Mary stared at Abel Durazo and Shelby Pate when they somberly trudged past her and disappeared down the back stairway. Abel didn’t smile, wink, or even acknowledge her quizzical look.
When Fin and Nell emerged, Fin said to Mary, “You can tell Mister Temple that we’ve definitely ascertained that the drum of Guthion was responsible for the death of the man who was driving the truck, and at least one more person. A resident of Tijuana. He was ten years old.”
CHAPTER 18
After leaving Green Earth, Nell found herself following Fin’s city car to the Mexican restaurant on Palm Avenue. He’d done it to her again. When she said she had to go back to the office, he said they had to talk about the case. When she said they could talk later, he said it was important that they talk now. When he suggested they have a business lunch, she said she still wasn’t feeling well from the night before.
And then he said, “Menudo! Carmen makes the best menudo in the world. You can’t have a hangover with a bowl of her menudo in your tummy.”
“No,” she said.
“I’ve got ideas about the case,” he said. “It’s important, Nell.”
And she found herself wheeling into the restaurant parking lot, pulling next to Fin, who was parked next to a San Diego County Sheriff’s car which was parked next to a Border Patrol four-wheel drive which was next to a San Diego P.D. patrol unit.
“Lineup,” Fin said, indicating the police cars. “Answer when your name is called.”
After they’d got seated and had ordered, Nell tasted a tortilla chip with fresh salsa. The very first taste burned the tip of her tongue, but not unpleasantly.
“So what’s your idea?” she asked, sipping her soda pop.
“That those guys know something about the dumping of the hazardous waste.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Did you see the reaction to the news about the kid? Suddenly those truckers were giving off about as much eye contact as browsers in a dirty bookstore.”
“Of course I saw it,” she said. “But it could just be guilt from maybe having left their truck unlocked.”
“Yeah, they coulda left it unlocked and be scared to admit it now.”
“And feel guilty about it. You know about guilt. You laid some on me to get me down here.”
“I really do care about this case, Nell.”
“Of course they stole their boss’s five hundred bucks,” she said.
“That goes without saying.”
“So maybe they just left their truck unlocked and they’re scared, especially now that a kid’s died.”
“But I think I was looking at big-time guilt,” Fin said. “Especially in Pate.”
“I gotta admit, I sorta felt the same way.”
“Yeah?”
“But it doesn’t make sense.”
“Why not?”
“What could they gain from dumping their load of waste in T.J.?”
“To get rid of it,” Fin said.
“Why?”
“What if they … sold their truck down there?”
“Sold it?”
“Yeah, for, say, a couple thousand. They’re gonna be outta work. What if they took the van down where Durazo is connected and just sold it to somebody who needed to haul pottery north?”
“And then made a phony police report claiming it was stolen from Angel’s?”
“Right,” Fin said.
“It’s possible.”
“Sure it is.”
“Why didn’t they dump the load on our side of the border?”
“That’s easy,” Fin said. “They figured that down there, there’d never be a follow-up investigation that might nail them. They got so much mutant-producing waste down there that even one-cell animals can ride bicycles.”
“I guess it’s the only thing that makes sense if what we saw was a guilt reaction,” Nell said.
“They dumped the drums in Colonia Libertad and they sold the truck to Pepe Palmera or to the pottery maker. When I met them on Friday night they claimed they took a taxi down to Southern to make the report. It sounded like bullshit at the time. Now I understand. They’d walked across the border.”
“Okay, so now what?”
“I don’t know, except the big guy might get the guilts so bad he’ll phone us up,” Fin said.
“Care to bet?”
“I don’t think so. On another subject, how about dinner tonight?”
“The menudo’ll see me through,” she said.
“How about tomorrow night? I’m cooking pasta and watching a Ross Perot infomational.”
“A Perot-ista! I mighta known. You weird little guys stick together.”
“Can you make it?”
“Call me tomorrow. I’ll see if I’m well.”
“Okay,” he said. “And maybe I can talk you into voting for Ross. He’s the only thing that can save our country.”
“You think America’s that desperate, huh?”
“Absolutely,” Fin said. “The watershed event that signaled the imminent collapse of American civilization was the colorization of The Maltese Falcon.”
Fin always felt particularly lonely for a few days after he didn’t get a job that he’d read for. He talked about it with other failed actors. It was more than the sting of rejection that successful actors could attribute to the vagaries of the business, or to the artistic decline in the popular arts, or to the dietary habits of casting agents and producers who’d consumed too much arugula in recent years. The intense loneliness really stemmed from the fact that all failed actors had denial-free moments when they thought that all those schmucks might be right!
And that’s where Fin’s head was after the rejection by that Harbor Nights bitch who dressed herself in politically correct vegetation. But then, to be rejected again by Nell Salter after he’d practically offered to cook, cut and masticate her dinner, well, he was feeling intensely lonely.
When Fin walked into the front door of the substation, Sam Zahn was at the counter talking to an attractive young woman in a blazer jacket and winter-white skirt. Fin spotted the bulge of a handgun under her blazer, a very big handgun.
Sam Zahn said, “Fin, this lady’s been waiting for you.”
“I’m Detective Doggett, U.S. Navy, North Island,” she said, putting out her hand.
That was quite a mouthful, he thought. He knew she’d shake hands like a guy and she did. “I’m Fin Finnegan, a trusty in this gulag.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Nothing,” Fin said. “What can we do for you?”
“I already done it,” Sam Zahn said. “I mean I tried to do it, but I can’t. She’s interested in shoes.”
“So’s Mrs. Marcos and the National Basketball Association,” Fin said. He was tired.
“I wonder if you remember being present when Officer Zahn took a stolen-vehicle report last Friday? From two truck drivers?”
“Detective Doggett, it appears that this one’s turned into a career-maker for me,” he said. “Is it about the hazardous waste they picked up from the navy?”
“I told you, it’s about shoes,” Sam Zahn said.
“Did you happen to notice what the two truck drivers were wearing that night?” Bobbie asked. “On their feet?”
“On their feet?” Fin repeated.
“I can’t remember,” Sam Zahn said. “I prob’ly didn’t even look. The huge fat guy musta wore boots. He was the biker type. Did you notice, Fin?”
“Can’t say that I did,” Fin said. “What in the world’s that got to do with the hazardous waste from North Island?”
“I’m convinced that those two men stole a shipment of navy shoes from our warehouse when they were picking up the waste. We can now positively state that we lost about two thousand pair.”
Fin gaped for a moment, and Sam Zahn said, “What’s wrong?”
“Shoes!” Fin said. “Wait a minute, this is getting curiouser and curiouser. I might actually end up solving one! Big cans full of poison I don’t understand. Grand theft from a warehouse, I understand real good.”