Aaron Conners - Tex Murphy 02

by Under a Killing Moon

As I looked back up, a figure moved suddenly on the far side of the room. I froze as my heart rate instantaneously tripled. Trying not to breathe, I peered toward the opposite wall and saw the face of a middle-aged man staring back at me, wild-eyed. After an instant of confusion, I realized it was me. My knees nearly buckled with relief, and it took a minute for the pounding in my ears to subside.

  As my breathing slowly returned to normal, I inspected the walls of the room, which turned out to be covered with pricey-looking paintings and ornately framed mirrors. The room was not large, maybe twenty-five feet wide and forty feet long, but the mirrors gave it a much bigger feel. Some furniture was scattered here and there, but this appeared to be more of a den than a living room. I noticed a desk in one of the corners and decided to start there.

  On top of the desk, I found a computer printout containing a list of names. As I looked it over, one name jumped out at me: Lowell Percival. The billionaire industrialist had been a client of mine years ago. I scanned the list and, as far as I could tell, it consisted of people interested in buying rare artifacts.

  I continued on and quickly rooted through the drawers of the desk, but turned up nothing related to what I was looking for. The terrariums and aquariums didn’t seem to be worth checking out, but I did anyway, just to be on the safe side. I paused to take a closer look at Ching’s boa, which was curled into a dormant mound the size of a stegosaurus dropping. To the right of this terrarium was another, this one containing three brightly colored, venomous-looking serpents. Ching certainly had strange tastes. I imagined that poisonous snakes would be slightly less cuddly pets than, say, a puppy. Between the terrariums, I saw a long metal pole with a noose on the end. The thought of one of the snakes getting loose made the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention.

  There was only one door leading out of the room, directly across from the freshly cut hole in the wall. I opened it and stepped into Ching’s living room. The second window I’d looked in was on my right, opposite the front door to the apartment. The reflections of the city lights provided some light, but not enough for a thorough search. The room was about the same size as the den, but was much more lavishly furnished.

  Directly across from me, I saw a large, wooden bookcase, crammed full of books. To the right of the bookcase was an open doorway, leading to a small kitchen area. To the left was a closed door, then a five-figure couch and love seat that occupied the entire corner of the room. I paused to examine a display cabinet teeming with exotic objects. The room was filled with plants, vases, and other ostentatious decorations. The exposed walls were covered with paintings and still more mirrors. The apartment was a narcissist’s dream.

  I walked around the room, examining the objects d’art and feeling like a tourist. In one section of the room, I found a panel that opened to reveal a small but magnificently stocked liquor cabinet. Ching kept an admirable selection of bourbons and scotches, as well as the usual token bottles of rum, gin, and vodka. I was thirsty and nervous, but all I really wanted was to finish the job and get out.

  Eventually, I made my way to the bookcase and looked through it. Many of the volumes were foreign. Unless these were just for show, it looked as though Ching spoke at least English, Spanish, French, German, Japanese, and probably several other languages I couldn’t identify. The selection of books ranged from The Complete Works of

  Shakespeare to a collection by some guy named Flannery O’Connor. Regrettably, my preferred reading material had always fallen somewhere between Spider-man comics and the back of a Cheerios box. Of the several hundred volumes in the bookcase, I’d read only one - For Whom the Bell Tolls. Well, read was an exaggeration, but I’d seen the movie. Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman. Now that was a woman. Women like that had disappeared around the time tube tops and tie-dye became fashionable. What a goddess. I sighed involuntarily. So very lonely.

  I moved to the closed door, which turned out to be the entrance to the bano, the most commonly used Spanish word not directly related to food. There was nothing

  remarkable about the bathroom. To be thorough, I opened the medicine cabinet and casually glanced over the contents. Unlike some people, I’ve never had an interest in inspecting other people’s medicinal and hygienic inventories. It looked like a pretty typical selection, so I closed the cabinet and returned to the living room.

  The last area I checked was the kitchen. A stove, a microwave, a refrigerator, a sink, and a small dinette set were crammed into a space maybe fifteen feet square. Cupboards mounted on the walls circled the perimeter of the room. I took a peek in the refrigerator, but the interior was even more vacuous than the back at my office. After ten minutes, I realized that there was nothing to find in the kitchen.

  I stepped back into the living room, discouraged. I’d searched carefully, but had nothing more than the name of an old client and an unwelcome reminder of my lack of exposure to classic literature. I swung the flashlight beam around, hoping to spot something I’d overlooked, but there didn’t appear to be any container or space large enough to hold the item I was looking for.

  I started moving everything that wasn’t ruggedly attached to a wall and inspecting the areas underneath. Behind an antique-looking oil painting of buxom fruit, I found a small wall safe. Naturally, I was excited, but after experimenting with the dial for some time, I lost interest and returned to my search. There was nothing but wall behind the living room mirrors and paintings. The kitchen didn’t turn up anything, so I moved into the den. After fifteen minutes, I’d come up empty again.

  After I checked the wall behind the last painting, I stopped to consider my options.

  Taking another look at the wall safe, I decided that I’d just have to accept the fact that I would probably never get inside it.

  Then a thought popped into my head. I returned to the living room and examined the layout. The kitchen, living room, and bathroom formed a horseshoe shape around the bookcase. Unless my calculations were way off, there was a rectangle of space about fifteen feet square unaccounted for. I carefully inspected the bookcase, which appeared to have been built directly into the wall. I tried to push it; I might as well have been trying to move my ex-mother-in-law. I briefly considered using brute force, but for all I knew, there might be an alarm of some sort attached to the bookcase itself.

  There was only one thing to do. And it had worked before. I entered the bathroom and removed the towels from a rack on the right wall. I’d bought the laser blade at Radioactive Shack and wondered how much longer I had before it would break.

  Hopefully, it still had a little life in it. Like I’d done in the neighbor’s apartment, I bent down and began to cut through the wall.

  As I started on the second layer of plasterboard, a ray of greenish light appeared through the slit above the laser blade. A light source! There was definitely an enclosed area behind the wall. I’d almost finished when the laser blade sputtered and went out. Using the heel of my hand, I punched the center of the cut section. The plasterboard broke free, followed an instant later by a crashing noise. I wriggled through the opening, into some sort of treasure chamber. The room was no bigger than the kitchen, but was stuffed ti the ceiling with paintings, statues, vases, and glass cabinets full of loose precious stones and jewelry.

  As I stood up, I saw the source of the crash: I’d tipped over a stack of framed paintings.

  The one that had been nearest the wall had been nicked by the laser blade. I was no art expert, but it looked like an original Rembrandt. I wouldn’t have known an original Rembrandt from a decorative place mat, except I had one back at my office. At least that’s what the guy who’d sold it to me had said. For seventy dollars, it better have been.

  The small room’s contents had to be worth millions. It was like I’d found some legendary pirate’s cave full of booty. A painting hung on the wall to my left and looked remarkably like a Van Gogh. I hadn’t felt this overwhelmed and insignificant since my last date at divorce court. But this time, everything was goi
ng my way. In the center of the room sat the Holy Grail. Figuratively speaking. There was no question that this was what I’d come for. It was just the way Countess Renier had described it to me: a statuette, formed in the shape of a bird, about sixteen inches in height and constructed of some crystalline subsatnce. It sat atop a marble pedestal and didn’t appear to be hooked up to anything. It was a ripe peach, waiting to be picked.

  I got close to the pedestal and examined every square inch. It had no visible security attachment. Moving slowly, like you do when extracting the funny bone in a game of Operation, I reached for the prize. As my hands touched it, I felt a tingling sensation, similar to the way frozen hands feel when they’re first soaked in hot water. I ran my hands over the surface for a moment. I’d never felt anything like it. It felt almost malleable, though it was obviously made of some solid material. Unsure of how heavy it would be, I tensed up and lifted the statuette from the pedestal. A deafening alarm immediately tore through the apartment.

  I hesitated, unsure of whether I was responsible for the alarm going off. It didn’t matter.

  The fact was, I’d broken into an apartment in one of the most secured buildings in Mexico City. Getting caught would not be good. I passed the statuette through the opening in the wall, then crawled back into the bathroom. As I shut the bathroom door behind me and hurried through the living room, I heard pounding footsteps outside the front door coming down the hallway from the direction of the elevator.

  I hurried to the den as frantic Latin voices spoke rapidly outside. I passed the statuette into the neighboring apartment, then glanced around. Nearby I saw a remote stereo speaker. It looked just big enough to cover the opening in the wall. I was about to drop down and crawl through when I thought of something that might buy me some time. I rushed across the room and flipped open the lids on the terrariums containing the snakes.

  Then I returned to the stereo speaker, moved it next to the hole, dropped to my knees, and began to back in. With surprising speed, one of the smaller snakes slithered out of its tank and headed straight for me as I reached for the speaker. The snake was four feet away and closing fast when I pulled the speaker in front of the hole. As I stood up, I heard the front door to Ching’s apartment burst open.

  Safely inside the other apartment, I picked up the statuette, then pushed the black leather couch back against the wall. The Spanish-speaking voices next door slowly changed from frantic to angry and confused. I smiled to myself as I thought of them imagining that I had simply vanished into thin air. I wished I could understand what they were saying and regretted for the hundredth time not following up on the language skills I’d acquired in seventh-grade espanol with Senoritas Morena y Marta.

  My amusement didn’t last long. I had to get to either the stairway, which was next to Ching’s apartment, or to the elevator, which was across the hall from the vacant apartment I’d first entered. Suddenly, someone knocked at the door of the apartment I was in. They knocked again, more forcefully. I hurried to the window and crawled through. Without the luxury of caution, I scampered along the ledge, my arms wrapped around the statuette. I reached the window of the empty apartment pushed it open, and jumped inside.

  I crossed the room to the front door and put my eye to the peephole. There didn’t appear to be anyone at this end of the hall. Through the door, I heard the elevator chime and then watched as a half dozen swarthy men piled out, led by an unsmiling Alfonso. They bolted off in the direction of Ching’s apartment. Behind them, the elevator doors were open.

  I turned the knob and opened the door. The elevator doors were starting to close. I bounded across the hallway and knifed into the elevator, but the opening had narrowed and I’d brushed one of the doors, causing the elevator to reopen. From the far end of the hall, I heard several voices yelling “Alto!” Heavy footsteps came thundering down the hall as I repeatedly pushed the button for the first floor. As the doors began to close, I had no idea how close my pursuers were.

  Apparently not close enough. The elevator doors pressed lightly together, and I began to descend away from the loud voices. A wave of relief washed over me, but I wasn’t out yet. The lobby and parking lot doors, as well as the stairways, would almost certainly be guarded. I tried to think. My speeder was parked out past the covered parking area, so that would be the direction to head toward. Maybe if I took the guards unawares, I could get past and outrun them to the speeder. Unless, of course, they had guns, which they undoubtedly did. I didn’t have much choice. I pressed the button for the second floor.

  The doors opened at the second floor, and the immediate area was mercifully devoid of humanity. I stepped out into a hallway almost identical to the one on the eighteenth floor. In the corner across from the elevator, someone had placed a small, elegant stand with a vase full of flowers. Nice touch.

  I started with the closest apartment and tried the door knob. Locked. I made my way down the hallway, stopping at each door and trying to open it. By the time I reached the last door, I decided that I wasn’t going to get lucky, so I reared back and kicked it in.

  Cradling the statuette like a football, I ran into the apartment, past a startled old man wearing nothing but a pair of dingy boxers. He had dropped a can of beer onto his lap and was staring at me, wild-eyed, as I dashed past him toward the window. I pulled the window open and looked out. It was about a twenty-foot drop. It wouldn’t kill me, but it would probably leave a few bruises. Wrapping my arms tightly around the statuette, I stepped onto the ledge and jumped.

  A bed of flowers came rushing up at me. I tried to roll as I hit the ground, but didn’t quite pull it off. As I lay in the garden dirt, staring up at the filthy night sky, excruciating pain shot up and down my back and both legs. I decided to wait until the agony subsided before making any attempt to stand. Several seconds passed.

  Suddenly, above me, the beer-soaked man started to yell. The welcome addition of still more adrenaline gave me just the boost I needed. I pried myself out of the loam, glanced around, and hugging the statuette like a football, ran to daylight. Gunshots rang out above and behind me. Weaving like a punt returner, I crossed the street and reached the speeder. It was where I’d left it and still had its license plates, wipers, and antenna.

  Perhaps there was a god, after all.

  I climbed inside, turned on the ignition, and lifted off. The lights of Mexico City faded behind me like firework residue. The statuette glowed faintly on the passenger seat.

  Hands shaking and back aching, I lit a cigarette, took a drag, then opened the window and ejected the abomination. I checked my radar - no one appeared to be following me.

  It looked like I’d pulled it off. A glance at the geo-grid showed that the nearest decent-sized US city was Brownsville, Texas. Four more hours, and I’d be seated in a café, a strong cup of coffee on the left and a fresh pack of Luckys on the right. Four hours away, three and a half if I pushed it.

  UAKM - CHAPTER THREE

  Things were hopping at the Post-Nuclear (pronounced Nucular) café. The dinner seemed to be particularly popular with truckers and migrant workers. A lone waitress with orange hair the size of an award-winning state fair pumpkin bustled feverishly about the teeming horde of Brownsville’s finest.

  A single laminated page, burned and stained like the toilet tank cover in a bar restroom, sat in front of me. An index card paper-clipped to the menu proclaimed the special of the day to be beef pot pie and waldorf salad, with cherries jubilee for dessert. After brief consideration, I discarded the special as a viable option. It sounded good in theory, but pot pies are a lot like used vehicles and dames - no matter how good they look, it’s what’s under the hood that counts.

  I reached for the unopened pack of Lucky Strikes I’d bought approximately ninety seconds after touching down in Brownsville. As I ran through the menu, I packed the fresh set of smokes against the heel of my hand. Seven times - no more, no less.

  This was the first step in a complex, yet satisfying ritual known only t
o those who indulge in the world’s second or third most dangerous habit. Pinching the starter tab, I pulled gently and unsealed the pack with all the care and anticipation of removing a bra.

  Next came the stripping of the foil, and finally, the extraction. It was as close as I would ever get to organized religion.

  I tapped the cigarette on the tabletop, then moistened three quarters of an inch on the packed end with my tongue. With my left hand, I placed the cigarette between my lips, just left of center. My right hand approached, bearing the fire. My hands cupped around the Zippo as its flame touched the tip of the Lucky Strike. I drew in deeply and slowly and heard the pleasant crackling of toasted tobacco. My eyes closed, and I leaned back, wanting to savor indefinitely this sensation of reuniting with my one true love.

  In the midst of the rapture, I felt a distinctly pink presence close by. I opened my eyes and saw that the orange-headed waitress had arrived. My head still resting on the back of the vinyl booth seat, I glanced at her name: LaDonna. LaDonna looked down at me indulgently, her foot tapping at about 6000 RPM and a brown cigarette dangling from her lip like an exhaust pipe. I tossed her a disarming smile and sat up, my attention returning to the menu.

  There were so many choices, and LaDonna was like a ticking bomb. If I didn’t order soon, possibly within seconds, she was likely to detonate, which would likely hurl her away from my booth and into a refilling condition-shuttling frenzy. God knew when she’d be back to take my order. I had to think quickly, yet my sense of self-preservation told me I had to be careful. Chicken-fried steak was out. So was the goulash. The meat hash intrigued me, but I passed. Finally, my eyes came across the grilled cheese sandwich. How dangerous could a grilled cheese sandwich be?

  “I’ll have the grilled cheese sandwich.”

  LaDonna scribbled furiously. “One grilled cheese. White, wheat, light rye, dark rye, pumpernickel, or pita?”

  I wasn’t sure how heavy I should go. I still had a long flight home. “White, please.”