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“It’s a dumb idea, Marvis. A dumb, dangerous idea.”
“The hell you talking, dangerous? I seen the way you handled that shotgun, man. You got dangerous in your damn blood.”
I told Woodley there was not one scintilla of evidence suggesting even the remote possibility that Echevarria’s murderer had been a homeless squatter. What’s more, I said, murderers typically do not move in down the street from the scenes of their crimes where they could easily draw attention from nosy neighbors of the Marvis Woodley variety.
“You can look it up,” I said. “It’s all in Miss Ma
There was a pause. Then Woodley said, not sure whether to believe me, “There’s a fucking book?”
Sava
“I’m trying to make a point here, Marvis. Whoever you saw down the street, whoever you think you saw, it’s not the guy who killed Arlo.”
“Who’re you talking to?” Sava
I tuned her out.
“You said you and Arlo was buddies, ain’t that what you told me?” Woodley said. “Arlo was military. I was military. You was military — I could see it on you, OK? Military don’t leave a buddy behind. Ever. You know that, man.”
“I know a detective. I’m happy to pass along your number to him.”
“I just told you! I ain’t talking to no fuckin’ LAPD — and I won’t tell him where the guy’s at, neither. Now, the way I see it, you got two ways to go. You can get your ass over here and back me up, or you can leave a buddy behind and live with that. There it is. What’ll it be, troop?”
Marvis Woodley’s logic was as ill-formed as his ambitions to collar Echevarria’s murderer independent of the police. This was no battlefield. We weren’t at war. Whatever bonds Echevarria and I once forged in combat were broken long ago. And yet, on some level that defied logic, Woodley’s sermon resonated. Much as I tried to deny it, part of me did feel like I was abandoning a former fellow go-to guy, however loathsome he may have turned out to be. I felt guilty for reasons I couldn’t explain. If you’re Buddhist, you know that there’s no place for guilt. There’s no place for even feeling guilty about feeling guilty. But that’s how I felt. Guilty as sin.
“I’ll get back to you,” I told Woodley and hung up.
“Who was that?” Sava
“Arlo’s next door neighbor. Thinks whoever killed him moved in down the street.”
“Are you serious?”
I shrugged. “He won’t talk to the cops. Wants me to back him up so he can make the arrest himself.”
“Why would he want you to back him up?”
“Because he’s a fruitcake, Sava
“I want to go over there.”
“No, you don’t.”
“What if it’s the guy, Logan?”
“It’s not the guy, Sava
“But what if it is?”
There was no use arguing with her. There never was.
“Even if it’s not him, I want to see where Arlo died. I’ve never been there.”
“You can see where Arlo died after you drop me off at the bus station.”
I started gathering up my stuff. She looked at me disbelievingly.
“You’re going home?”
“I did what you wanted me to do, Sava
“Fine. Do whatever you want.” She curled up on the bed, her back to me, sulking.
Part of me wanted to lay down beside her, to press myself into her and hold her like I once did. Another part wanted to scream at her for messing with my head. Love and hate. Yin and yang. I closed my eyes and practiced calming breaths, striving in vain for the tranquility and humility of the Zen master I aspired to be. Accompanying Sava
“If I agree to go over there with you, will you take me to the bus station?”
“I’ll take you all the way to Rancho Bonita if you want.”
“The bus’ll be fine.”
I called Marvis Woodley back and told him I was on my way over.
“Hooah. I knew you’d come around, motherfucker!”
“Hooah,” I said tepidly and hung up.
“Thank you for doing this,” Sava
I wanted to put my fist through something but didn’t.
Sava
I asked if she wanted to have a look inside. She shook her head no.
Marvis Woodley spotted us and came over from next door. I made introductions. He told Sava
“Best neighbor I ever had,” he said.
“Logan says you have information on the man who shot him.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Marvis lowered his voice and said he’d mapped out a plan to capture the suspect. Did we want to go inside to discuss it?
“That would not be my first choice,” I said.
Sava
The interior of Marvis Woodley’s home was as orderly as a barracks. Everything in its place. Everything at right angles. There were plastic covers on the lampshades, plastic ru
“What kind of dog is he?” Sava
A dog I wanted to punt.
“Coton de Tuléar,” Marvis said. “Bred for the kings of Madagascar, only this one thinks he is king. Thinks he don’t have to take orders from nobody.”
When Rambo tried to hump my leg, I scooped him up and locked him in the bathroom.
Woodley was too wrapped up in his pre-assault briefing to pay much attention. He’d already conducted two “surveillances” of the house that morning during walks with Rambo, he said, and confirmed the killer was inside. The man we were after drove a beat-to-shit El Camino, which he parked on the street. Woodley’s plan called for me to knock on the killer’s door and say that I’d accidentally sideswiped the El Camino. He would then emerge unsuspectingly from his redoubt to inspect the damage, at which point Woodley would jump him. Together we would subdue him with duct tape. Then Woodley would call the police to come cart the son of a bitch off to Folsom. Sava