Chapter 11
18.
 Lee Collwood flew back to Brawley to collect a few things, most notably his 9mm automatic. It was an older weapon that had floated around in the family for over twenty years, and there was no way anyone could trace it to him. He had an old fart in Jamul, a retired sheriff's deputy, who hand-made rounds for him with some extra grains of gunpowder in a partially hollowed tip, and he always paid Rosa cash because that was what the old coot demanded. Paranoid old fellow—thought the Federal Government was after him. Another UFO story. Speaking of UFO stories, Lee called his lawyer in Los Angeles, Syd Applebaum, and had Syd text him a list of the names and addresses of the Lima Voyager crew on his cell phone.
Armed and ready to rock and roll, Lee Collwood stepped from his private plane on a back lot at Lindbergh Field. His Porsche was waiting for him with the key in the ignition and the tank topped off, courtesy the faceless legions paid to service wealthy patrons like Lee Collwood with no questions asked.
Lee wore his usual dark suit and white shirt, with a maroon tie on loose at the neck. He wore black sunglasses that glittered in the hazy sunlight, and an expensive gray cotton baseball cap with a slightly longer bill than usual—custom tailored for him by a London designer.
Armed with Syd's list, Lee drove into traffic and headed for the first of the thirty or more addresses he'd been given. Some of the men on that list were probably shady characters with multiple passports, he realized, and might not pan out. But at the top of the list was one Ramon Murphy, First Class Master's License, captain of the ship. That would be a good place to start.
Ramon Murphy lived at the far end of El Cajon on the eastern outskirts of Greater San Diego. As Lee drove east on I-8 and exited onto Mollison Avenue, he checked the safety on his gun. He drove several blocks until he came to an upbeat neighborhood of a generally downbeat suburb with a reputation as a redneck fringe. He parked under a jacaranda tree that was shedding mauve blossoms. He checked to make sure the gun was ready, tucked the gun into his belt under the jacket, and stepped from the car. He walked up to the house and rang the bell. Hearing the dingdong deep inside, as if underwater, he raised the sunglasses to his forehead and peered over a wooden fence. He saw a swimming pool and several middle-aged men and women having a barbecue. Soft elevator music played, in just about as bad taste as the women with wigs smoking cigarettes and swilling beer, and the pot-bellied men laughing at dumb jokes from some abysmal Fox television program. The door opened a crack, and Lee tightened his grip around the gun. Under his jacket, where nobody could see, he pointed the muzzle at the gray-haired, fleshy woman in the doorway. "Yeah?" she said, and he said "I'm looking for Ramon Murphy."
"Oh yeah? Well, he's at sea. He was due home yesterday, but hasn't showed up or called. Who are you?"
"Fred. I owe him money." One squeeze of his finger, and she would be blown away backward into the house, dead, amid that dreadful cigarette smell that lay like a sewer odor in the air conditioning. He took his finger off the trigger. He was learning something here.
She brightened. "Well, he'll be glad to see you. Fred is it?
"Fred, yes. Where is he? Any idea?"
She shook her head. "I'm his wife, and I'm getting tired of his baloney. He's probably lying in some tavern down near 32nd Street, wasting all his money. He can guide a ship 10,000 miles without an accident, and then fall over his own feet after having two beers. That's the difference between sober and drinking when it comes to my husband. I tell you—"
"Thank you," Lee said, backing away. "I'll call tomorrow."
"You can come in and have a hot dog and a beer."
"Thank you," Lee said and walked away. He stopped, turned, and asked: "What is the name of that tavern?"
"The one he goes to?"
"Yeah," Lee said in imitation of her slovenly English.
"The Dew Drop Inn."
Oh how original, Lee thought. How dreadful. "Thank you."
"Don’t mention it," she shrilled.
Lee had the list of names, including the first mate, but he thought it worth dropping in at the Dew Drop Inn. A 20-minute drive west on I-8 took him to downtown San Diego, and ten minutes south lay the shipyards. He spotted the rotting sign ('Dew Drop Inn') over a decaying block of buildings that were an afterthought of the neighborhood's glory years after the wars. America had produced two thirds of the world's gross national product during a period bracketed by World War II, the Korean police action, and the Vietnam non-war. After that, things had gone to heck, as the pious say, and this neighborhood was no exception. Lee made sure the gun was between his belt and his skin as he walked into the dim recesses of this air conditioned purgatory. The music that met him was a mishmash of noise and punk, belonging to no era in particular and all eras in general. He walked up to the bar, and figured the safest thing was to order a beer. Around him were the drunks who showed up at six a.m. to start drinking, took occasional naps with their foreheads soaked in spilled beer, and only went home at 2 a.m. when the law forced the bar to close. Their only exposure to daylight was going out every 30 minutes to smoke a cigarette. In this alien environment, Lee asked the beefy woman tapping his beer from the keg: "Captain Ramon Murphy, seen him around?"
"Ramon?" Calculations flitted behind her dull blue eyes. "He ain't been here recently. Why, does he owe you money?"
"No, my name is Fred and I owe him money."
"Jeez, you must be a deeply religious man.
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Copyright © 2014 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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