Free They're Watching (2010) by Gregg Hurwitz Page B

FEBRUARY TENTH--"
    I closed the door behind me.

    Chapter 13
    I found Punch Carlson in a lawn chair in front of his ramshackle house, staring at nothing, his bare feet up on a cooler. A scattering of Michelob empties lay crushed next to him, within ape-swing of his arm. Punch, a retired cop, worked as a consultant on movie sets, showing actors how to carry guns so they didn't look too stupid. We'd met several years ago when I was doing research for a script I never sold, and we stayed in touch over the occasional beer.
    Bathed in the glow of the guttering porch light, he took no notice as I approached. That blank gaze, fixed on the house, held an element of defeat. It occurred to me that maybe he dreaded being inside. Or perhaps I was just projecting my feelings of late for my own house.
    "Patrick Davis," he said, though I couldn't tell how he knew it was me. He was slurring, but that didn't stop him from cracking a fresh brew. "Want one?"
    I noticed the script in his lap, folded back around the brads. "Thanks."
    I caught the can before it collided with my forehead. He kicked the cooler over at me. I sat and took a sip. It was good as only bad beer can be. Punch lived four blocks from a seedy stretch of Playa del Rey beachfront, and the salt air burned my eyes a little. A plastic flamingo, faded from the sun, stood at a drunken, one-legged tilt. A few lawn gnomes sported Dada mustaches.
    "What brings you to Camelot?" he asked.
    I laid it out for him, starting with the first DVD showing up unannounced in yesterday's morning paper.
    "Sounds like some bullshit," he said. "Leave it alone."
    "Someone's laying the groundwork for something, Punch. The guy went inside my house."
    "If he was gonna hurt you, he would've already. Sounds like an elaborate crank call to me. Someone trying to get a rise out of you." He looked at me pointedly.
    "Okay. So it worked. But I want to know what it's about."
    "Leave it alone. The more attention you pay to it, the more it'll turn into." He waved at me. "If you remove a woodpecker's beak, it'll pound itself to death. It doesn't know, right? And it keeps bashing its little woodpecker face against the tree. So--"
    "Is that true?"
    He paused. "Who gives a shit? It's a metaphor--ever hear a' them?" He frowned, took another sip. "Anyways"--he struggled to recapture his momentum--"you're like that woodpecker."
    "A powerful image," I concurred.
    He took a healthy swig, wiped the dribble from his stubbled chin. "So where do I come in on this little boondoggle?"
    "I want to talk to Keith Conner. You know, given our whole fiasco, he's my top contender. But he's not listed. Obviously."
    "Try Star Maps."
    "It still shows his Outpost address," I said. "He's in the bird streets now, above Sunset Plaza."
    He flipped halfheartedly through the script. It seemed he'd zoned out.
    "What do you say?" I pressed. "You think you could dig up an address for me? And nose around on him a little?"
    "Police work?" He raised the script, let it fall back into his lap. "If I was any good, you think I'd be doing this shit?"
    "C'mon. You always know the right moves, who to talk to to get something done. All that LAPD-brotherhood stuff."
    "Going official routes never got anything done, my friend. You do it all unofficially. Call in a favor here, return another there. Especially when you're shooting a movie. You need a street permit, some asshole needs to rent the SWAT chopper, whatever. You're on a deadline." He smirked. "Not like, say, when you're trying to catch a serial rapist."
    I could read his tone, so I said, "And?"
    "A tired dog like me, I only got so many favors. I gotta spend 'em for rent."
    I stood, drained the beer, dropped it on the lawn beside the others. "Okay, thanks anyway, Punch."
    I went back to my car. When I closed the door, he was at the window. "When did you start givin' up easy?" He jerked his head toward the house.
    I got back out and followed him across the front yard and into the kitchen. Dirty dishes, a