by Bob McElwain
When the mechanics left, he was joined by the red-bearded giant, Pat. Others drifted in and out. Brad listened, but heard nothing new. At four, he clocked in.
Brad spent some time helping load a plane, then more with a couple of trucks. As often as possible, he joined the others for coffee, listening. For the most part, he worked the shed.
Easing down a particularly narrow corridor between stacked crates, he moved slowly into the more open area at the end of the row. Another forklift was hot-dogging toward the loading apron. The two heavy machines met at right angles. Brad was carrying his load low; the other driver was carrying his high. He lost it. Crates and boxes exploded off his skid as it passed over the top of Brad’s.
Brad cut his engine and slid off his lift to face the furious driver of the other machine. The man was an inch taller and several pounds heavier.
“You fuckin’ shit! What the fuck you doin’?” Some of the men were watching, clearly expecting trouble.
“I’ll help get your load together.” Brad spoke mildly, a pleasant expression on his face. There was a hard watchfulness in his eyes.
“You jivin’ me, fuckhead?”
“No.” The last thing he needed was a brawl, but it seemed inevitable. The man took another step toward him, arms slightly forward. If it came, it would be an eye-gouging, ball-crunching attack.
“Nobody fucks with me, asshole.”
“Offered to help, is all.” He’d seen it before and he’d been looking for it or he’d have missed it. The flashing angry eyes he faced dulled briefly. The anger rushed back with even greater force, but the big man’s stance showed caution.
“You do that!” he snarled. “When I get back, I want that shit back on the skid and on the apron, fuckhead. Or your ass is mine.”
The man spun angrily on his heel and stalked off in the direction of the snack bar. The others lingered a moment. Most gave Brad a brief smile or nod. Pat came up, a broad grin lighting his entire face. “That one’s stomped every guy in the shop. Except me, of course.” His grin increased an impossible inch. “You handled him real good,” he said admiringly. “But you should have taken him.”
“No point if there’s another way.”
“Ah, but it would have been fun to watch you whip ’im. I’m the only one here who has, and he’s the sort needs a good beating now and then.”
“You sure I’d manage?” Brad was amused; he enjoyed this big man.
“There’s a look about you,” he said knowingly. “Me, I’d rather fight than eat. But with you, I think it’d be best if we were on the same side.” With a deep laugh, he jumped to Brad’s lift, backed it up and joined Brad in rebuilding the dumped skid.
When Brad clocked out at midnight, he was discouraged. So far he hadn’t learned anything useful. Josie and Hank had been right; he was wasting time. But the feeling was stronger than ever; somebody was out there.
By the time he turned onto the Golden State Freeway, he knew he was being followed again. His hands on the steering wheel tightened. It was probably Feldersen and Cogswell, but he was fed up with guessing. How could he make sure? A dead end street his followers didn’t know about? That might do.
The freeway let him move at a rapid rate. This was ground he knew well, but he couldn’t remember anything helpful. He was on top of the Van Nuys exit when it came to him.
He slashed across two lanes of cars, trying to ignore the sounds of tires squealing, then rushed down the off ramp at good speed. As he turned north on Van Nuys, he watched in the rearview mirror. His followers had made it, too. Now his problem was to hold the slight lead he had. The rental car made it tough; it had no desire to rush madly down busy streets. But it wasn’t far; he could make it.
Six blocks later, he made a skidding turn onto Dalbert. He saw the square, yellow road sign that proclaimed, “No exit,” and hoped his followers would not. He raced down the long block and squealed to a stop, beside the cars of residents already parked in the cul-de-sac.
He abandoned the car and dashed for the opposite side of the street. He flattened himself to the ground behind a large clump of bottlebrush near the sidewalk. He was invisible to any curious homeowner or from the street.
The Plymouth took the corner fast. He saw the brake lights flare as they saw his car. The driver allowed his car to drift on. As they passed, he recognized Feldersen. The other man was not Cogswell.
He had what he wanted, but now he wanted more. He wanted to jolt this man in some way, to at least get his attention. He watched the car begin a turn within the cul-de-sac.
Three doors down, an elderly man struggled to the curb with a barrel of trash. Watching him and listening to the night, Brad almost missed the Plymouth. It was approaching from his right from behind parked cars. The headlights brightened the quiet yards on both sides of the street. He buried his face in the fallen leaves of the bottlebrush; only light reflecting off his face could give away his position.
When his ears told him they were past, he rose quickly and dashed after the slowly moving car. The window on the driver’s side was open. As he came up to it, he slowed. “Looking for me, Feldersen?”
The pale blond head jerked back and around as if the man’s hair had been pulled hard, suddenly. Brad stopped; the car came to a halt twenty feet farther on. The backup lights came on; the car moved slowly back to where Brad was standing.
Feldersen’s face was in shadow; Brad could see nothing of it, except the tight set of his jaws. He wondered what the man was thinking. Would he do something unexpected? For an instant, frustration overwhelmed him. He hoped Feldersen would do something, anything to give the chance to physically demonstrate how he felt. “Why are you following me?” Brad asked, trying for politeness and falling short.
The silence dragged on as Feldersen studied him. “I think I should arrest you, take you downtown and see what else can be arranged.” There was anger, but the words were said with a controlled effort at politeness.
“Where’s Cogswell?”
Feldersen gave no indication he’d heard.
“You’re not CIA. Who are you?”
“I don’t answer your questions. Remember? You’re going to answer mine.”
“Not likely.”
“When we saw you at the hotel, you knew it was your ex-wife who put us onto you. Is that why you killed her?”
“Ignorance can be dealt with. Stupidity is tougher.”
Feldersen had his hand on the door handle, his arm rigid. Brad tensed. It would be foolish to let the agent get out of the car. But this whole scene was the essence of foolishness. Where was the gain? Brad realized he was cold. “I’ll be at Hank Walter’s place. Wouldn’t want you to get lost.”
He walked quickly away, got into the rental and drove toward the cul-de-sac. He came up the street, passed the unmoving Plymouth, then took the corner. He saw the headlights flash on behind him. All pretense was gone; they were right on his bumper. If he stopped suddenly, he’d have two federal agents close to, if not in, the back seat of his car.
* * *
When Brad entered the apartment, Hank was putting the finishing touches on a sandwich. Brad opened the refrigerator and put away the milk and the six packs of beer. He took a cold one off the door and turned toward Hank who was trying to swallow in order to speak.
“There’s a game tonight. It might take your mind off your troubles,” Hank said.
About to snap open his beer, Brad paused. “The stakes?”
“Maybe a grand to the winner.”
Brad shook his head and opened his beer. “Go ahead. I’ll be ok.”
“No big deal.” Hank grabbed a beer to go with his sandwich and moved into the living room. Brad followed. Seated, Hank said, “We found two more bugs when my pad was swept this afternoon. Somebody’s real interested in you.”
“I was followed again. Feldersen. He was with some other fella, not Cogswell.” Brad told him what had happened on the dead end street.
“I couldn’t get a make on tha
t car last night. Was this the same one?”
Brad nodded. “I was close enough to see the plate was taped, but not how.”
“Whoever they are, they’re not CIA.”
“Did you hear from Josie?”
“She called this afternoon. She got a copy of that will, and it’s like you said. Lydia got Gerald’s share when he was killed. She asked a couple questions, but she didn’t have much to say. I got a little more on Tuckman.”
Brad leaned forward.
“He’s a tough bird. I checked his two boys. From their records, they may be even tougher; they like to beat on folks. I don’t know how that baby-faced guy got a license to carry a weapon. Tuckman must have some high-up clout.
“He lost a chance to buy half of Overnight Air when Gerald was killed, so he doesn’t look good as a suspect. Lydia, on the other hand, got real lucky. Right now she looks like our best bet.
“There’s an interesting twist. One of Tuckman’s drivers was busted at the Mexican border with half a million worth of coke. The DEA has him locked up tryin’ to get him to blow the whistle on Tuckman. But the driver claims it was a solo deal.”
“Can’t figure who called me at the hotel about Lydia,” Brad said. “Could it have been Tuckman?”
“He seems more an upfront type, a guy who’d come right at you. He’d have used his name.”
Brad tugged on his ear. “What the hell’s it all mean?”
Questions beginning with “What,” “Who,” “How,” and “Why” filled the room. They lingered in Brad’s thoughts after Hank went to bed. As he curled up on the couch, even images of Josie failed to stem their flow. There were no answers. There might never be. This thought kept him awake for another hour.
* * *
It was a good bolt lock. It had taken almost three minutes to pick it. But the rest of the place was a dump. He moved silently about the small apartment. He knew no one was there, but the .38 in his hand was cocked, the silencer in place. In the darkness, the red stone of his ring had no color.
The stink in the bedroom was pronounced. It reeked of mold and the unwashed toilet. The bed sheets looked as if they hadn’t been changed in a month. Dirty, smelly clothes littered the floor. It offended him, such filth. Back in the living room, he chose the chair by the slightly open window. It was not the best position and one of the springs poked hard into his buttocks, but he needed the air, smog filled or not.
Jason Talbert liked coke. This could account for the state of disarray and deterioration in the apartment. But Talbert was also a good aircraft mechanic. To his orderly mind, there was a contradiction here, as there had been when he’d persuaded Talbert to assist him. He knew “persuade” wasn’t quite the right word.
Actually it had been simple blackmail, a briefcase filled with coke that went unreported. So far as he’d been able to discover, Talbert’s lifestyle hadn’t interfered. The man was a genius at duplicating aircraft struts and braces that were hollow shells, to be filled and emptied of heroin as needed.
At the sound of someone slipping the key into the door lock, he straightened slightly and lifted the pistol, hammer back. The bolt slid free and the door opened to admit a tall, slender man. For a moment, Jason Talbert was silhouetted against the night sky, his shoulders hunched in characteristic fashion, somewhat obscured by his long unkempt hair.
Talbert closed the door and reached to lock it. The first round hit him hard under the heart, the second high between his shoulders. If he could have screamed, he would have. If he could have looked toward the .38, he’d have been startled by the amount of light in the fire cone that nearly touched his shirt. But he was looking elsewhere now, as he slowly crumpled to the floor, wedged against the door.
The man in the chair did not move for several moments. He watched the dying man intently, watched the jerky dance of death steal through the body. The smell of gunpowder faded others in the room. He liked it.
He stood finally, grabbed the long hair and casually pulled the body free of the door. He reached down for the pulse in the man’s throat. There wasn’t much; he knew it wouldn’t last. But he was always a careful man. The dull thud of the silenced pistol died quickly, but not the smell of scorched hair.
He removed the silencer and slipped it into his coat pocket. He tucked the pistol behind his belt, and opened the door. There were no sounds that shouldn’t be there. He closed the door softly behind him and walked quietly toward the street. His rubber heels made no sound and his dark suit blended with the fading night. Only occasionally did light reflect off the red stone in his ring.
CHAPTER 8
Thursday
When Brad entered the snack bar, he picked up a cup of coffee and joined the red-headed Pat sitting alone at a table on the left. As he sat down, Pat said, “Have you ever run into Jason Talbert? A real hotshot mechanic?” At the puzzled look on Brad’s face, he added, “A greasy-looking guy. Had a scar on his left cheek.” Pat indicated its position with a finger across his cheek.
“Got it.”
“He got himself shot early this morning. A couple of guys heard it on the news. There was blood and guts all over the place, the way I hear it.”
Wonder why? Brad’s thoughts raced. Could this be important? Something to dig into?
“I didn’t know him really,” Pat responded. “I’ve seen him around. But talk is he was a doper. If he was, there’re a thousand reasons.”
Brad nodded, trying to remember exactly what Jason Talbert had looked like. Connie Artwald joined them. Her improbable breasts got the attention she wanted. She, too, had heard of the killing. “Talbert was always somewhere half past high. How he kept his job, I can’t even guess. Maybe he just had a gun, see, wondered what it was for and pulled the trigger.”
“Ah hell, Connie,” Pat commented. “That don’t make it. He was shot three times.”
Brad did not contribute, as Connie and Pat argued over possibilities. When it was time to clock in, he excused himself. He punched in, grabbed a stack of work orders and climbed up on the forklift. Except for more talk of Jason Talbert, he heard nothing new.
On his first break, he called Hank. After telling him about Talbert, he asked, “Any chance of finding why he was killed?”
“Maybe,” Hank said. “I’ll see who’s handlin’ the case. It’d be nice to know.”
“Yeah. The talk here is he was into drugs.”
“Maybe you’re not wastin’ time like we thought. I’ll see what I can do. Incidentally, I’ll be workin’ late tonight. Instead of headin’ straight for my place, maybe you can find a busy bar, talk to some folks with names and give me a call later.”
“Will do.”
“Be cool, buddy.”
His thoughts floated aimlessly between Lydia, Tuckman and Talbert. He was glad Hank had taken him seriously about the killing. All he had was a feeling that it did relate in some way. A good hunch could lead to a better decision than his head could provide.
He tried Josie several times, but all he got was the sound of her voice on a recorder asking him to leave his name and number. Despite himself, he thought more of her than his work. He kept seeing the way she walked, and the way she tossed her long, dark hair over her shoulder.
A little before nine, the night foreman gave him a key, pointed to a skid and told him to take it to the aircraft service hangar. He didn’t need the key; the hangar door wasn’t locked. He slid it open, moved the lift inside and deposited the skid.
As he whirled the rig, he saw Roberto Sanchez, the lead mechanic, working on a C47 long past its prime. One of the landing lights was dangling; Roberto’s left arm was buried to the elbow in the hole where it had been. That explained why the door wasn’t locked; Sanchez worked odd hours. In response to his casual wave, Brad received only a dark scowl. Sanchez turned abruptly back to his work. With a shrug, Brad headed back to the shed.
The rest of the evening’s work was uninteresting. There was something about Sanchez that bothered him. Jason Talbert and Roberto Sa
nchez. Both were good mechanics. Both worked for Overnite Air. And one of them was very, very dead. Sanchez had seemed friendly enough when they’d been introduced earlier. Why the scowl? When he checked out at eleven, he still had the key to the hangar. One more look wouldn’t hurt.
This time, the hangar was locked. He used the key. Inside, the service platform was parked against the back wall. Brad grabbed a stepladder and carried it out to the plane. From the top step, he studied the light Sanchez had been working on. Why would a lead mechanic be working on a landing light at nine o’clock at night? Surely this old derelict was not desperately needed by anyone. As far as he could see, Sanchez had simply installed a new one, something any flunky could do.
He put the stepladder back where he’d found it, locked the door and returned to the shed, coming in as if from the parking area. As he approached, the night foreman looked up. “Thought you’d left.”
“Did. Forgot the hangar key.”
“Right,” the foreman said, slipping the key into his pocket.
* * *
As Brad turned north on Sepulveda, he thought he recognized the headlights behind him. As the car passed under the street lights at an intersection, he knew he’d guessed right. The tan Plymouth. He toyed with the idea of losing them, just for the hell of it. It would at least spoil their evening. But how?
At Victory, the light was dead red when he reached the intersection. He beat the cross traffic; the tan Plymouth could not. But they ran the red light, then came on fast, dodging light traffic. As he watched in the rearview mirror, a third car, a large dark sedan, made a sliding turn onto Sepulveda and accelerated, gaining quickly on the Plymouth. Suddenly the driver of the dark sedan cut sharply across the front of the Plymouth, forcing it to the curb and into a light standard. With the Plymouth out of it, the sedan closed rapidly.
Fun time was over; Brad knew he was the object of this exercise. Whoever it was wanted more than to shake his hand.
Brad took a hard right, knowing he couldn’t outrun his pursuer in the rental car. Still, sixty-five miles an hour on a city street, with light traffic, offered opportunity. He tried to ignore the car behind him, to picture the road ahead.
