Tahoe deep, p.16
Tahoe Deep, page 16
part #17 of An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Series
“Let me show you a dog trick,” I said. I tugged at Spot’s collar. “See this man, Largeness?”
Spot swung his head around and lifted his nose toward the man.
The man held his ground. Although my dog was 170 pounds, the man was at least twice that. No dog, however large, could scare him.
I rested my hand on Spot’s neck as I spoke to the man. “If I point my dog toward you and then touch his throat and tell him to growl, he’ll growl at you.”
“So? He can growl all he wants. I can still put a round through his head with my pocket Glock. If your dog assaults me, I’m within my rights to shoot both of you dead.”
“He won’t assault you. He’s just going to show you a dog trick. No cause for pulling a gun. But if you pulled a gun anyway, the problem is that if he’s growling at you, it will unnerve you. And if you’re unnerved, you won’t be very smooth getting your piece out. But worst of all is that if you pull a gun on me or my dog, that will in fact be assault, and my dog and I will have to defend ourselves. My dog could possibly bite. And then I’ll have one of my episodes, and Red will wish you’d never come into his fine establishment. He’ll probably ban you for life.”
The man looked at me as if he’d been holding his breath and couldn’t go much longer without bursting.
I touched Spot’s throat. “Go ahead, boy. Show him your trick.”
Spot looked up at me as if he didn’t understand.
“I mean it. Growl at this man.”
Spot looked at the man then back at me.
I bent down and made a growling sound in Spot’s ear, soft enough that only Spot could hear me.
Spot growled. Low-pitched and soft at first. I touched his throat again. He upped the growl, not so low and not so soft. He lifted his lips enough to show some fang.
The big man stiffened.
I touched Spot on the top of his nose and he stopped growling. “See, Mo, that’s his trick,” I said. “Pretty good, huh?” I looked at Spot. “Good boy!” I pulled a dog biscuit out of my pocket and gave it to him. Spot munched once, then swallowed. He looked at my pocket where I keep the doggie treats and wagged.
I turned back to Mo.
“You try that again, I’ll shoot,” Mo said.
“No, you wouldn’t be that stupid. Then again, maybe you would be. Spot, let’s do another trick and show...”
I saw Mo reach for his pistol and jerk it up and out. “Spot! Weapon hand!”
I waited a half second to see if Spot would react. As he swung his head toward Mo, I turned, anticipating how Red would react, and leaped toward the bar.
Red was pulling an ancient sawed-off, double-barreled, shotgun out from under the bar.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I didn't know if Red was going to use his shotgun on me or Spot, or maybe Mo. Maybe he only intended to wave it for intimidation. But I couldn’t take a chance.
I slid halfway across the bar and reached for the barrel. But I was too slow. He jerked it away from me and fired it toward the ceiling. His speed was such that I thought he’d probably done that before.
People see shotguns in movies and TV shows, and they realize they are wicked weapons. But what video doesn’t show is a shotgun’s sound volume.
When Red’s gun went off in the confines of the bar, it was like a bomb blast. Several people dropped to the floor in shock, not even realizing that it was a gun that had gone off. Others jerked so hard they dropped their beer bottles.
I’d seen the shooting unfold, so I was prepared. Even so, the blast was a powerful shock to my ears and no doubt Spot’s as well. Fortunately, he was down on the floor, where he’d pulled Mo down. The bar had protected them both from the worst of the sound.
Red was swinging the gun toward me.
I grabbed a glass off the bartop and hurled it his way as I slid across the bar’s surface. The glass slammed Red on his right hand, hitting the knuckles near his trigger finger. He jerked in pain but didn’t fire. I landed on my feet on the other side of the bar. Red recovered his focus and resumed bringing his gun toward me, but I grabbed the gun by its barrel.
“No more!” I shouted at Red as I jerked the gun.
Because he was slowed by the pain of the glass strike, he lost his grip on the shotgun. Red flinched, probably stunned that I’d launched over the bar at him. No doubt he was also wondering if in fact I really was unhinged, and that this was the beginning of my “episode,” and that I was about to shoot up the bar and his patrons and maybe him, too.
As Red backed away from me, I pointed the shotgun to his side, and said, “Are you going for another weapon?”
He shook his head. It looked sincere.
I held the second hammer back, pulled the trigger, and let the hammer down gently. I snapped his gun open, and ejected the two shells, one empty, the other still fresh. I opened one of his chest coolers, dropped the shells inside, and shut the lid.
The crowd in the bar was back to a loud volume of commotion. Men rushing about, at least one of them waving a gun. Still holding the shotgun, I put one foot onto a plastic crate near the beer keg, used it to step up onto the edge of the keg, and from there stepped up onto the bar. The ceiling was high enough that I could stand up.
I held the shotgun but didn’t point it. I shouted, “Listen up everybody! Everything is okay and under control! Isn’t that right, Red?”
I looked at him. He was leaning forward, both hands on the bar. A flashing neon sign on his left lit the left side of his face in pulsing orange. Red nodded.
Directly below me, Spot was on the floor, chest down, elbows spread, his jaws around Mo’s forearm. Mo lay on his back, arms and legs both spread-eagled. The pocket Glock was nowhere in sight. His face was a grimace of pain.
I continued. “Sorry for the commotion. I came in here for some simple information.” I pointed down at the floor. “But Mo, here, picked a fight. Big mistake. I’m an investigator pursuing a murder and a separate assault on an old man.” I didn’t say any more about the crime, because any details obtained from an informant, if accurate, will indicate the likely truth or falseness of their information when compared to the known facts.
I thought about an appropriate white lie to keep the calm and possibly motivate some help. “The sheriff’s office and the state Bureau of Investigation are coordinating this investigation. As I speak, there are fourteen law enforcement officers staked out around the parking lot outside this bar. If you run out, you will be detained and brought in for questioning, maybe held overnight. And of course, if there are any outstanding warrants for you, your freedom is up. Unless…” I paused. The room went relatively quiet. “If you stay calm and listen to me, you will be left alone and free to go when I’m done.” I glanced back at Red. He hadn’t moved.
I said, “Our investigation has led us here because we want to question the Bosstro brothers.”
There was a sudden rise of voices.
“Mo knows something about the Bosstro brothers,” I said. “He could have given me help. Instead, he went for his gun and was taken down by my patrol dog. I’m hoping no one else is that stupid. If you are, my dog will be happy to chew on you as well. I have a question for all of you. If any single person answers it, I go away and none of you will ever see me again. I won’t even charge Mo with assault.”
I paused to take a deep breath to slow my heart. “Mo’s reaction to my mention of the Bosstro brothers tells me that they are my target. I went out to their house and Harly’s farm, but saw no sign of them. I assume that somebody here knows their phone number and where they are. That’s all I ask. There’s a reward for the information.”
Everyone seemed to talk to each other in subdued voices. But no one spoke up that I could hear.
I waited.
A voice from over by the billiard tables said, “How much is the reward?”
I got out my wallet, pulled out two $100 bills that I’d brought for the purpose of buying favors, and held them up. “Two hundred dollars. The Bosstro brothers’ phone number and current location. You don’t need to give me your name. Oh, one more thing. I’ll give you an extra hundred if you give me the name of the inker who did the Bosstro tattoos.” Another pause before I continued. “Red is going to close early tonight, right, Red?”
He frowned, then nodded, probably thinking about potential trouble with the law and the hope that I would make that go away.
I bent over and spoke to Red in a low voice. “Give me your card. I’ll call and tell you where I leave your gun.”
He made a single nod and handed me a card.
I stood up and spoke to the crowd. “When I get outside, I’m going to call the commander of the LEOs surrounding this place and tell them to pull back. Mo will be my bodyguard. I’ll park my Jeep near the exit. As you exit, you’ll drive by me. Give me the information, I hand you the money. Mo will be facing the other way, so he won’t see who told me.”
I jumped down off the bar.
“Spot, release the suspect.”
He didn’t immediately respond. Like all dogs, his natural instinct was to hang onto his prey, whether it be a frisbee or a smelly man.
“It’s okay, Largeness.” I pet him. “Let go. Mo is coming with us.” I put my hand on Spot’s snout and eased his jaws off of Mo’s arm.
I pointed the shotgun at Mo, reached for his uninjured arm, and tugged. “Time to get up, Mo. We’re going out to the parking lot.”
With a significant upward heave from me, Mo was able to sit up without first turning over onto his hands and knees. I saw his Glock on the floor where he’d been half lying on it. I picked up his weapon and put it in my pocket. Then I tugged him up onto his feet.
“Your dog wrecked my arm,” Mo said, his voice that of a gruff, tough guy who was trying not to whimper. He held his right arm slightly bent, his hand hanging limp.
“Yeah, he tends to do that when someone pulls a gun on me.”
“I’m going to need a doctor. I’m going to need surgery.”
“Good idea,” I said. I kept the shotgun on Mo and held onto his good arm with my left hand.
“You’re gonna pay for this. I’ll sue you for everything you’ve got.”
“Then I’ll have you booked for assault with a deadly weapon. I have a hundred witnesses. You can’t collect damages for injuries obtained in the commission of a felony. And how many felonies would this assault give you? Three? That would put you inside for a very long time. Could be you’ll go to Granite Bay. I hope you’re good at making friends with those gangbangers. Even though you’re fat and ugly, they’ll still make you their sex toy.”
Mo hobbled toward the front door. He was holding his right arm with his left hand. Some blood dripped down the back of his ring finger, but it didn’t look like a dangerous volume. I used my foot to push the door open. Spot followed us through.
We walked out into the parking lot. I let Spot in the back door of the Jeep.
“Mo, you get in the front passenger seat.”
It took Mo some effort to get in the Jeep. He completely filled the space. There wasn’t enough room to keep the shotgun on him. So I got his pistol out of my pocket and held it pointing up under his chin, the barrel against his throat. Mo was rigid with fear as I drove one-handed over to the entrance and parked so that the tailgate would face the traffic as it exited the parking lot. Mo would not be able to see the vehicles as they drove past the rear of the Jeep.
“I’m going to get out and stand next to the passenger door. You’re going to sit looking straight ahead so you don’t see who pulls up to collect the reward.”
“Flyboy and his bro are up at Lake Tahoe,” Mo said.
“Why Tahoe?”
“There’s some kind of treasure. Sunk in the lake. Their boss wants it, and they’re helping him.”
“Who’s their boss.”
“I dunno.”
“How do they think they’ll get it?”
“I dunno.”
“What’s Flyboy’s number?” I asked.
“I’ve got it written down.”
I continued to hold the gun under his jaw. “Where?”
“In my wallet. But I can’t reach it. This car’s too small. I’ll have to get out of the car to pull it out.”
I got out of the Jeep and stepped away. When Mo got out, I once again leveled the shotgun at his chest. Mo was probably too dumb to realize it was unloaded and I hadn’t cocked either of the hammers.
“Pull it out,” I said. “Slowly.”
He reached behind him with his good hand and pulled out his wallet. He held it out. “I can’t get it out one-handed.”
“Yes, you can.”
Mo struggled with it, trying not to drop the wallet, holding it against his body as his thick fingers worked into the folds. He eventually got a piece of paper out, holding it like a cigarette between his index and middle fingers.
I took the paper. It was blank except for a phone number written in blue ballpoint pen. “This is Flyboy’s?”
Mo nodded. “That’s my only copy of the number. I should write it down on something. You could write it for me.”
I ignored his request. “Flyboy is otherwise known as…”
“Jeff Bosstro.”
“Why do you have his number?”
“‘Cuz sometimes I like him to help me on jobs.”
“What kind of jobs?” I asked.
“You know. Deliveries. Collections. Regular job stuff.”
“The regular stuff of what business? Cooking meth?”
Mo shrugged.
“Where does Flyboy stay in Tahoe?” I asked.
“I dunno.”
“Is he there with his brother?”
“Yeah. Flyboy couldn’t put on his shoes without Chinless… Without Carlos telling him which goes on the right and which goes on the left.”
“What kind of weapons do Chinless and Flyboy carry?”
“Chinless like a Concealed-Carry Ruger. But Chinless say a baseball bat is more Flyboy’s speed. Less chance Flyboy hit himself with it.”
“Flyboy does everything Chinless says?”
“Pretty much ever one does whatever Chinless say. He’s big and he’s mean. Smart, too. It’s just, you know, in your interest to keep Chinless happy.”
I held up the two bills I’d brandished in the bar. “Who’s the inker who did the Bosstro tats?”
Mo shook his head. “Don’t know.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“I’m trying to decide if it’s really ‘don’t know’ or ‘won’t tell.’” I raised the shotgun so the barrel was under his throat. Then I lifted it so the metal made a hard connection to his jawbone.
“I don’t know. Honest truth.”
I pushed the shotgun barrel onto his Adam’s apple.
“Honest!”
I eased back on the gun barrel pressure.
“What about my pocket Glock?” Mo asked.
“Its new home is my pocket,” I said. I handed him one bill.
“You said two bills.” Mo was almost whining.
“The other is the cost of your recalcitrance.” I got in the Jeep.
“My re-what?”
I drove away.
As I turned right onto the local road, I swerved over into the tall grass and weeds on the shoulder, and opened the driver’s door a few inches. Without slowing, I eased the shotgun down onto the dirt, shut the door and drove on. A few blocks down, I got out the card Red had given me, dialed the number, and told him where I’d put his shotgun.
I wondered about Mo’s comment that the card with Flyboy’s number was the only one he had. If that wasn’t true, he could be calling Flyboy, warning him that I had his number and that I knew he was in Tahoe with Carlos. In which case, this entire trip would be a waste. But Mo might have been telling the truth that the number in ballpoint pen was the only copy he had.
When I was back on the interstate and some distance north of Reds, I pulled off on an east/west farm road. I called Diamond and got his voicemail.
I said, “Sergeant, I have what looks like a cell number I’d like to trace.” I looked at the card and read off the digits. “Not long ago,” I continued, “you said that the world of tracing cell numbers is like the Wild West in the nineteenth century. Websites that trace numbers with no court order, sites that are pretty much out of reach of the law. Do you have a recommendation? Thanks.”
I continued to drive east until I got to the first aqueduct. The road went up the incline to the bridge. In the middle of the bridge, I tossed Mo’s Glock out the window. It arced away and fell down into the water. The rules about the aqueducts were related to hygiene. No swimming or bathing or boating or dumping. But I wasn’t aware of any fine print that said Los Angelenos didn’t like drinking water with a little gunpowder smell in it.
I turned around and was heading back to I-5 when my phone rang.
“Owen McKenna,” I said.
“Burner phone,” Diamond said. “Nothing you can do.”
“Did you call the number?”
“No. That would limit your options. I just put it in the search bar on a website I’ve learned about. Gotta go.”
“Thanks very much.” I clicked off.
I thought about my approach as I drove back to Tahoe. If someone had already warned off Flyboy Jeff Bosstro, I was out of luck. But if not… Well, maybe I could construct a scenario that might entice him.
Four hours later, I crested Carson Pass. Despite the heat of the Central Valley and the warmth of summer across the foothills, I had to roll up the windows because the early evening air above 8000 feet was in the 30s. Spot had long since pulled his head in from the open window and lay down on the back seat to conserve warmth.
I drove through Hope Valley and started down into the Tahoe Basin. It was early evening, and the necklace of lights around the lake was just becoming visible from up on the pass. The lake was deep indigo with what looked like a few lightning bugs crawling across its surface.
