Free to Die

by Bob McElwain

  What kind of combat experience? Had he ever been in Mexico? Any connection with smuggling of any kind? Then more about Talbert and Sanchez. What were they like? Did he have any thoughts about why they’d been killed? Had he heard anything? Where had he been at the times of the murders?

  Brad could feel a fine sweat on the small of his back and the palms of his hands. He was being questioned in more detail than his fellow workers had been.

  “Well, I guess that about does it for now,” Farley said finally. “We both want to thank you for being patient with our poking and prying. Perhaps you have a question or something to add?”

  “Seems like you guys covered it.”

  “You’re not curious why narcotics and homicide are teamed up here?”

  Brad shrugged. “An airline that flies to Mexico. One of the dead men a Mexican.” He looked squarely at the homicide detective. “Murder’s your department. And if there’s smuggling, you’d be interested.” He looked back at Farley.

  “Right, Mr. Fairchild.” He studied Brad intently. Then turned to Santino who said, “You say you’ve never been in Los Angeles before?”

  Brad shook his head. Not as Tom Fairchild, he thought. He knew he wouldn’t like what was coming.

  “Funny. You look familiar. Should I know you?”

  “Don’t see how.” But Brad knew. When he’d run, his picture had been well publicized.

  “Just one of those things, I guess.” He turned to Farley and said, “Mr. Fairchild has an interesting background. Maybe a formal statement would help?”

  “Could you do that for us, Mr. Fairchild?” Farley asked. “We’d be glad to give you a lift to the station and back.”

  “Sure.” It was the last thing he needed. “Right now, if you want.”

  He watched the quiet tautness fade from Farley’s stance. Santino rose. “We really appreciate your help, Mr. Fairchild. We’ll check a couple things. Maybe we won’t need a statement. Okay?”

  Brad nodded.

  “Thanks again,” said Farley. Then they were gone. Brad remained seated for a long while. He wanted something stronger than coffee, but he knew where he could get some of that. He strode toward the snack bar.

  * * *

  Brad had made his deal with the night foreman several hours earlier. Things were quiet; he had no problem convincing him the girl he would meet couldn’t wait. He checked out an hour early, hoping a killer would not be expecting it.

  As a further precaution, he left by the rear of the terminal. He walked left to the end of the building, then headed for the street up the alley where Josie would be waiting.

  The alley was nearly forty feet wide, brightly lit at the street end, but darker here. Warehouse debris was randomly but neatly stacked along one side. He was two hundred feet from the street when he heard it. Before he could start a turn, one word, spoken softly, stopped him.

  “No.” It was a deep voice, pitched low, dripping with satisfaction and confidence. “Stay real still.”

  Brad made no move, but strained to hear the footsteps coming closer behind him. He felt the barrel of the pistol pressed into the ribs to the right of his spine. “The man wants to see you. Okay?”

  Brad nodded slowly. He could see Josie at the far end of the alley, both hands locked on the .357. But she was too far away to do him much good, unless she wanted to gamble and simply fire.

  He took a precise fix on the barrel of the pistol pressed into his back. He knew that before the gunman could fire, he’d be moving. He whirled to his left. Flame seared his flesh and the alley was filled with the thundering blast.

  He continued as in a single motion. The man was backing now, but he was much too late. Brad drove his forearm up under the man’s chin as if to drive it through the jaw. Another shot pounded the receding echoes of the first one, but the bullet ricocheted harmlessly down the alley. The sound of the cracking of the jawbone and teeth splintering was gruesome accompaniment to the skittering clatter of the pistol sliding on concrete. Brad ran.

  With only a few feet to the street remaining, a heavyset man with a cap pulled low, stepped into his path, bringing his pistol up.

  “Freeze,” Josie cried.

  The man hesitated, almost as thinking to turn toward the sound of the voice. But when he saw how close Brad was, how rapidly he was closing, he ignored whatever might be behind him.

  Brad jumped feet first, a continuation of his run. He rolled slowly sideways in the air. His right boot was a bit high. Blood exploded from the man’s nose and mouth. His left foot found its mark, just below the heart. The man was hammered back and down, his pistol also skidding on concrete.

  As Brad fell, he saw Josie rushing toward him. He landed on his hands and toes and rolled to his feet. Josie held the .357 pointed midway between the two men, her eyes constantly moving, searching for further intrusion. Brad scrambled toward the man nearest him, rolled him over and grabbed his wallet.

  “Let’s go,” Josie said, nodding in the direction of the main terminal building. Two airport security guards, weapons drawn, were running toward them. Brad dashed for the car. Josie was behind the wheel before he could close the door. Then the car moved off powerfully, tires smoking.

  In the late night traffic, she slowed slightly for the only two red lights encountered. Once on the freeway, the speedometer surged past redline. Five miles later, she slowed to the legal limit and looked at him. It was then she noticed the blood tracing patterns on the white velour upholstery. “Hospital?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  Grimly she shoved the accelerator back down. The pain in his back dominated, as the adrenalin faded along with the ache in his kidneys. He held the crash bar and armrest firmly, stifling the tremble in his hands while easing the effect of the hard motion of the fast moving car on his back.

  * * *

  In her apartment, Brad removed his bloody shirt and sat sideways on the kitchen chair. The blood dripping to the tile floor would be easy to clean up. Josie returned from the bathroom with gauze, tape and an array of bottles and tubes. The contents of some went into the pot boiling on the stove. When she turned attention to his back, she chuckled briefly.

  “It’s funny?” he demanded.

  “I was thinking of my comment in Amanda’s office about whether or not you were tough enough. I’m seldom that wrong.” She sighed. “I gather the scars on your back are from beatings in that prison camp.”

  Brad nodded. “And they had a thing for knives.”

  “And the bullet holes?”

  “It’s called combat,” Brad commented.

  She sighed again. “If I were dealing in human hides, yours wouldn’t be worth much.”

  “It still works for me.”

  “This latest contribution won’t amount to much.”

  “How deep a gash did the bullet cut?” he asked.

  “Not enough for stitches. It’s hardly bleeding now.”

  He could feel her strong fingers whisper-light upon his back. Whatever she was using to clean the wound, caused him to grip the table hard.

  Only when he felt soothing ointment on the burn, did he begin to relax. She taped gauze in place, then gently but firmly wrapped long strips tightly about his ribs. He did not move as she rinsed some things behind him and carried the unused items back into the bathroom.

  When she returned to the kitchen, he heard the sound of ice cubes in a glass. She set a goodly portion of bourbon beside him, within easy reach, then knelt on the floor and began cleaning.

  He’d had two long swallows before she rose. He watched her dump his torn bloody shirt, the rag she’d used on the floor and bits of gauze and bandage in a paper bag. “Stand up,” she said.

  He did, slowly. It hurt, but the thrusting, bolting, slashing pain was gone. She washed his light brown slacks as best she could.

  “I’ll be back,” she said and left the apartment, stuffing the rag into the paper bag. She’d be a while; it took time to wash blood from white velour upholstery. Gingerly,
he bent his head down to look at his pants. There’d be stains, but they’d do. Carefully he walked to the sink, built another drink and returned to the table. The apartment was cool, but sweat glistened on his chest and stomach accenting sharply defined muscles.

  When she returned, she locked the door behind her and set the alarm. He noticed guiltily the broken window had been repaired and the alarm system rewired. She picked up the phone, carried it to the couch and dialed.

  “Sgt. Walters, there’s been some trouble,” she said grimly. She described what she knew and what Brad had briefly told her in the car. “Perhaps you could find out who they were. Brad didn’t recognize them, but one had a wallet; the name on the driver’s license is Georgio Lampino.” She listened a moment. “Good.” She returned the receiver to its cradle and the phone to the floor.

  She went into the bedroom and returned with another .357 and an old ragged sweater. “Try this,” she said, tossing the sweater on the table and laying the pistol down beside it. She turned off the lights one by one, then opened the drapes. He could see the city lights dancing in the clear night. When she returned to the table, he had only one arm in the sweater.

  “Here. Let me help.” Gentle fingers eased the sweater up his right arm. He ducked his head and she slipped it down over his shoulder to his waist. She poured herself a drink and sat down at the table beside him. The short-barreled .357 filled the center of the table. For several moments they watched the city lights.

  “That’s all he said, ‘The man wants to see you’?”

  He nodded.

  “And you didn’t recognize him?”

  “Never saw him before.”

  “And you hurt him badly?”

  “Broke his jaw and some teeth.”

  “I sure wasn’t much help,” Josie said disgustedly.

  “If I hadn’t made a move, you’d have figured something. And you did make the second guy hesitate.”

  “Perhaps,” she murmured. She picked up the wallet he’d taken and opened it once again. “Georgio Lampino. Does he belong to Tuckman?”

  “Maybe.”

  “We need rest now,” she said. “Perhaps we can make some sense of it in the morning.”

  He nodded.

  “You don’t look too good. How does it feel?”

  “Not bad. It burns a bit.”

  “The bullet only grazed you. It’s the powder burn that smarts.” She paused. “Would you be more comfortable in the bed? I can take the couch.”

  He shook his head.

  “Will you be all right?” She reached out and covered his hand.

  “Expect so.”

  Finally she released his hand. She shoved the .357 closer to him. “Are you any good with one of these?”

  “I can use one, but I’m no expert.”

  “If that alarm goes off, shoot. I’m not expecting anyone friendly.”

  He nodded.

  She looked down at the table, frowning. “You know,” she said softly, looking up, “when I’m sure I’ve got you all figured, you do something that wipes out the whole picture.”

  “What now?” he asked softly.

  “You’re worried about those men in the alley, aren’t you, just as you were worried about those three in Vegas?”

  “Not Lampino,” he said. “He’s been hit before. But there’s one fella who needs his mouth rebuilt.”

  “He had a gun; he knew the risks.”

  “He paid a high price.”

  “If you must, will you use that pistol?”

  It took a long time to get it said. “Yeah.”

  She stood, looking down at him with an expression he couldn’t identify. “Wake me if you need anything?”

  “Will do,” he said softly, knowing he needed her badly, but not in the way she was thinking.

  “Night then.”

  * * *

  Only when he moved too quickly, were sharp spikes driven home. But sleep was beyond him.

  It had all gone sour. He could smell the stench of it. Even if Judge Tofler turned him loose, he wouldn’t be out of it. Just the lies he’d told today were enough for good trouble. And there was still a faceless killer roaming the city jungle out there.

  Maybe it was time to quit. Leave the money belt with Josie and let her and Hank try to sort it out. For sure he wasn’t being much help.

  He let his thoughts do their thing. This time the fantasies were overpowering. Long, dark hair flared on a white pillowcase. Silken satiny thighs spread, inviting him downward, inward.

  He shook his head suddenly and wished he hadn’t. Neither the flash of pain nor the ache in his loins was fantasy. He eased off the couch, stuffed the pistol behind his waistband and made his way to the kitchen. As quietly as possible, he built another drink, ignoring the ice for the sake of quiet. He carried the drink to the window and sipped slowly as he gazed out at the city lights.

  He became aware of her beside him and didn’t know how long she’d been there. She was wearing a blue silk kimono, belted tightly at the waist. The swell of her breasts was only suggested in the deep folds. As he turned, so did she.

  “Is your back all right?” she asked softly.

  He nodded, trying to read her face in the night light, particularly her eyes. He reached out with his left hand and gently stroked her right arm. He thought she trembled slightly. Then he wasn’t sure.

  “I want you,” he said.

  “I know.” She looked down at his hand, not meeting his gaze.

  “Crazy, right?” He let his arm drop to his side.

  “Yes.” She looked up, searching his face. She reached up, brushing his cheek lightly with gentle fingers. Then she was gone.

  CHAPTER 10

  Saturday

  He awoke with a start, not sure where he was. When he moved, he remembered. The pain in his back was gone, except when he twisted it. Then it stabbed sharply, but with discomfort, not agony. Gingerly he sat up. So far, so good. He picked up the .357 he’d placed on the floor last night, and laid it on the coffee table. The drapes were closed. Bright sunlight trickled around the edges.

  He made it to the kitchen, poured coffee and sat down at the table. Each step was easier than the last. The note on the table said, “Stay inside. Soon.”

  Half finished with his coffee, he rose and went into the bathroom. Carefully he removed the bandage and examined the wound in the mirror. The bullet-notched groove didn’t amount to much; it was hardly more than a deep scratch. The powder burn formed a narrow triangle, flaring to several inches at his side. Satisfied, he showered, shaved and returned to the kitchen. He left the sweater off, letting the cool air soothe his back.

  When Josie returned, she dumped her packages on the couch and asked, “How’s the patient?”

  “Alive.”

  “I bought some clothes. I had to guess at sizes.” She moved around behind him and examined his back. He felt gentle strong fingers roam. “Good. No infection. Try the clothes.”

  She’d bought three sizes of tan slacks. The size 37 fit well as did the larger of the two brown flannel shirts. When he returned to the kitchen, she poured another cup of coffee for him.

  “Will the phone reach?” he asked.

  She nodded. He picked it up and carried it to the table. There was no answer at the apartment. He dialed again.

  “Detectives. Sgt. Walters.”

  “Ashton.”

  “She said you were ok. That so?”

  “It’s nothing. What about those fellas in the alley?”

  “Lampino split, but the guy they found is still in the hospital. There’s maybe more damage than you figured.”

  “They belong to Tuckman?”

  “No. Mike Rinolli.”

  “Who the hell is he?”

  “The man in heroin in LA. The key distributor. He apparently gets the stuff from a variety of sources, but no one has ever come up with a name.

  “He’s a killer who’s stayed legally clean, but there’s been lots of blood. There’s independent
action, but Rinolli stays on top of most of it.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “I haven’t a clue. But whatever, it’s something with drugs. Now tell me, buddy. Who’s Jerry Hiddly? Lives at my place?” Brad could see Hank grinning. “Farley and Santino are real anxious to talk to you again. Somebody made you comin’ out of that alley. From what I heard, you did some mighty fancy work.”

  “Any trouble for you?”

  “Naw. Just told ’em I didn’t know a Tom Fairchild. They probably don’t believe me, but we can straighten it out after your day in court.”

  “Got any good news?”

  “I’ve something about those narcs. Talked with Feldersen. What an asshole. Christ. He’d last maybe two days where we’ve been.”

  “Why are they dogging me?”

  “They figure you handle the Mexican side for Tuckman. They’re still leaning hard on that driver of his, the one who got caught at the border with cocaine.”

  “What about Cogswell? He seemed to have more sense.”

  “That’s like an itch I can’t scratch. Feldersen claims he was reassigned. And get this. Reassigned out of the country. I got a feelin’, but all it tells me is something’s wrong.”

  “So where’s that leave us?”

  “Nowhere, buddy. Absolutely nowhere. One thing, though. About those three kills at Overnite Air?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The bullets in your car were from a .38. Ballistics says there’s maybe not enough for a courtroom, but it was the same piece that killed all three at Overnite.”

  “What the hell is happening?”

  “I don’t know, but it means something. We’ll get it.” The mouthpiece was covered at Hank’s end. Brad couldn’t hear the words, but a sense of urgency came through. “Gotta run,” Hank said grimly. “Get back at you real soon. Will you be with her?”

  “Expect so.”

  “Tell her to keep that .357 close and the hammer back.” Hank hung up.

  Brad relayed what he’d learned to Josie. She listened intently, elbows on the table. Twice she interrupted with a question. “You know,” he said, pulling gently on his ear, “all I ever wanted was a job, a place in the hills, and a couple of kids.” Josie leaned further forward to hear. “Doesn’t seem too much, does it?”

  She started to reach for his hand, then stopped. “This will pass, Brad. I know it will.”

  “Expect so,” he said, but he couldn’t believe it just then.