by Graham Marks
“Weren’t me made the rules, boy.” Shady started dealing the cards.
Trey knew he should apologize for being rude to Shady, but he was too cross with himself for letting Mr. Pisbo walk off without a fight…
Fred Pisbo felt he was reasonably fit, for a man of his age, especially since he’d stopped smoking and given up hot dogs, with extra onions, mustard and ketchup, for at least one meal every day. Velma having pointed out that he was running to fat, and would die a lonely, pot-bellied old guy if he didn’t begin to look after himself, had been the spur; that girl was downright incapable of pulling a punch.
As robust as he now felt, the fence, at a good seven foot, had been a test. He’d finally gotten over it, with grazed shins and a slightly dented pride, and found himself surrounded by what appeared to be acres of dense, thorny undergrowth. This was a place where thick gloves and a machete would have been a couple of handy things to have about one’s person. Which he didn’t. And now he thought about it, he’d left his pistol in the car. Instead he’d brought with him a pair of binoculars, a clasp knife, his camera, notebook and propelling pencil; all of which had their place in the world of a private investigator, but not one in his present position.
Edging himself through the overgrown vegetation as carefully as he could, Fred made painfully slow progress, a few yards taking him more than a few minutes. Then the thorns gave way to regular leaves and branches, which he parted and peered through to see a three-quarter view of a big, three-storey house some way across what had to be more than enough rolling lawn to make a complete eight-hole golf course.
“Jeez…” he muttered, getting out his binoculars. “Some place – like a whole damn country club.”
Without thinking, he got his notebook and pencil out and started sketching the layout of the place; it was force of habit, something he did because it’d been drummed into him by his very first boss, Jeff Randall, that after the event it was a heck of a lot harder to remember things.
Fred noted down the stables and paddock off to his right, the general curve of the grounds, where trees and flowerbeds were, etc. and the shape of the house as he saw it from where he was. Then he carried on through the bushes as quietly as he could so he could get the rest of the view from the other side. About halfway round he stopped, thinking he’d seen movement from the house in the corner of his eye, maybe even the sound of raised voices. Fred was about to set off again when he heard the sharp crack of glass smashing.
Scrabbling for his binoculars in the satchel, it was a moment or two before Fred remembered he’d hung them round his neck; it took him a couple of seconds to find the room where he’d seen the movement and bring it into focus, and when he did he saw a man with a thatch of ginger hair backed up flat against the room’s French windows. These let out onto a wide, flagstoned patio, complete with a fancy stone balustrade and classical-style statues. One of the panes of glass, right up level with the redhead’s noggin, was broken, and Fred could see shards of glass spread in an arc on the patio.
When you concentrate all your efforts on one particular sense, such as staring intently through a pair of binoculars, the others have a natural tendency to fade somewhat into the background; which was the reason, Fred figured out later, why he failed to hear the dogs.
24 MANY A SLIP ...
“You see what you made me do, Bowyer? You made me break a window. Not to mention a whiskey glass, two fingers of Glenlivet I had brought in from Scotland myself still in it. You know how much that liquor is worth, Bowyer?”
“I’m sorry, Mario…I told you a coupla hundred times now how sorry I am!” Bowyer Dunne looked like some weird kind of butterfly, arms outstretched, pinned to the French windows behind him. “How was I to know the boy was going to get in and take pictures like that? There was no way I could know, Mario, God’s honest truth.”
“Why did you tell me you’d got rid of those pictures, Bowyer? Why did you lie?” Mario Andrusa rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck to release tension; then, cracking his knuckles, he walked back over to the bar where he poured himself another inch and a half of whiskey. To Bowyer Dunne it looked like a man reloading. “You got some little plan, that why you sent Joe Cullen up to Chicago to get them back?”
Mario had a way of prowling when he was angry, a barely contained fury making him twitch as if something under his skin was attempting to get out. Even if you knew, for an absolute fact, that you were not the target of his extreme pique and vexation, it was like being trapped in a cage with a ravenous wolf.
“I didn’t mean…I thought…”
“That’s the whole point, Bowyer.” Mario stopped pacing and looked over at Nate Klein, one of four other people in the room. “Wouldn’t you say, Nate? Isn’t the whole point that we want to know what Bowyer here was thinking? What he intended to do with those pictures of me? Am I right, Nate?”
“I’d say, Mario. Certainly looks that way to me.”
Mario closed in on Bowyer Dunne. “You wouldn’t have been in touch with anyone, would you?”
There was a moment’s silence, during which the excited barking of dogs could be heard outside, then Tony Burrell slipped into the room, walking straight over to Mario. “The boy’d left by the time the cops got there, boss, out for the day with some friend.”
“What about the other two?” Mario glanced at Bowyer Dunne.
“The one in the hospital turned his toes up a couple of hours ago.” Tony shrugged. “The other guy’s in the wind, boss. No sign anywhere.”
Mario swung back, looking at Bowyer like he smelled bad. “See what we’re having to do? All the work, the expense? We already gave some very serious moolah to the campaign, Bowyer, now we have to stump up more to fix your mess? That was not part of the deal. The deal was that together we get the guy we want in the White House in November – not someone soft who goes and gets rid of Prohibition. Get our man Mr. Hoover in the White House, right?”
“That’s what we’re doing, Mario…”
“No.” Mario shook his head. “No, that is not what we are doing. You screwed up, said it would be better to meet down in Topeka, then go and throw some kid’s party, where – was it the nephew, Tony?”
“Grandson.”
“Right, right…so the grandson of some guy who sits on high-up Democratic committees and who-knows-what-else, he comes along, snapping away like he’s the Kodak Kid and…”
Bowyer Dunne was finding it extremely difficult to concentrate. His mouth was so dry it felt like his tongue was shrivelling up, but he was also sweating enough that he had a drip on the end of his nose which he daren’t move to wipe off. And he needed to go to the men’s room so bad that it hurt. But not as bad as he reckoned it was going to hurt when Mario had finished with him.
Not for the first time in the last few days, he wished he’d listened to Joe Cullen about the wisdom of having the meeting and the party on the same day; thinking also that it was Joe should be here in this room, taking the rap. After all, he was the one broke into the boy’s apartment and made a bad thing a whole lot worse! Through the hole in the window made by the heavy whiskey glass Mario had hurled at him, Bowyer could hear that the barking dogs had become even more excited.
“…and now it looks like you have plans for some pictures that could get me in some big trouble. What we gonna do about that, Bowyer? Tell me…” Mario stopped mid-question, his attention broken by the incessant, high-pitched yipping coming from out in the grounds. “What’re those mutts up to? They found a fox or something?”
One of the men walked over to the French windows and peered out at his boss’s brown-and-white springer spaniels. The pair of feisty hunting dogs had spotted movement in the undergrowth, which, as generations of breeding had taught them, could mean only one thing: game – something to be chased and, hopefully, caught.
“They seen something in the bushes, boss.”
“Well get out there and yell at them to shut up with the racket.”
“Sure, boss.”
As the man opened the door, the movement caused more broken glass to fall out, smashing on the lichen-covered flagstones; a small, crazed-with-fear part of Bowyer wanted so much to make a run for it he almost stopped breathing. Then the coward in him regained control, and he stayed right where he was.
“Boss!”
Bowyer could hear there was something odd, kind of alarmed in the man’s tone of voice, and so could everyone else in the room.
Mario, a quizzical expression on his face, came towards the open door. “What?”
“There’s some guy!”
In the bushes, the sound of the approaching dogs became too loud to ignore and Fred put down the binoculars, glancing in the direction the noise was coming from. He saw a blur of brown and white careering his way at some speed and knew he’d been spotted. Cursing dogs in general, and all types of hunting dog in particular, he swung round to make as hasty an exit as possible. But the strap on his satchel caught on the stump of a branch; the strap held and the branch bent, first jerking Fred to a halt, then hauling him backwards and causing him to stumble half out of the bushes.
He could see the dogs, now just yards away and beside themselves with delight – which was bad enough as, for all he knew, they were the biting type. Then Fred heard someone yelling that they’d seen him. He did not know who the Kleins, or whatever they were calling themselves, had come to visit, but the chances were that these people would not appreciate a trespasser. With binoculars. It occurred to Fred that this situation could only be worse if, by some hideous twist of fate, Alex actually had been kidnapped and his appearance on the scene were to cause something awful to happen to the boy.
Glancing over his shoulder Fred saw a man in a suit, reaching into his jacket with his right hand; as Fred doubted the man was reaching for a handkerchief to mop his brow, this was not a good sign. Yanking the strap loose, Fred dived back into the bushes before things got completely out of hand. What he hadn’t realized was that the dogs had peeled off and were now coming at him through the vegetation. The next thing he knew, there were two snarling canines blocking off his escape route. Instinctively, Fred lurched in the opposite direction, which is when someone fired at him.
25 . . . ’TWIXT CUP AND LIP
Velma was about to deal the cards for a second game of poker (she had trounced Trey and Shady the first time round) when Trey thought of a ploy. He’d kind of used it before, when he was sneaking into the party at the T-Bone ranch, but there was no reason to suppose it wouldn’t work again here. He stood up.
“I need to go to the…you know…” He made what he hoped would look like a convincing I-need-the-washroom face and marched off into the trees; he was sure there was no way Velma was going to follow him, and he’d be very surprised if Shady did anything to stop him. “Back in a minute!”
Trey heard Velma shout something after him, but he ignored her and dodged through the trees, heading in the general direction he’d seen Mr. Pisbo go, stopping only when he reached the fence. Which was a high one, and without a handy ladder it was not going to be easy to get over.
As he stood trying to work out a plan of action, Trey heard a shot ring out from the other side of the fence. Mr. Pisbo must be in trouble! Behind him Trey could make out something of a commotion, raised voices, meaning Velma and Shady had clearly heard the shot too.
“You can’t stop me, Shady!” Trey heard Velma yell, her voice shrill with panic. “I gotta go find my dad!”
“What you gotta do is stay right where you are, missy, like your daddy say!” Shady was trying to sound calm and in charge. “What good you gonna do, running off with a gun anyway?”
Gun? Trey stopped looking for trees with overhanging branches that he might use to get over the fence. Velma had a gun?
The sound of someone crashing through the undergrowth caught Trey’s attention and he turned to see Velma coming towards him. Sure enough she was waving a gun around as she ran. She was only a few yards away when she tripped and fell. And dropped the gun.
Trey watched, eyes riveted on the pistol as it tumbled in the air, only two questions in his head: would it fire when it hit the ground? And if it did, where would the bullet go? The gun landed with a thud at the same time as Velma hit the dirt. It did not fire.
“You okay?” Trey helped Velma up first, then got the pistol, which he recognized as a .38 Colt revolver, pretty much the same as one Gramps had down on the Circle M. A quick look told him that it was fully loaded.
“What’m I gonna to do?”
Trey looked up to see Velma, shoulders slumped and tears dribbling down her cheeks as she gazed at the fence towering above her.
“I’ve got to get to Dad!”
Trey was considering suggesting that he give her a boost up, and then try and find a way to get himself over, when something caught his eye way down to their right. “Quick…” He grabbed Velma’s arm and pulled her after him, mentally crossing his fingers that what he’d thought he’d seen was in fact some kind of door.
“Where…?” Velma tried to hold back, but Trey hauled her with him. “What have you seen?”
“If we’re lucky, a way in…”
Trey skidded to a halt in front of a slatted wooden door, some three to four feet wide, with a curved top even higher than the fence. It was locked, but when Trey pushed it felt as though there was a lot of give.
“You gonna shoot it?” Velma pointed at the pistol Trey was holding. “You look like you know more about these than I do.”
“Wait a second.” Trey eyed up the door, stepped back a couple of feet and took a deep breath. “I have an idea.”
He stuck the pistol into his belt, braced himself and then ran at the door, left shoulder forward; he was aiming to hit it full force at its weakest point: the lock. And his aim was true. There was a loud splintering noise, and he careened straight through to the other side, almost tripping up and falling over.
“Did you hurt yourself?”
Trey looked back to see Velma staring at him through the open door. “No…” Trey rubbed his shoulder. “Come on!”
Running down the wide path that had been cut through the thick foliage, Trey came to an abrupt halt when he found himself out in the open. Velma stopped next to him. In front of them was the broad, pool-table-green expanse of the massive Twelve Oaks estate, and some way away they saw the unmistakable figure of Fred Pisbo. There was no doubt in either of their minds that he was in trouble.
Down about a hundred yards to their left – one dog hanging on to his jeans and another the sleeve of his shirt – Mr. Pisbo was making a bad job of running away. Then another loud KRAK! as a shot rang out, making them both duck.
“What’re we gonna do, Trey?”
Trey was thinking about whether he should return fire, which was, he had to admit, not a great idea, when he saw where they were standing and had a better one.
“Wait here, and stay out of sight!”
“But…?” Velma watched as Trey dashed off.
“Where…?” Velma saw he was running towards where a horse was tied to a fence.
“Why…?” Velma frowned, wondering what the heck Trey had in mind as she watched him leap up into the saddle; she saw him lean forward and unhitch the rope reins and dig his heels hard into the horse, urging it to get a move on. The next thing she knew, he was flying past her at a gallop, almost lying flat as he kicked some more with his heels. He was going straight for her dad!
“You bozos!” Mario slapped his forehead with the flat of his hand. “Don’t just stand there throwing lead at the guy – get after him!”
Bowyer Dunne wanted to look round to see what was happening outside, see who they were shooting at, but didn’t dare move in case that got him into even more trouble with Mario.
“You, get away from the window!” Mario, who had not forgotten Bowyer in all the excitement, snapped his fingers at him. “Don’t want anything bad to happen to you, unless I do it myself. Tony, get someone to take him elsewhere until thi
s is all over.”
“Sure, boss.” Tony Burrell came over and started to lead Bowyer Dunne away.
“You can use the time,” Mario stared at Bowyer as he went past him, “to think of a reason why I shouldn’t break some of your bones when you come back, instead of glass…”
“Mario.” Nate Klein, by the French windows, beckoned. “You should see this.”
“What?”
“Whoever’s out there has help. Looks like a kid.”
This was, Trey knew, a crazy notion, but what could he do? Only he had a chance of getting Mr. Pisbo out of trouble; all he had to do was ride like heck and not get shot in the process. Simple. It would be as if he was kind of charging into battle; an officer in the Light Brigade, like one of Gramps’s favourite poems. Gramps read it out so often Trey knew the whole thing just about off by heart…
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred…
As he heard the words in his head, Trey began to wish he didn’t recall them quite so well.
Riding low and to the side away from the house, trying to make himself as small a target as possible, Trey hoped that whoever was shooting would think twice about plugging a horse. He was closing on Mr. Pisbo fast, Velma’s dad having his work cut out with the dogs and not really paying too much attention to anything else. The horse was a gutsy beast who liked to gallop, and Trey could sense that bringing him round, so he had at least a chance to get near to Mr. Pisbo, was not going to be so easy.
But this horse was a listener – unlike some horses he could mention – and he stopped on request, pulling up neat as you’d like just past Mr. Pisbo. Trey turned him back the way they’d come and swung himself over to the other side. He could see Mr. Pisbo’s shocked expression at his sudden, not to say miraculous, appearance, and he could also hear shouting coming from the direction of the house.
“Mr. Pisbo! Grab my hand, Mr. Pisbo!” Trey yelled, another pistol shot ringing out behind him, the bullet sizzling like an angry hornet as it went wide.
