Tinman

by Karen Black

  “I am reasonable,” I said flatly. “You’re free to do whatever you want. Go back if you have to, but I’m going on. Just do me one favor. Drive me on in to Grand Junction, where I can catch a plane.”

  “But, Greg, you didn’t want me to come with you at first, not until you saw that black guy, and you thought he might hurt me. That’s over now. Don’t you think you better come back with me and give the cops all the help we can?”

  I shook my head slowly. “Okay, you go back and hold Pete’s hand, but there is one more thing you can do for me. Forget I ever existed. No Gregory McGregor, no Malcolm Gregory. You never saw me. You never heard of me, and no one held you in his arms last night. Now, are you going to get me to Grand Junction, or is this where I get off?” I said it harshly, hating myself for the way I said it, but I couldn’t help it.

  Corky turned away and stared straight ahead. “Okay,” she said, “get on with it.” I reached for the ignition key. “If you want to play this dumb game until you get your stupid self killed,” she added.

  “I’ll come back, I promise.” I said, reached for the key again and then froze. The roof lights of a State Patrol car coming down the off-ramp were visible just beyond a hedge of Russian olive that screened us from the freeway. “Hunker down,” I said to Corky, and we sat there tightly holding hands until the lights moved off down old Highway 6. “Maybe this is where I do get off,” I said. “There’s a motel and a couple of filling stations just down the road. I’ll walk. There’s got to be a bus or some kind of a ride into town. Probably there’s an all-points out for you by now. I’ll get my bag and wait behind the hedge until you’re on the road again. If they pick you up, just tell them you were scared but headed back when you heard on the radio what happened. And, Corky, leave me out of the story–totally. But, when this is all over, I’ll contact you, and….” I bit my lip and left the rest unsaid.

  We got out, and she came around to the driver’s side, her head down, her shoulders slumped. I didn’t dare touch her. I held the door for her and she got behind the wheel. “Corky….” My voice trailed off. Suddenly she turned the key, thrust the car into gear, spun out of the parking area with screeching wheels and was gone.

  It was a weary quarter of a mile to the motel. They had an airline schedule. The next plane to L.A. left in about three hours and the bus would get me to the airport about an hour early. I called and made a reservation for Dr. Malcolm Gregory.

  The time dragged by, and after a bus ride that seemed much longer than the distance would warrant, I found myself at the ticket counter in the Grand Junction terminal. “Oh, you’re Dr. Gregory,” the young lady at the ticket counter said, “your wife called a few minutes ago to say she was coming with you after all and would meet you here. I made a ticket out for her too, and was able to find seats together.” For a moment I was speechless, and the girl looked at me quizzically. “Is that okay?”

  “Is that ever okay!” I blurted when I could find my voice. I strolled across the terminal, which wasn’t that much ground to cover, stopped in one of the stores to pick up a few things I had failed to pack in the last-minute rush to get out of town, and loitered near the entrance, speculating on why a cop was standing near the check-in counter and fidgeting as the minutes to boarding time ticked by. Finally the flight was called, the gate opened and people started filing out to the plane.

  “All aboard, Dr. Gregory,” the girl at the counter called. “Isn’t your wife here yet?” And then in a couple of minutes, “Dr. Gregory, we really must terminate the boarding process.”

  “What about my wife’s ticket?”

  “I’ll hold it for her. Maybe we can get her on a later flight.” Glumly, I fished for the ticket in my breast pocket.

  Just then I became aware of the insistent staccato click of high spiked heels, and a small tornado touched down in the departure concourse in the guise of a turquoise tank top which barely constrained some truly nifty curves, set off by hot pink slacks that were anything but slack, topped by a very wide-brimmed straw hat wreathed in paper flowers, a flowing pony tail, huge dark glasses, hot pink lipstick, lavishly applied, and carrying a big straw beach bag for luggage.

  “Am I late, honey?” the vision panted, breasts heaving fetchingly.

  “Your wife?” the girl at the counter asked, paling visibly.

  “Where the hell have you been?” I groused, playing the anxious, irritated husband, “Run, dammit, or we’ll miss it,” and we squeezed past the attendant closing the gate while the cop simply stood and gaped.

  “Like my disguise?” Corky whispered when we had settled down and only a couple of guys across the aisle were still stealing lecherous glances at her.

  “It conceals the real you, in a manner of speaking,” I answered.

  “Don’t be too sure,” she said. Then, abruptly, she turned solemn. “Pete died. It came over the radio as soon as I got on the freeway.”

  “God, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Or yours,” I insisted gently.

  Corky spoke evenly in a lowered voice. “They were broadcasting an all-points advisory to try to locate me. When they said Pete died, I got to thinking maybe they didn’t need me in Aspen half as much as I needed to be with you. I turned around at the Mesa interchange and called the airport. When I found it was three hours until your flight, I made a break for it.”

  “I won’t even try to tell you how glad I am you did. What did you do with the car?”

  “Left it in a little Chicano body shop in Grand Junction for repairs.”

  “Repairs?”

  “It needed work. I took it into an alley and gave it a couple of licks with a brick.”

  I shook my head in awe, “And the fancy rags?”

  “A lot of people know me around here in my Little Joe the Wrangler get-up. It was either the little old lady bit with the black shawl, or the flooziest number in town. I was just thinking of you when I made the choice.” Suddenly she buried her face on my shoulder. In a couple of minutes she straightened up. “Damn,” she said, looking at the lipstick on my shirt, “hot pink is not your color.” Then, just as suddenly, she turned very somber again. “Greg, we’ve got a lot of talking to do.” Her eyes looked intently into mine. “You’ve got to explain to me exactly how you think what we are doing makes sense. For starters, when we get to L.A., what do we do?”

  “I need to think about it,” I said.

  After thinking about it for a few moments, I grabbed her hand, squeezed it and confessed, “I don’t want this to come as a complete surprise to you, but I’m sort of winging it. I’m not a James Bond imitator, quite the opposite. I hardly know how to shoot a gun, probably not straight enough to hit someone at least. So, I really don’t know what’s going to happen, or how dangerous it’s going to be. Which is one of the reasons I’m really concerned about you coming with me. But I won’t rest until I know who’s behind this, however long that takes. So, before we go much further, you need to decide if you can live with–no pun intended–that plan…or lack thereof. I can’t decide if you’re safer with me, or going somewhere else and hiding out, probably the latter, but for some very selfish reason, I was really glad you decided to come.”

  Corky patted my leg and murmured, “you may not be a James Bond, and I’m not a Pussy Galore, but we’re in this together. I owe Charley that much.”

  CHAPTER IX

  Los Angeles, Day 1, Monday, Charley’s Apartment

  We had, simply by good luck, gotten one of the few direct flights between Grand Junction and Los Angeles, most requiring at least a stop, if not a change of planes, at Las Vegas. As bleak vistas of desert basins and bony mountain ranges slipped by beneath us, my thoughts seemed just as barren. Corky lay back, closed her eyes and seemed to be asleep. At length, long brown plumes of haze, pouring through gaps in the mountains ahead, streaked the hard-edged clarity of the desert below, signaling that we would soon be plunging into that great pool of over-used air that so often fills
the Los Angeles basin. As the air got fuzzier, one thing became clearer in my mind. I should start with Charley’s apartment.

  I had a key. That part was easy. The question was, how much time did I have before the Los Angeles Police Department would be notified by the Denver police of Charley’s murder and go there to search it and probably seal it pending the settlement of Charley’s estate? Another question. Who had the keys that were no doubt taken from Charley when he was mugged? And the final question. What could I expect to find if I did get the first shot at it?

  Corky sat up. “Why the big sigh?” she asked.

  “I sighed?”

  “With feeling! You must have made a big decision.”

  “Yes, I did. I’m going to make a pass at getting into Charley’s apartment before anybody else has a crack at it.”

  “We,” Corky said firmly. “Remember me? We’re in this together, and don’t you forget it, McGregor, mi lad.”

  “But it could be dangerous, or it could land me in jail.”

  “Us,” said Corky tartly.

  During the wait at the car rental counter, which probably seemed longer than it really was, Corky disappeared. When I turned around with the rental contract in hand she was no place to be seen and I felt a momentary surge of panic, which quickly passed when a black porkpie Stetson making its way through the crowd finally came into focus. The hot pink and turquoise vision I was expecting had been replaced with the faded Levis and cotton flannel shirt.

  “Don’t look so disappointed, Greg,” Corky giggled. “Little red hens can be just as useful as birds of paradise.”

  “I know,” I said, smiling, “but you gotta dig that bird!”

  Rush hour was coming on strong when we hit the San Diego freeway. “Dammit,” I said, as our progress slowed to a crawl, “we’re in for an hour of this.”

  “Greg, relax,” Corky said. “Tell me about Charley’s apartment.”

  “Nothing much to tell. A slightly seedy, semi-residential hotel on the edge of downtown.”

  “Why would Charley live in a place like that?”

  “Just a pad, a place to live. After his mother died, work was the only thing that kept him in Los Angeles. It really isn’t bad. He has a suite on an upper floor with maid service. He could walk to the office, and he could just shut the door and walk out when he traveled. He grew orchids in a little solarium on the balcony, and the maid would water the plants when he was gone. His maid was this sweet little old Mexican lady who had a personal interest in every leaf and bud.”

  “I know the type,” said Corky assuredly. “So what do we do when we get there?”

  “Charley sent me his key in my ‘care package.’ At this time of day with a little luck I should be able to walk right in as though I owned the place and go straight to the elevators without being noticed.”

  “What about me?”

  “It might not be a bad idea to have a lookout in the lobby. If you noticed anything out of the ordinary, like the police arriving, you could go to the house phone and tip me off.” I pulled the airline receipt out of my pocket and wrote down his number and handed it to her.

  “What do you think you might find? You won’t have all the time in the world to search the place.”

  “Maybe something right up front, like papers on his desk that could give some clue to Charley’s ‘nine-digit numbers game.’ Maybe some names to follow up, or a desk pad or a diary or the tape from his answering machine.”

  Survival on the Santa Monica freeway during rush hour began to command my full attention. After what seemed like an eternity, we parked in a public parking lot about a block from the hotel, walked down on the opposite side of the street and stood looking across into the entrance. Up to this point the risks involved in searching Charley’s apartment had seemed rather abstract. After all, Charley had given me his key, and I was breaking no law in using it when, in theory, I had no knowledge of Charley’s murder…or so I would argue. The question was, who else had an interest in Charley’s apartment–a deadly interest it might be fair to say? I felt that same surge of tension and shortness of breath I used to feel waiting for the opening kickoff in a football game–eager, but at the same time scared to get the ball and run with it. I became aware of Corky clutching my arm and trembling a little. I smiled down at her and she smiled back.

  “Feels like the start of the slalom,” she said, using her own metaphor for the same emotion I was experiencing.

  “Wait here until I’m inside, and don’t worry.” I stepped off the curb.

  “Greg, wait.” I turned back, impatient now the time had come. “There’s a pay phone on the corner. Give me a couple of quarters. I’ll call the apartment in exactly ten minutes. Check your watch.” I started to protest, but she continued. “When you answer, I’ll know you’re okay. Now check your watch.” I did, dug in my pocket and handled her three quarters, and then hurried on across the street without a backward glance.

  I walked through the lobby feigning the zombie-like indifference to his surroundings of a man coming home from a hard day’s work with nothing but supper and the Monday night TV lineup on his mind and hoped that no one would take particular notice of me. There were four or five people in much the same frame of mind waiting for the elevator. It came, and we all crowded in. Then, just as the door was closing, a small, plump Jewish lady bustled in bursting with news. “Isn’t it just awful,” she said to her captive audience at large. “It came over the radio just now. Mr. Farnsworth was murdered.”

  “Who?” somebody asked.

  “Mr. Farnsworth, that fat little man who always wore a white suit.” The elevator stopped, a couple got out, and the door slid shut again. “Stabbed, in Denver, in broad daylight.” We stopped again and lost another listener. “Imagine, he lived on my floor. Nobody is safe anymore.” We stopped again, and then only she and I were left on the elevator, and only the light for the 15th floor was on. She looked at me sharply. “Have I seen you before on 15?”

  “Damn,” I said, “I missed my floor. Your news is kind of upsetting.”

  “You knew him?” The elevator stopped on 15 and she stood in the door to prevent it closing.

  “Not really. I have a friend on a lower floor, but my friend probably did.”

  The elevator door started to bump gently against her, signaling a kind of mechanical impatience to get going. “Frankly,” she said, “I feel a little funny about walking down the hall alone, knowing he was just murdered, even if it was in Denver.”

  “Would you like me to wait here by the elevator until you can let yourself in?”

  “That’s very kind. I’m Libby Epstein in fifteen-oh-five.” She looked up at me and I knew I ought to introduce myself, but I just smiled. “Well, goodbye,” she said and started down the hall, fortunately in the opposite direction from Charley’s. She stopped near the far end, fished in her purse for her keys, and when the door yielded, she turned and waved. I waved back, and when I heard the door close and the deadbolt click, I turned and half ran down the hall to Charley’s door.

  I turned the key as quietly as possible, and stood to one side out of the doorway as I very gently opened the door. After listening for a few seconds, and hearing nothing, I cautiously peered around the corner. It was clear at a glance that the apartment had been ransacked. Looking through the small entry hall and beyond into the living room, I could see papers strewn about on the floor, but there was nothing to say if the intruder had come and gone or was still lurking there. I stood indecisively for a moment. The ping of the elevator signaling it was stopping again on fifteen spurred me on. I stepped into the vestibule and in order to preserve a route for a hasty retreat, quickly closed the door but not quite to the point of latching.

  I moved quietly into the entry to the living room and stood motionless, listening and looking for signs of an intruder. Files and cabinets had been dumped, partly on the desk and drafting table, and partly scattered on the floor, and a box of heavy, rock drill cores had been dumped out on th
e sofa. On the left was a short corridor leading to the bedroom with a kitchenette and utility room on one side and the bathroom on the other. Directly across the room were large sliding glass doors leading to a balcony which extended the length of the apartment and was also accessible by sliding doors in the bedroom. Most of the balcony off the living room was occupied by Charley’s glass enclosed solarium with his orchids.

  I moved cautiously across the living room to the corridor, paused briefly again to listen, and then went into the bedroom. Here again drawers and closets were open and some things strewn about, but there was no great disorder, except the sliding door to the balcony was open, which was certainly not the way Charley or Mrs. Morales would have left it. After another brief checkout, I headed toward the balcony. As I neared the sliding door, I clearly heard the toilet flush.

  I uttered a silent “Oh, shit.” There was no time or place to hide, so I did the only thing left, I stepped out on the balcony, then realized at once that I might as well have stepped into a fish bowl so far as concealment was concerned. Even with the draperies drawn, there was no part of the balcony that was not clearly silhouetted against the bright haze of empty space beyond. Only the wall of the building beyond the end of the balcony was beyond the sight lines of someone inside looking out. This offered a precarious shelter only because a ledge no more than nine or ten inches wide ran from balcony to balcony across the facade of the building. It was possible, if one were not too easily spooked by heights, to step over the ornamental iron balustrade of the balcony and stand on this ledge, back pressed against the wall of the building, with only a steadying hand on the railing.

  Perhaps if I’d had time to think about it I wouldn’t have done it, but I didn’t have time. In a moment I was standing on the ledge, back pressed against the wall, a hand on the railing and the toes of my shoes jutting a good two inches out into empty space. Rock climbing had been a passion with me from the time I was a small boy scrambling around the cliffs and promontories along the north shore of Lake Superior. A climbing club in high school and Outward Bound summer camps devoted to mountaineering in the Grand Tetons and the Wind River Mountains followed, and no doubt this had a lot to do with my choice of geology and geotechnical engineering as a profession, though oddly enough, as my scientific and technical interest in rocks developed, my passion for dangling from them with ropes and pitons seemed to fade into the background. Nevertheless I was accustomed to heights and used to balancing on narrow ledges. Admittedly it would have been a lot more comfortable if I had been securely belayed with a stout rope.