Free Fangs Out by David Freed Page B

driving record. She’d racked up one moving violation in the previous six months and been involved in a two-car, non-injury fender-bender in suburban El Cajon. The other car, Buzz mentioned offhand, was registered to one Hubert Bedford Walker of La Jolla.
    “You’re kidding me.”
    “About what?” Buzz said.
    “Hubert Walker.”
    “Who’s Hubert Walker?”
    “Big war hero.”
    “So am I, Logan, but I don’t hear you launching fireworks every time my name is mentioned.”
    “That fender-bender with Walker, you got any further details? Any idea when it happened?”
    “Two-seven May of this year. That’s all it shows.”
    May 27. The day before Dorian Munz was executed.
    “Anything else I can do for you today, Logan? Take a bullet for your sorry ass? Lose my pension?”
    “Thanks, buddy. The Three Tenors are in the mail.”
    “Yeah, right. And if you believe that . . .”
    Buzz grunted and signed off.

    J ANET B OLLINGER resided in a tired, two-story four-plex at Calla Avenue and Florida Street. The place was less than a mile from the beach, but about a million miles from anything about which the Beach Boys ever waxed poetic. Steel security grates covered the doors and windows. Black asphalt covered the grounds. Plenty of off-street parking and not a single flower in sight. A home on the downside of life’s bell curve. I checked the bank of tarnished brass mailbox slots bolted to the front wall. The mailbox marked “B” had a slip of paper Scotch-taped to it. Printed in a woman’s careful hand it said, “J. Bollinger.”
    Apartment B was on the first floor, on the east side of the building. I rapped on the door. There was no answer.
    On the second floor landing directly above Bollinger’s apartment, a chubby, brown-skinned dude in his mid-twenties leaned with his forearms on the wrought-iron railing. He was shirtless and in boxer shorts, smoking a doobie. His underwear was blue and was adorned with little yellow San Diego Charger lightning bolts. A likeness of the Virgin, her hands outstretched, was inked across his flabby gut and man boobs. A tat that said “Esmeralda” in cursive script took up much of the left side of his neck. He eyed me with unbridled disdain.
    “How do you think the Chargers’ll do this season?” I asked with my most disarming smile.
    He shifted his gaze dismissively, sucking in some weed, and stared out at the ocean.
    “I’m looking for the lady who lives downstairs.”
    “Wouldn’t know nothin’ about it.”
    “You haven’t seen her around today, have you?”
    Silence.
    “I’m not a cop, homeboy.”
    “Like I said, wouldn’t know nothin’ about it.”
    “Well, what do you know?”
    He turned his head and spit, like it was meant for me, then looked back out at the ocean.
    “Guess what? I know something.”
    He looked back down at me. “Yeah? Whadda you know?”
    “I know that the Buddha never claimed to be a god, which has to make you wonder: is Buddhism a philosophy or a religion, because every other major religion entails some essential form of theism, right? But not Buddhism, which many scholars consider non-theistic or even atheistic. Your thoughts?”
    “Mierde.”
    “What’s your name, homeboy?”
    He glared down at me. “Pinche marica come mierda. ”
    Making friends wherever I go.
    I climbed into the Escalade and went to find some coffee. I’d wait for Janet Bollinger to come home.

    T HERE WAS a McDonald’s on Palm Avenue a few blocks away. I ordered a small cup and took my time swilling it. It tasted like something that could’ve leaked out of the Exxon Valdez. I didn’t care. Coffee’s coffee. Anything else brewed from a bean is overpriced pretense.
    I called Mrs. Schmulowitz to check on Kiddiot. He remained a no-show.
    “He’s probably got a girlfriend out there somewhere,” Mrs. Schmulowitz said. “Don’t think I don’t know how all you tom-cats are, bubby. That kitty of yours, he reminds me of Irving, my third husband. Could be he’s