Free to Die

by Bob McElwain

  “The run was clean. We did the job and made it to LZ 307 about dusk the third night out. We were moving good, but somehow we got some attention or maybe they were just watching the LZ. Anyway, we started taking fire. Small stuff. We handled it good, but one of my people took a hit.

  “When it was clear, we called in the choppers for a pickup. We must have missed some people, because a few rounds came in just as the first chopper touched down. Maybe he took a hit, I can’t say. But he climbed right back into the sky. I grabbed the radio to see what was happening. Hell. One burst from those choppers and there wouldn’t even have been a jungle. But it was Gerald Allison who answered.”

  Walden was listening attentively. Hank was leaning forward, elbows on the desk.

  “He must have recognized my voice, just as I recognized his. When I told him to dump a few rounds and come on in, he chuckled and told me to call back when I’d cleaned up the ground fire. Then they were gone.” He paused, remembering.

  “More people showed and we began taking heavier fire. We broke out, but it cost us. I lost two of my people and the radio. The war was over for another one we carried out. We made it to the secondary LZ, but without the radio we had to wait. Our ammo was nearly gone and we were hungry as hell before another team landed four days later. Must have scared hell out of them, popping up like we did. Anyway, we made it back, what was left of us.”

  “Did you report the incident?” asked Walden.

  “Yeah, but I didn’t use Allison’s name. There were a lot of chickenshits out there. He was just one more.”

  “How’d Lt. Stratford get this?” asked Hank. “Did you tell Lydia?”

  “No. Gerald might have.”

  “Did you ever take further action?” asked Walden. “Perhaps threaten him in front of someone?”

  “Only at the LZ. I swore I’d grab him by the throat and not let go until he took his last breath. But I was talking to myself; there was nobody near enough to hear.”

  “What do you think?” Hank asked Walden.

  “If they can get it on the record, it improves their motive, but they had that already. I don’t think the DA will use this. With both Gerald and Lydia dead, Lt. Stratford has only hearsay evidence, something Lydia told him.

  “Brad was home nearly a year with no indication of acting as he threatened. I don’t see anything here to stop Judge Tofler from dismissing.” He rose. The other two men followed suit. Walden reached across the desk and shook Hank’s hand. “Nice fellow, Lt. Stratford. He must be bucking for captain.”

  “He’s been passed over twice. I think he’s given up on that. Except for being a conceited self-righteous sonofabitch, he’s not so bad. He just thinks Brad’s guilty.”

  “And what do you think?” Walden asked.

  “Hell. I wouldn’t believe it if I’d seen him do it.” Hank was still grinning when they turned away.

  * * *

  After a long talk with Walden that encouraged him, it was nearly one o’clock when Brad parked at the Burbank airport. He ignored a host of signs carrying various threats, the least of which was “No Admittance. This Means You.” As he made his way through the warehouse of Overnite Air, he noticed the orderliness of the shop, even though it was badly overcrowded. Someone knew what they were doing.

  He moved with easy confidence through the temporary halls of goods. He’d put on his boots this morning; he fit right in. He stopped for a moment to chat with an old timer, meticulously noting carton counts per skid. He got the name he wanted and moved off in the direction the old man pointed.

  The man he approached was close to fifty, inches shorter and pounds lighter than Brad. He radiated competence and skepticism as Brad introduced himself as Tom Fairchild.

  “We ain’t got a thing,” Milder said bluntly.

  “Looks like you’re two, maybe three days behind.”

  The comment brought a scowl, then anger to the eyes he faced. “Now I got bums off the street telling me my troubles.”

  Brad smiled and said, “I’ll grab a short stay, if that’s all you’ve got.”

  “You any good?” Milder asked suspiciously.

  “I’m good with those.” Brad pointed in the direction of three idle forklifts parked to his left.

  “Who’d you work for?”

  Brad gave him a name and number in Chicago. Milder disappeared into a closet-sized office. Brad followed. It was clean and sharp; the man was proud of his work.

  As Milder hung up the phone, he said sarcastically, “Nobody’s that good. What’d you pay him?” Brad grinned as Milder dialed again. Three secretaries later, he got his man. “Listen good and don’t give me no crap, Franklin. I’m at least two days behind down here and you damn well know it.” He ignored Brad’s broad smile. “I know you said no more people, but I want to put a guy on. If he don’t work out, I’ll dump him. At least we’ll have a chance to get caught up.”

  Milder listened for several moments. “Where the hell’s your profit coming if I don’t move this shit?” He listened. “Yeah. I know you got troubles. Can I put him on?” He listened again. “Thanks. Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” He slammed the receiver down.

  “Let’s see your papers.” He scanned them quickly, dug into a file cabinet and brought out a packet of forms. “If you can write, fill these out.” He tossed Brad’s papers back. “Those have expired. You’ll have to square it with the union rep when he shows.” He left the office as Brad turned to the forms.

  * * *

  Driving a forklift loaded with a half ton of cargo requires skill, quickness, and good judgment. Within half an hour, Brad was up to speed, working efficiently.

  Milder must have been watching, for he approached him and said, “Guess Chicago told me straight. Can you work late?”

  Brad nodded.

  “Take the swing shift, then. Be here by four tomorrow.”

  Within an hour, he’d met most of those working the shed and had the names straight. To all, he was open and friendly. When he could, he helped. In an isolated corner of the warehouse, he found a giant of a man with a fiery red beard, trying to maneuver a large crate onto a skid. The two of them managed, but not without good sweat and strain. “Name’s Pat,” he said and rolled off with his load.

  By three in the afternoon, he’d figured when most took their breaks. He began planning his work in order to spend the maximum time with the most people.

  While hunched over a cup of coffee in the snack bar, a woman with bleached blonde hair and melon-sized breasts she was proud of took a seat next to him. He guessed she was probably past forty, trying to look thirty. “Where’d you drop in from?” she asked with a warm inviting look.

  “Just started today. In the shed,” he answered with a smile.

  “Well, don’t get to liking this dump. That’s my advice. I’m in accounting, see. This outfit’s getting broker every day. I don’t see how you got a job, unless it was a woman who hired you.” She studied his shoulders, her glance drifting downward. “You’re a big chunk, aren’t you?”

  He smiled.

  “Gotta name?”

  “Fairchild. Tom Fairchild.”

  “Mine’s Connie Artwald. The last name’s all I got from my ex-husband.”

  “Wore him out?”

  “Wish it were so.” She sighed. Her ample bosom inched further out over the counter. “We just got older. And he decided he liked young stuff.” She was wistful for an instant. “But since then, I’ve had it good.” Her broad smile was a clear invitation for him to find out just how good it could be.

  “I believe that.” He laughed. “You serious about our jobs?”

  “Honey, I’m serious about most things.” Her boldness would have been unacceptable in most women. Brad smiled and waited. She sighed again and continued, “I got this friend in the main office, see. He gives me stuff I don’t see at my own desk. So yeah, I’m for sure serious.” She paused, wetting her lips suggestively with her tongue. “You heard about your new boss lady? L
ydia Allison?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, nobody can figure how that’ll do us. My friend says it don’t matter ’cause it’s a corporation and all. But me, I don’t know. Things were bad before. I don’t see how her getting killed’ll help.”

  “Milder runs a good shop, seems like.”

  “They say he’s tops. It’s something else wrong. My friend, he talks about bad management. I can’t say from what I see. One thing, though. Last month we were three days late with a payroll. They blamed it on the computers, but everything else was coming out all right. Only the checks were missing.”

  “Job hunting?”

  “You bet. I don’t want to be caught uncovered.” She grinned. “ ’Cept in certain situations, you understand. Well, gotta be getting back.” She gulped the last of her coke. As she slid off the stool, her lower stomach rubbed firmly along his leg. “Give me a call, huh? Extension 232.”

  “Might do that,” he said with a smile.

  “Hope so.” She grinned and left.

  On his way back to the cargo shed, he stopped at the phone and called Tuckman.

  “Ashton here. You hear about Lydia?”

  “Yeah. It’s a damn shame.” Brad could almost see the canary feathers in his grinning voice.

  “How’s that leave your case?”

  “Real good. So good, in fact, I’ll up my offer to thirty thou, if ya get your butt in here right now.”

  “It’s a nice number.”

  “Now listen, Ashton. Don’t go jacking me around.”

  “If you’re better off with her dead, maybe you arranged it.”

  “Get off it, Ashton. I still gotta win the suit. Only now it’s against a probate court. My lawyer says it’ll be ok; he didn’t say it’d be easier, ’cept maybe we don’t deal with that crazy broad no more.”

  “The police think I might be good for it.”

  Tuckman laughed. “Ya better grab my offer fast. Walden costs a lot of dough.”

  “Let’s say I didn’t do it. Who would you pick?”

  “Christ! There ain’t enough paper in this whole office to write all the names. Did ya see her since ya got back?”

  “No.”

  “She still looked great, but it showed some. She was hard into kinky sex. Maybe sick some other ways, too. It’s like she was trying to prove ya can’t wear it out. She went for quantity. Bunches of guys and broads. Hell, I even hear tell of animals.” He paused as if the words tasted bad. “With drugs thrown in, it’s a real long list. She probably brushed somebody who wasn’t ready to go.” He paused. “That’s enough of that shit. How about my offer? I’m not a patient guy.”

  “Why do you want an airline going broke?”

  “That’s my business. Not yours.”

  “Give.”

  “Get your ass in here and get this bread before I change my mind. Ya hear me?” The crash of the receiver being smashed into its cradle echoed in his ear all the way back to the shed.

  The rest of the evening was busy, but uneventful. From Pat, the red-bearded giant, he got confirmation of what Connie Artwald had told him. A payroll had indeed been missed. And there’d been unexpected layoffs and people let go. Everyone was nervous about their job.

  His work wasn’t difficult. He picked up a ticket from the office. If the shipment was outgoing, he collected it and moved it to a spot on the apron near the planes. If it was incoming, he moved skids from the apron into the shed, distributing them according to their destination. Occasionally he had to move a few crates by hand, but the forklift did most of the work. It gave him time to think. Except for Tuckman and Lydia, there wasn’t much to think about. When he caught himself thinking about Josie, he had to concentrate to keep his thoughts only on the work she was doing.

  As directed by Milder, he knocked off at nine, made his way to his car and headed back to Hank’s apartment. He stopped for a light dinner and later, for some milk for breakfast. Mostly his thoughts were of Tuckman.

  The man was capable of many things. Even murder, if that was what it took to get what he wanted. But he couldn’t see a way the man could profit from the death of Gerald or Lydia. What puzzled him most was why a smart operator like Tuckman was scrapping for an airline going broke. He thought of dozens of reasons which, in the end, left him with none.

  As he parked the car, grabbed his milk and headed for Hank’s apartment, he noticed a tan Plymouth drive slowly past the parking lot. Involuntarily he lengthened his stride.

  * * *

  Hank punched the TV off as Brad entered, walked into the kitchen and tossed him a beer.

  “Somebody’s out there,” Brad said. “Tan Plymouth.”

  Hank slipped into his shoulder rig. He checked to see a round was chambered in the 9 mm Beretta auto-load and tucked it away.

  “I’ve a .357 you can use. It’s not registered to anybody.”

  Brad shook his head. “Handguns don’t do much for me.”

  Hank nodded. “If you need it later, it’s in the nightstand beside my bed. The rounds are custom and super hot.” He slipped his jacket on. “Let’s have a look,” he said, heading for the door.

  It wasn’t like old times exactly, for they walked openly with long strides side by side. But the familiar tension was back. Although there was no need for stealth, they made no sound. It took only moments to check the apartment parking area. There was no tan Plymouth.

  The street has harder. They studied it carefully. There was no sign of the car. To the left, the street ended in a cul-de-sac. They walked to the right, checking each driveway, any point of vantage of Walters’ place. As they approached the corner, Brad headed suddenly out across the street. Hank saw it too, a tan Plymouth with two men in the front seat; one had light colored hair. But the car was moving now. They stopped, watching it disappear. As one, they turned and headed back.

  Once inside, Hank grabbed the phone and dialed. He identified himself and said, “I need a rundown on California 499CFT. Call me here.” He gave his number, hung up and joined Brad at the kitchen table. Brad idly erased wet circles on the table with the bottom of his beer can while creating more.

  “I know a guy with clout in the CIA,” Hank said. “I caught him late today. He doesn’t know all the players, but he couldn’t come up with anything about Feldersen or Cogswell.”

  “Then who are they?”

  “I haven’t a clue; I wish I did. The good news is the CIA hasn’t got an operation goin’ in LA. At least not at the street level, anything that’d mean tailin’ you or anybody else.”

  “So who’s on me?”

  Hank shrugged. “I’ll give five to one it’s not CIA.”

  Into the growing silence, Hank said, “So tell me about Overnite Air.”

  When Brad finished, Hank said, “Tuckman. Yeah. It’s time to stop around to see what shakes out of his tree. And I’ve got to take a closer look at Lydia as a suspect.”

  “What about that new evidence?”

  “All they’ve got is that bit at the LZ. The guy I talked with said without more, they’d have to drop charges. But the lieutenant’s still pitchin’.”

  “He’s bugging me.”

  Hank laughed. “Me, too. But he outranks me.” He shrugged. “Forget him. He hasn’t a thing, and he’s not about to get more.”

  “Expect you’re right.”

  When the phone rang, Hank answered. He listened briefly, said, “Thanks,” then hung up. “The number on that Plymouth belongs to a woman in San Francisco. But her car’s a white Camaro. The plate must have been taped.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Maybe blue tape over the bottom of an E so it reads F. I’ll check possibilities tomorrow, but it looks like we missed.”

  “You hear from Josie?” Brad asked.

  “She spent the mornin’ goin’ over all I got. Didn’t say much, but I could tell she was gettin’ it all. When she left, she was after a copy of the will that gave Lydia Gerald’s share of the airline.” He grinned. “Now what you got
ta do is grab that one, buddy. She’d be real good to you.”

  “Uh huh.”

  Hank persisted until Brad headed for the couch, pulled the blankets up around his head and curled up with his back to Hank.

  * * *

  This would be easy. Sam Gates was a punctual man. And reliable. He could be counted on to do as he was told. That’s why he’d selected Sam. A courier had to be reliable, punctual and able to follow orders precisely. No question, he was a good man, but Sam Gates could identify him.

  He sat in the back seat of the car in the corner nearest the sidewalk. Even with the window open, his dark suit and shirt made him nearly invisible to any passerby. Light from a passing car bounced off a window and the red stone in his ring. Briefly the silenced pistol in his lap gleamed dully.

  At eleven Sam turned the corner and continued walking at a steady, lumbering pace. He was a heavy man with broad shoulders and a balding pate. He knew Sam thought he had two blocks to go, but he was wrong. He cocked the pistol. When Gates was beside the car, he fired. The sound was swallowed by the silencer and the rich interior of the car.

  He watched the falling body for only a moment. The bullet had entered an inch above the right ear. He slipped into the front seat and laid the silenced pistol beside him as he settled behind the wheel. The car started instantly and moved quietly away into the night.

  CHAPTER 7

  Wednesday

  When Brad parked at the Burbank airport, he had an hour before reporting for work, time to listen to more conversation in the snack bar. As he entered the building, he noticed the tan Plymouth. It required all the discipline he could muster to replace the grimness in his eyes and mouth with an easy smile.

  Connie Artwald was seated in a booth with two mechanics when he entered. She flashed her sexiest smile, her look inviting as her glance drifted downward. He picked up a cup of coffee and joined the three, crowding in beside the two men. Connie’s disappointment at his choice quickly evaporated. She was in her element, flirting with three men at the same time. When she left, she gave Brad a long look of invitation. The three men turned to watch her depart. Unanimously they agreed; she had a way of moving.