Substantial Justice Read online

  this is a genuine rare bird book

  Rare Bird

  453 South Spring Street, Suite 302

  Los Angeles, CA 90013

  rarebirdbooks.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Daniel Ben-Horin

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book

  or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, including but not limited

  to print, audio, and electronic.

  For more information, address:

  Rare Bird Books Subsidiary Rights Department

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  epub isbn: 9781644281482

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Ben-Horin, Daniel, author.

  Title: Substantial Justice / Daniel Ben-Horin.

  Description: Los Angeles, CA : Rare Bird Books, [2020]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020013028 | ISBN 9781644281123 (hardback)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3602.E4645 S83 2020 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020013028

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part I: Premortem

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Part Two

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Ukiah, California, June 14, 1985

  On the pitted forest road near Ukiah, Spider entertained Siobhan with an ode to the Citroën DS’s self-leveling suspension, which could be manually set to a jaw-dropping fourteen inches. After a wet winter and a damp spring, Spider was maneuvering around a Chevy Suburban that had been abandoned in a deceptively deep mud puddle. “I bet that Chevy had eight inches clearance max,” he said. “Off-road vehicle, my ass.”

  “You really rabbit on sometimes,” Siobhan said.

  “What I really need to emphasize,” Spider said, “is that the DS clearance is true clearance because it’s front wheel drive, so no low-hanging transaxle. Compare that with a Jeep or anything short of maybe a tank, and you will be astonished. I can’t emphasize that too much.” He grinned at her, and she stuck out her tongue. She looked to him like she hadn’t aged a day since he’d gotten lucky with her ten years before, dancing to the Dusty Chaps in a Phoenix bar. She was the funny, lithe girl he’d always wanted to find, and so, on that distant April Fool’s Day, he’d allowed himself to fall blithely, idiotically in love. It lasted two months. She moved to New York, became a lawyer. He hadn’t seen her again until two days ago.

  She’d worn her hair long in 1975. Now, she’d cut it all off, leaving just a sophisticated coating of red fuzz, a fawn’s coat, slightly thicker on top. It took some getting used to, but Spider was happy to put in the time.

  Spider’s hair had been long back then too, and it still was: kempt enough, straight and dark, descending below his shoulders. He felt a little stuck in time. His beard was still whimsically cut, with little effort at symmetry, as it had been since he returned from Vietnam in 1970. He hadn’t wanted anyone to think he was just this or just that—just an oversized hippie, or just a Viet vet, or just an auto mechanic. He wanted to give folks a little “Huh?” when they took him in. He was slightly gap-toothed, which made him look simpler than he was.

  Last Monday in San Francisco, Spider had been on his back with his arms deep inside a Citroën’s underbelly when Mikael, his Volvo guy, said there was a call for him. Spider rolled out on his dolly to take the handset and felt his stomach knot when he heard her voice.

  “Spider,” she said. “It’s Siobhan. I’m riding out your way to rescue the gyppos.”

  These were nonunionized loggers, she explained. Someone had been dumping poison on them. Might be class action material. He heard the words, but all he could think about was seeing her again.

  She flew out on Friday; they spent most of Saturday in bed. He’d been nervous about that. Her new haircut and stylish clothes made him fear she had a matching array of obnoxious new bedroom tricks. But if she knew new tricks, she was wise enough not to parade them. For him, she was the best ever. Always had been.

  Now it was Sunday evening and they were in Mendocino County, two hours and change north of San Francisco. She needed to interview gyppos who logged in the surrounding forest. They would stay with Spider’s friend, Yosh, who lived—very well on his pot earnings—about four miles outside Ukiah.

  •••

  After Siobhan’s 1975 departure, Arizona ran dry for Spider and he moved to the coast. He’d been in San Francisco less than a month when a gruff fireplug of a guy named Yosh emerged from behind a refrigerator at a Bernal Heights party and convinced Spider that a property up for sale off Cortland Street was perfect for a mechanic with a little capital to invest. Several hours and some very strong pot birthed The New People’s Garage.

  Yosh said you could parse it as a garage for a new kind of people, or as a new garage for the people. “Plus, it has a kind of racy New People’s Army sound to it, like you’re in the Philippines or Nigeria or someplace like that.”

  The next year, Yosh decamped to two south-facing, state-forest-adjoining acres in the hills outside Ukiah. He grew weed in the forest. Of course he did. The timing was propitious. Sinsemilla, a new potent, seed-free strain, was wowing American potheads. It made people very high, without the downside of paralysis, which was the supposed result of smoking the Mexican pot that the US government was busily spraying with paraquat.

  Yosh laundered much of his profit through a fresh vegetable business, utilizing a van festooned with Better Livin’ through Vegetables and Mr. Natural cartoon figures. His personal experience with the Free Speech Movement, Weatherman, Panthers, and overall zeitgeist of the era had left him suspicious of just about everything. He presented his perspective in a vituperative and often comical fashion on a talk show he hosted on local public radio.

  •••

  The sun set as Spider navigated the Citroën along the forest road, Siobhan talked about her case. Class actions were tricky, she said. The law was highly specific. It was high-stakes legal poker.

  “Gyppos,” Spider said. “Nice ring to it. Was scumbags taken?”

  “It’s from the Greek, gypas, meaning vulture,” Siobhan said. “Unattractive, but legally immaterial. Think of them as little Paul Bunyans with chainsaws,” she said. “Doing the logging that union crews charge too much to do.”

  “So, union busters?”

  “They’re not precisely paragons of class struggle,” Siobhan agreed. “In fact, everyone hates them. The lumber unions of course, and the environmentalists too. They’re cheap labor, so the timber companies and mills exploit them.” The topper, Siobhan said, was that their main employer, Bill Ricci’s Redwood Pacific Lumber, had taken to casua
lly bombing the gyppos with a defoliant called Garlon while they worked. “Agent Orange with lipstick,” she said. “Why are you stopping here?”

  Spider had hit the brakes at the top of a driveway that led to a white frame house. He nodded his head toward the house’s front door, which was wide open. Something was sprawled across the welcome mat. Spider turned on his brights and drove slowly forward until they could see that it was a bloody mass the size of a man’s body. “Fuck,” Spider said. The head was visible now, and he could make out the frizzy gray hair that Yosh grew out of each side of his scalp, in homage, he said, to Larry of the Three Stooges. Two crows hopped in an anticipatory way next to the body. Spider could see that Yosh had been dead for a while, killed either by an army or an automatic weapon. He abruptly reversed back down the road, heeding long-buried instincts.

  “We don’t know who’s out there,” he said to Siobhan. “And there’s nothing we can do for him.”

  It had been a long time between violent deaths for Spider. Since 1969, at a place the Vietnamese called Dong Ap Bia and the Americans called Hamburger Hill, where he saw his two best friends die within minutes of each other. Spider had then spent two hours inviting his own death, crisscrossing the field under heavy fire, saving a dozen lives and earning a Combat Medic Service Badge, the highest honor for his branch of duty. Death went missing from his life after Vietnam, and he liked it that way.

  At the gas station, Siobhan got out with him and they embraced. Then he disengaged and called the sheriff’s department.

  Part I: Premortem

  Chapter 1

  Phoenix and San Francisco, 1975–1983

  It was a hot April night in Phoenix, with six more meltdown summer months yet to come. Spider, enervated from repairing cars all day, threw back two cold Dos Equis, smoked a joint, and listened once again to “Tangled Up in Blue.” Finally, he mustered the energy to shower, change clothes, and prepare to do battle at Buffalo Benny.

  Spider could get lucky there sometimes. Was he a hunky hippie or a hairy shitkicker? Some girls wanted to find out. And while in the outside world rock and roll was here to stay, at Buffalo Benny, western swing—a highly stylized permutation of polka, gypsy, Cajun, jitterbug, and square dancing—still ruled. Spider was proficient in the genre.

  Some nights, slow nights when there weren’t enough girls to go around, the cowboys and the freaks would turn their querulous attentions upon each other, and Spider might end up in a parking lot scrum. He had to admit he enjoyed these little macho interludes. He could take care of himself; that was something he’d brought home from Nam, along with the spiderweb of fine scars that crisscrossed his stomach, back, and legs. The army doctors had taken four slugs and sixty-seven pieces of shrapnel out of him after Hamburger Hill.

  The evening’s headliner, Clem Cline, had been big in Nashville, but not lately. A blowup of his current album cover dominated the bar’s front window. The photo presented a comatose Clem amidst a sea of broken glass and overturned chairs and tables, in his hand a Bud longneck, its bottom severed.

  Spider bought a beer and scoped the crowd. At a table near the dance floor, a man and woman were arguing, the woman jabbing with her finger as she raved, the man impassive, his eyes almost closed. The woman slammed down her glass and swept off into the crowd. The sound of the glass hitting the table seemed to arouse the man, who lurched forward as if to follow her. His legs, however, remained anchored. He threw a supplicating leer at the woman’s back as he fell forward, his forehead thudding on the table, his Stetson toppling off to one side.

  A redhead in the corner was observing the drama, too, and her eye caught Spider’s. They both grinned, and Spider embarked on a great circle route to her table.

  “Ladies,” the lead singer of the warm-up band said, “I realize a lot of you feel thisaway about me the next morning, so don’t think I’m a pig or nothing,” and launched into the band’s anthem, “(She Was Only) A Drunken Mistake.”

  “Dance?” Spider said.

  When the redhead stood, it took her a while to uncoil. She was his height, six three, in her cowboy boots.

  The homeliest woman can look like a queen

  If you’re drunk and you don’t hesitate…

  “That happen to you a lot? I’m Siobhan,” she said as they two-stepped, each getting the feel of a new partner.

  “Not even once,” he said. “Spider is what I’m called.”

  He launched her into a spin before she could reply. Her height made the passes much easier, and she knew them all. Her rhythm was perfect, or at least the same as his. Spider initiated a complex sequence of moves off a back-pass culminating in a corkscrew. They slowed it down, nothing to prove, comfortable.

  “You don’t get drunk?” she said. “Or pick up homely women? Or don’t care if you do? You’re quite a large spider.”

  “The one in the middle,” he said. “It beats Jeremiah. As a child, I was smaller.”

  The Dusty Chaps hustled off, and Clem Cline started to set up. Spider and Siobhan stayed put.

  “What do you do?” she said. “Don’t tell me.” She held him at arms’ length and looked him over. “You advise demented Czarina love slaves and instigate the overthrow of empires. You are Rasputin.”

  “I wish,” Spider said. He had no idea who Rasputin was, but it sounded like he had an interesting gig. “What I do is work on cars.”

  “Outside my house,” he added, and felt foolish for doing so.

  Clem Cline glided into his big hit ballad of yesteryear, “Tell the Truth (Even If It Hurts),” a lugubrious account of his heedless penchant for intoxicants. They danced through the entire set in pleasant silence. When Clem subsided, they stood there. Spider didn’t release her hand, and she didn’t withdraw it.

  “I don’t suppose,” she said, “that you work on Fiats?”

  “You don’t have to dance with me all night to get a service appointment,” Spider said. She cackled. It was like something that would come out of the Wicked Witch. Spider fell in love.

  Siobhan’s Fiat was a needy vehicle from one of the Italian carmaker’s vintage years when its workforce protested labor conditions by sabotaging the cars they were building. After Siobhan finished her workday as a probation officer, Spider would wheel himself under the jacked-up little car while she sat in an armchair with a beer and thumbed through the Arizona Republic, expostulating about events in the world. She’d toss a salad while he showered, and then they’d fuck all night.

  She had a thing about Phoenix. Everyone did. It was a city you loved to hate in a state that had been the butt of the nation’s jokes ever since the Barry Goldwater candidacy. She would find little tidbits in the Republic and yell them out to him while she was sitting on the can after sex.

  “Only in Phoenix is there a citizens’ petition to permit the shooting of feral cats on city streets.”

  “You gotta be a helluva shot to hit a moving cat,” Spider said, lying in bed smoking a number, feeling like Phoenix wasn’t actually as bad as all that.

  Not that he intended to stay in Phoenix forever. But life was soft. Mexican bricks slid across the border. Psychedelics were the stuff of life—psilocybin for the most part, peyote for those who liked to throw up in a spiritually evocative fashion, acid of course, and mescaline for special occasions. You could jump in your car after work and make camp by ten in Aravaipa Canyon, high desert country, the canyon walls carved and painted by eons of wind and water. In the morning, you could drop shrooms, hike upstream in sneakers, and watch bats, canyon wrens, an occasional eagle, and the bighorn sheep on the ledges above. Spider and Siobhan spent one perfect weekend in Aravaipa, and then another that was better.

  Spider’s bungalow cost him ninety dollars a month. He had all the work he wanted. He played basketball twice a week, poker every Friday night, and softball on Sundays. And now, he had found Siobhan. She was the one, finally, with whom things were
easy.

  “I can’t stay here, Spider,” she said out of the blue, two months in. “I’ll rot. We’ll rot.” She was going to New York to go to law school.

  She didn’t ask him to join her. He didn’t ask to join. He was no New Yorker. He’d be an extra in her movie.

  “We’ll stay connected,” she said. “Funny things happen. We’re only twenty-five. I don’t think I’m done with you, kiddo.”

  He stoically returned her goodbye embrace at the airport, then decided to drive up Camelback Mountain. When he was growing up, he had left the burgeoning town of Phoenix behind as he ascended the slope. The mountain roads were dirt then. But Camelback had become a checkerboard of paved roads leading to oversized grottos. The roads had names now—Wonderview, Grandview, Heavenly Vista, Panorama, Aerie Way, and Airy Lane—lest you miss the point.

  The mountain looked awful this late afternoon. There were tendrils of plastic stuck to most of the saguaros, residue from the storm the week before. Shuffling, orange-bloused convicts dotted the landscape, purging the cacti of the detritus. The ostentatious mansions seemed to mock the mountain beneath them.

  She was right, Spider could see that. Intelligent life wasn’t supported by this ecosystem. Where, then? People he knew had gone to Boise, to Missoula, to Portland, and, of course, to San Francisco, which felt the scariest, a much faster place.

  The evening wind was coming in now, hot out of the desert to the east. His eye seized upon a jumbo, bright red grocery bag, whipped by the breeze into a rigid perpendicularity, pointing toward the coast.

  •••

  It was hard to think of a reason not to leave. There had been only one Siobhan in Phoenix; the chances of another blooming in that arid landscape seemed remote.

  Spider called the softball pal who had moved to the Haight and urged him to visit. “No problemo,” the guy said; there was a spare bedroom in his pad that Spider could rent. The guy forgot to mention the twin defecating schnauzers that belonged to the girl from Indiana who was in town for an indefinite period, squatting in the living room. He didn’t mention the fleas either, which Spider contemplated on his ankles the first night in the new digs.