave my boys out of this entire situation, have them vanish from your memory, I will be happy to let you go. Once I have assurances.”
“Oh, oh, you mean the legally adult males who physically assaulted me?”
“You were in their house, doing a warrantless, illegal search.”
“Lady, this is the United States of America. Law enforcement doesn't need warrants anymore or haven't you been watching the news?”
“You're a toad.”
“And you're going to prison. For a long time.”
“Oh, please. I was married to a Federal Agent. I handcuffed him many times and there were never any criminal complaints.”
“Funny. Ha. Ha. Look. If you let me go and you are willing to testify against Carter, I'm pretty sure we can work something out.”
“How considerate.”
“You think I'm letting Carter get away with murdering my men? You've got a choice. You can go down with him or you can cut the monster loose and help me hang him.”
“I'm curious. What do you think Carter actually did?”
“You playing dumb, lady?”
“Let's just pretend I am dumb. Let's say I don't know Carter at all, even though I was married to him for twenty-six years and we dated all through high school and college and I bore him four children. Humor me. Indulge me. What horrible thing has Carter done?”
Turner looked at her dully. “Maybe it was all your idea. Maybe it was you. It all seems to have started around four years ago, around the time you two got divorced. When you started dealing drugs and left him.”
Veronica prickled at that, but let it go. “So...what was this idea?”
“Systematically undermining and disrupting law enforcement efforts directed against Midas Jones and his operations in exchange for cash. Large amounts of cash. Carter was tipping off Midas about raids, messing up addresses or skewing the intel just enough to make it look like human error. But when you take it all together the conclusion is undeniable. Carter was working for Midas Jones.”
There was a knock on the door and Dalton entered.
“Mom, we gotta go. The F.B.I. somehow knows this guy is missing. They're gonna be here soon, I'm betting.”
“Where's Wyatt? Is he okay?”
“He's fine, Mom, he's working on a plan we have and we need your help for it. But we have to go, right now!”
“A plan? I need to talk to him.” She pulled her cell phone from her purse.
“NO, MA! No cell phones. Not yet.”
Dalton went behind Turner and jerked him to his feet. “Come on, Agent Turner. You're coming too.”
“Great. Maybe when I put you all in Federal Prison, I'll see if I can get you the family suite.”
“As long as I can have my own room. Wyatt's a slob.” Dalton shoved the man towards the stairway.
* * *
The late afternoon sun burned down on North Hollywood. It was a squalid little neighborhood, with tiny houses built in the forties. Some were carefully maintained but most were poorly cared for and falling into disrepair. Wyatt turned his Dodge Challenger off Strathern onto a dismal side street. In the passenger seat, Dalton watched for the address. He pointed it out and Wyatt parked the car.
As they walked up the driveway, Dalton was getting more and more uncomfortable. The house was a mess. There were stacks of trash on the sides of the driveway. The shingles on the roof were sliding off and the front rain gutter had been torn away. The lawn was long dead and brown. Weeds overflowed what must have once been flower beds. Most disturbing of all, the windows had all been papered over and sealed, closing out any possible light.
“You know, this might not be our best plan ever,” said Dalton apprehensively.
“Just let me do the talking.”
They reached the porch and Wyatt knocked. Several times. Dalton tried the door bell. Nothing. No response. They were about to step off the porch and look around when the door cracked open.
It was a woman. She was only twenty-four, but she looked forty. She was too thin and her skin was covered with sores that she obviously spent far too much time picking. Her teeth were a disturbing combination of gray and yellow. The pupils of her eyes were totally dilated. The way she moved, nervously, with repetitive, obsessive hand motions, made it clear she was tweaking hard.
Wyatt smiled at her. “Hi, Michelle? Bombora from Venice Beach talked to you today, remember? I'm Wyatt. The guy he told you about. This is my brother Dalton.”
“Oh sure...Come on in. Bom's the bomb! You're not cops are you?”
The dim inside of the house was unlit by even a single bulb. Only the barest slivers of late afternoon sunshine penetrating the cracks in the window-coverings provided any illumination. The house was a nightmare. Swirls of trash, clothing and food waste were strewn around the living room.
Several empty vodka bottles and glass pipes littered the coffee table. Dalton looked stricken as if he was torn between a desire to clean the place or run screaming back into the daylight.
“No, we're not cops.”
“'Cause they have to tell you if you ask. If you ask them specifically. And, anyways I can read minds. I know what you're thinking. I'm the devil's sister, you know? But sometimes Jesus comes and talks to me. He says some crazy stuff.”
“That nutty Jesus.”
“Seriously, you know? But the devil loves me and thinks I'm perfect just the way I am. And I am perfect don't you think?” Michelle twirled like a ballerina.
“You are...something else,” said Wyatt, shooting a look at Dalton to keep his mouth shut. “Hey, Michelle. We need to score pretty big and pretty fast. We have some clients that want the best. Golden Noseflake. And they're willing to pay top dollar to get it today.”
“Sure. How much you want?”
“A kilo.”
“Shit...that would be like forty-five grand.”
“Seems a little high.”
“It's Golden Noseflake, baby.”
“Right. Ok. Well, can you deliver?”
“You're gonna have to show me some cash.”
Dalton pulled a thick wad of hundred dollar bills out of his back pocket. “I can bring the rest on delivery.”
“Damn. Ok. Lemme make a call,” Michelle wandered off, down a long hallway.
When she was out of earshot Dalton muttered, “She's a poster child for legalization.”
“We are not having that discussion right now,” hissed Wyatt.
“I'm having serious doubts about this plan.”
“Just relax.”
“What if all we do is end up with a kilo of meth we can't actually pay for? What if-”
Wyatt cut him off, “Are you really bringing up these objections now?”
Michelle stuck her head out of a doorway down the hall. “Hey. Wyatt Earp and Texas Ranger. Come on back.”
Dalton and Wyatt headed down the dark hallway towards the light coming from the open doorway Michelle was standing in.
“What did you guys say you did again?”
“We're college students,” said Dalton.
“Geez. Not very bright college students.”
“What?”
Three large men came out of the door behind Michelle. One of them was holding a baseball bat.
“Yeah...see Midas just told me what he wanted for Christmas. He wants you guys all wrapped up, with a bow on top.”
The three men moved past Michelle.
“Oh, damn...this is going to hurt...” said Wyatt.
“I knew this was a bad plan,” said Dalton through clenched teeth. Wyatt swung first.
* * *
About forty-five minutes later, a plain white panel van backed up into the driveway of Michelle's rundown crackhouse. Two rough-looking men got out and opened the back. Michelle's three toughs came out with a misshapen roll of carpet. They tossed it in the back of the van and went back for one more. When both were loaded, the van was closed up and pulled away.
Across the street and down the block, a motorcycle rider sat astride a Suzuki GS500F. Wearing a helmet and leathers that matched the bike, the rider watched the van leave. The mirrored visor hid the rider's face. The rider spoke, activating the bluetooth built into the helmet. It was Alina.
“They took the bait. I'm on 'em”
She started the bike and gunned it, taking off after the van.
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