Down Solo Read Free Page A

justify additional investment.” It was signed by James Caffey, MS. Geol.
    Then there was an almost identical document, but this one didn’t say anything about not justifying additional investment. Instead, it mentioned “inferred mineralization at 10.6g/ton . . .” and “Carlin-type potential.” The paper ended with, “The deep exploration potential at Santa Clarita is extremely positive and the chance for deep mineralization is very good. The surface potential, as you know, is without question.”
    All Szechuan to me, but it struck me as weird that there would be two reports, dated and signed identically, with such radically different conclusions. Tanya Peterson had said something about people who wanted the documents destroyed. I scanned every page and uploaded the images to my online archive, printed two sets of copies and put one set in a file folder on my desk and the second set with the originals in the attaché case and locked it, making sure that my hacking the locks didn’t leave any scratches.

    ¤ ¤ ¤

    She’s paging me again, “Charlie . . . Hey, Charlie, say something!”
    I say, “Look, we should probably meet up, but someone ransacked my house and it’s probably not safe there. There’s a coffee shop called the Pygmy Up on Lincoln and Superba, let’s meet there in half an hour and I’ll fill you in.”
    “You don’t have the case, do you?” Her voice is tight, accusatory, and when I don’t answer she says, “Why did I trust a two-bit loser like you with something so important?”
    I say, “Maybe because Alan Hunter told you to. Now, if you want a Plan B, you’re going to have to tell me a lot more about Plan A. And bring me my three grand, I’m pretty sure I earned it.”
    “I’m not bringing you shit, Charlie. You fucked up big time. I’ll see you at the coffee shop with the dumb name.” And she hangs up.
    I go out to the balcony and tap Jimmy on the shoulder. He’s got earbuds in and I can hear Avenged Sevenfold leaking through while he methodically lifts. It’s well into morning now and the marina is coming alive. Jimmy finally notices me and puts down the weights. He thumbs off the iPod and says, “Everything copacetic?”
    I tell him, “Yeah, I guess. I’ve got to go meet up with Tanya. Thanks for all your help.”
    “Tanya, shit, that’s her name.” He puts out his huge hand to grab mine. “She’s fuckin’ hot.”
    I let him maul my hand again. “She’s fuckin’ trouble, is what she is.”
    Jimmy says, “Yeah, well, same thing, usually. Am I right?” And he walks me to the door.

5
    It’s a straight shot over Washington Boulevard and then up Lincoln to the coffee bar, but I have to detour to a 7-Eleven near my house. I’m out of cash, my credit cards are maxed, and the Z is thirsty. Last time I ran out of gas it cost me two hundred and forty bucks to collect it from a tow yard. It’s a nice little hustle the city’s got going.
    The 7-Eleven’s owner is a guy named Mohamed, but he likes to be called Mo. He’s only about five foot eight and weighs maybe one fifty, but he studies Brazilian jujitsu and has plaques all over his little office/storage room attesting to his skill in the martial arts. We’ve swapped stories over Heinekens in there. I have a few plaques of my own from back in the days before I hurt my back and became a drug idiot.
    “Charlie, my friend, how are they hung today?” Mo is Pakistani by way of New York, and he loves American vernacular but always manages to mangle it. “This is early in the day for you.” He’s always smiling, like a greeter with a lei at the Honolulu airport, but his smile is the real deal, an expression of a natural friendliness and good cheer that I have never experienced myself.
    “Hey, Mo.” We shake hands. “Listen, I know I’m near my limit, but I’m short and need to put gas in my car so I can go collect some cash.”
    Mo’s smile doesn’t diminish by even a millimeter, but his eyes show