“Some kind of code. It looks like algorithms or something. Lots of numbers and calculus signs. Some stuff that looks like Greek.”
“Hmmm,” Morris said, slipping one disk into the drive of the nearest computer. He sat down on a stool and peered at the screen. “You don't know what language they're in?”
“The beginning is English,” I said.
He was tapping the keys. “What computer language, I mean.”
“Well,” I said, feeling dumb again, “no.”
“There are only so many,” he said. He banged at the keys faster than Horowitz doing scales and looked at the result on the screen. It was the same junk I'd seen.
“Who knows?” he said to himself. Seated at the keyboard, he was back in his element. He yanked out the first one and slid in the next. “What are these numbers on the labels?” he asked.
“I don't know. I just copied the numbers on the originals.”
He looked up at me. “These aren't the originals?”
“I told you, I stole them,” I said. “If I'd taken the originals, they'd have missed them.”
I heard Jessica draw in her breath behind me. “Simeon,” she said, “you mean, they're—”
“It doesn't matter where they came from,” I said quickly. “Morris doesn't need to know where I got them to figure out what they are.”
Morris gave me a glance that was full of curiosity. “That depends,” he said. “Are they from some kind of scientific facility?”
“No.”
“Math? Computer specialists?”
“Nothing like that.”
“Well,” he said, looking back to the screen, “they're specialized somehow. Are they all like this?”
“I don't know if they're identical. All I know is that they all come up in English when you boot them, and then they turn into gibberish. Also, they seem to have lots of space on them when you do a directory, but after you type a few words into the English part they come up with a disk full message.”
“Very interesting,” Morris said. “Very, very interesting. Some kind of hidden files, then. Or else somebody's just balled them up.”
“I don't think so,” I said. “I think whoever created them knew exactly what he was doing.”
“Or she,” Jessica said. She was sitting up on the bed now, staring at the screen as Morris tried some more wizardry.
“Let's assume you're right,” he said, tapping away. “Let's assume that somebody has hidden information on these things. What do you think it is?”
“Illegal,” Jessica said.
“No, I mean, what kind of application? Is it language, or math, or what?”
“I think it's some kind of data base,” I said.
“Well,” Morris said, looking at me as though I were a performing monkey who wasn't performing very well, “why didn't you say so?” He moved crablike across the room on the stool, which, I saw, had wheels, and pulled open a drawer in one of the filing cabinets. “Data bases,” he said, gesturing at the drawer.
It was absolutely jammed with bootlegged software, stacks of photocopied manuals wedged in every which way, sandwiched between disks. He grabbed a handful of disks and wheeled back to the computer. “This could take a while,” he said.
I sat down on the bed, next to Jessica. For forty-five minutes or so, Morris tried one program after another, humming happily to himself. It was like watching submarine races. I had absolutely no idea what was happening. Jessica dozed off, emitting zippery little snores.
“This is pretty neat,” Morris said at last.
Jessica started and opened her eyes. “What is it?” I asked.
“That's what's neat,” Morris said. “I haven't got the faintest idea.” Jessica made a small groaning sound. “It's pretty cute, though, whatever it is,” Morris said, his eyes glued to the screen.
I looked at my watch. It was almost nine, and I had somewhere to go. “Can I leave them with you?” I asked.
“Sure, sure,” Morris said without looking around at me. “I'll call you when I figure it out. Maybe tomorrow sometime.”
I stood up, and Jessica stood next to me, yawning. “Don't bother leaving your number,” Morris said. “I'll get it from Jessica when I need it.” He darted an anxious look at her and then turned back to the screen. He was clacking away at the keys when we left the room.
“Nice guy,” I said as I started the car.
“You and my mother,” Jessica said. “He'd be great if his voice didn't break windows. He makes me feel like I'm singing bass.”
“Women,” I said. “Lift up, would you?”
She hoisted her bottom from the seat and I grabbed the army blanket she'd been sitting on and threw it into the back. I'd brought it down from the house when I left. I planned to use it later in the evening.
“What's that for?” Jessica asked, looking back at it.
“It's an army blanket,” I said, shifting into reverse. “I'm thinking about joining the army.”
“Are you going somewhere?” She settled back down into the seat as Alice's headlights illuminated the driveway.
“Yes,” I said.
“Something to do with all this?”
“Yes.”
“Can I go?”
“No.” We turned right onto Old Canyon.
“Why?”
“It might be dangerous.”
“Okay,” she said sweetly. “So you like old Morris, do you?”
“He likes you.”
“He likes anything that can wear a dress without getting arrested.”
“He's got a good head.”
“Except for the point.”
We pulled into her driveway in silence. She kissed me demurely on the cheek and said, “You'll call when I can do something, right?”
“Right,” I said.
“I think Dad and Mom would like to see you for a few minutes.”
“Fine,” I said, killing the motor. I probably couldn't accomplish anything for an hour or so anyway.
I followed her into the house and she told Annie and Wyatt where we'd been and went up the stairs. “I've got to work on my math,” she said.
Annie watched her go, openmouthed. “I don't believe it,” she said, when Jessica was gone.
“Maybe it's Morris’ influence,” I said.
They didn't particularly want to see me, but we talked for a while anyway, and then I went out and started Alice up and headed for the great department store of flesh called Hollywood.
17 - A Bad Case of Gas
I know now that what I meant to do that night was a mistake. I suppose I even knew it then, as I got off the freeway and headed north on La Cienega.
I told myself that I wanted information. I told myself that it couldn't hurt Aimee. I told myself that I didn't want to lose four days while Mrs. Sorrell was waiting for the results of her useless ransom payment. I told myself a lot of things and they were all bullshit. I didn't really want information. I wanted revenge.
What I was relying on was fear. I figured I was mad enough to make someone really afraid, and I figured that he was already afraid. Add the two up, I thought, waiting for a red light to turn green, and he'd keep his mouth shut and behave. I was wrong.
Because I was wrong, somebody got killed.
Half a block east of Jack's, Junko stood on the curb and trolled the traffic in a little white middie blouse like the ones Japanese schoolgirls wear. She had a wad of chewing gum in her cheek. She'd chosen this corner, I figured, because of the pay phone. I was parked across the street when the first John picked her up. She was cute enough that it didn't take long. As I'd guessed she'd do, when she finished leaning in through the car window and outlining her deal, she went to the pay phone—the one I'd used when I'd talked to Tabitha and her friend—and dialed a number. She said two or three words, hung up, and got into the car. Now Mr. Wonderful knew she was employed. Groceries tomorrow.
Almost exactly thirty minutes later she was back, smoothing her blouse and running her fingers t
hrough her hair. She bought a Pepsi at Jack's, like any kid, and resumed her stance at the curb. By then I was checking my rearview mirror every few seconds, but I was wasting my time. The change was still too small to bother about.
Junko got into two more cars while I sat there growing progressively more irritable. He had to come sooner or later. It wasn't smart to leave your walking meat on the street with too much money. Somebody might take it away from her. Or, less likely, she might figure she finally had enough in her purse to go home to Mommy. I wondered briefly about Mommy.
It was almost eleven when he showed up. He cruised to the curb, concentrated cool, in a vintage ’67 Chevy convertible with the top up against the weather. Junko handed the money in through the window and went back to eyeing the traffic.
If it hadn't been for the old Chevy's distinctive vertical taillights, I would have lost him. He passed Jack's, weaving in and out of traffic, swung up onto Franklin, and then cut left toward Sunset. I ran a light to keep up with him and then followed him onto Sunset, heading west, and then south onto a nothing little street called Sierra Bonita. I killed the lights as he made the turn so he wouldn't spot me. He pulled in to the curb halfway down the block, in front of the last of the old double-decker apartment houses, now flanked by four-story stucco affairs with balconies that were edged by waist-high hollow pipe railings that looked like the railings on an ocean liner. All that was missing were the life preservers. They wouldn't have worked in Hollywood anyway.
His car sat there at the curb, still dark, so he hadn't cracked open either of the doors. I took a repulsive-looking little .32 automatic, eight shots, out of the glove compartment and climbed out the door on the passenger side. I didn't have to worry about Alice's interior light: it had burned out decades ago.
I landed on my knees on the parking strip, feeling dried grass and weeds crackle underneath me. There was also an empty tin can, which collapsed with a squelching sound. Someone had thoughtfully parked a van behind the man's car, so I could stand up as I passed behind it. A carload of black kids careened by, Prince blaring from the radio. They shouted something at me in Urban Black. I used the noise as cover as I came up behind his left-rear fender.
I waited. I heard a sharp sniffing noise through the open window on the driver's side of his car. In another thirty seconds or so I heard the beginning of another sniff. I was at his window before it was over.
“Don't breathe,” I said, sticking the barrel of the gun up his left nostril. “Not in, not out. Otherwise, this thing might go off.”
“Yurk,” he said, glancing frantically up at me. The knife scar at the corner of his mouth twitched, a thin white line with a life of its own. He was holding a girl's pocket mirror just below his chin, and on it was a generous quantity of white powder. I leaned forward and blew the powder off the mirror. It settled, like the snow in one of those water-filled balls you shake up, onto the front of his greasy jeans.
“Remember me?” I said, pushing the gun another centimeter into his nostril. He started to shake his head, but I shoved the gun barrel a little further and he began to nod. “I thought so.” I looked past him at the old two-story building. “This is where you live?”
He started to shake his head again and thought better of it. Very carefully he nodded.
“Good,” I said. “We're going in. Get out slowly and sweetly. Pretend your mother's watching and you want her to be proud of you.” I opened the door and pulled the gun back, aiming at his left eye. He climbed out very slowly, staring into the barrel of the gun like a man who sees his future unfolding before him and doesn't like the look of it.
When he was standing, I took his arm, pushed the gun into his neck, and turned him gently toward the curb.
“Sure hope you cleaned the house,” I said. “I get real edgy when things aren't just right.” He caught the toe of his shoe on the edge of the curb and stumbled slightly.
“Look out for the dog-doo,” I said. When he looked down, I reversed the gun and slammed him with the handle, just beneath the base of the skull. His legs collapsed beneath him and his forehead cracked on the sidewalk with a pleasing sound. Just to make sure, I clipped him again with the handle of the gun. He let out a wet little sigh and his legs twitched.
I tucked my fingers under his thick leather belt and lifted him, and he folded at the waist, knees and elbows dragging on the sidewalk. I hauled him like a badly packed garment bag up the block to Alice.
There she was, looking even dirtier than usual in the blue glare of the streetlights. I dropped Prince Charming on the grass in the parking strip, opened the back door, and yanked on the edge of the army blanket. A human being rose up from the floor of the car. I almost put a bullet through it.
“Hi,” Jessica said. “Where are we?”
I leaned my forehead against Alice's roof and listened to my pulse pounding in my ears. “You idiot,” I said. I'd nearly killed my own goddaughter.
“You can't talk to me like that,” she said indignantly.
“You're in Hollywood,” I said, straightening up and trying to catch my breath. “The next bus home is leaving in about ten seconds. Up there.” I gestured with the gun toward Sunset.
“Who's the basket case?” she asked.
“He's a guy who likes to use knives on little girls. How did you get here, anyway?”
“I went upstairs and then came down the back way and got into your car,” she said, looking at the pimp with the kind of fascination most of us save for scorpions and tarantulas. The pimp moaned and started to move. “Um,” Jessica said uncertainly, backing up.
“The tape on the seat,” I said. “Give it to me.”
She felt around for a moment and then handed me a roll of electrician's tape. I took it, put the gun on Alice's roof, and bent down over the pimp, who had begun to turn his head from side to side. I yanked his hands behind him and taped his wrists together. I taped them tightly enough to cause gangrene.
“Do you do this a lot?” she asked, watching.
“You're lucky I'm not doing it to you.”
“You're weirder than Blister. I don't really have to take the bus home, do I? Daddy says it's dangerous.”
I almost laughed. “No. But you ever do this again, and I'll have the goddamn bus run over you. Also, you're explaining this to your parents.”
“That's another day,” she said with the nearsighted assurance of youth. I was getting heartily sick of youth.
“Get out. Bring the blanket with you. No, no, on the other side. Come on, make it quick. He won't be out forever.”
Grumbling, she climbed out and came around to my side, dragging the blanket behind her. I lifted the pimp by his belt and heaved him into the back seat. He emitted a reflexive sigh as his midsection hit the edge of the seat. Lifting my right leg, I kicked him down onto the floor behind the front seat. He was on his stomach, hands taped behind him. I gave him a once-over, feeling like I'd forgotten something, and then tossed the blanket over him.
“Let's go,” I said. “Into the front seat.”
Alice started with unusual self-assurance, and we made a U-turn back onto Sunset. At Highland I turned left, heading up toward the reservoir.
“He's a bad guy, huh?” Jessica was as high as a kite, loving every moment of it.
“He's the lowest form of life since the slime molds,” I said. “Have you ever cleaned out the refrigerator and found stuff with green, smelly hair growing all over it, and it dissolved in your fingers when you picked it up?”
“Yuck,” she said. “Yes. Mommy made me do it the second time I went out with Blister.”
“Well,” I said, steering left, “on the Great Chain of Being, he's two steps below that.”
“Just above yellow snow,” she said.
“Right about there.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“You're going to stay in the car,” I said. “I'm going to have a campfire.”
“I was a Campfire Girl.”
“You're still
going to stay in the car.”
“What kind of a campfire?”
“You'll see.”
We'd made a right off Cahuenga when I smelled something. It could have been Alice's brakes, but I hadn't braked lately. I'd worked most of the way through the litany of automotive malfunctions before I realized what it was. At the same time, I realized what I'd forgotten.
“Oh, balls,” I said, pulling over. We were on a quiet little winding street. “Damn you, Jessica.”
“Damn me? I didn't do anything.”
“You're here,” I said, getting out. “If you hadn't been here I'd have remembered to tape his goddamned fingers.” I ran around to the passenger side, threw the door open, and yanked back the blanket. The pimp glared at me over his shoulder. He'd worked the little butane torch out of his pocket and was holding it to the tape at his wrists. What I'd smelled was burning tape and singed blanket.
“Ah-ah,” I said, taking the little blowtorch from his hands. “Creativity is not always rewarded. Mustn't use up the gas. I've got plans for it.” I got the tape and passed it around his fingers and his thumbs for insurance. Then I rifled his pockets and came up with a couple hundred dollars—Junko's take for the evening—and his switchblade.
“Much better,” I said, slamming the door on his feet. The door swung back open, and he moaned. “Pull the feet in or lose them,” I said. He pulled them in, and I slammed the door again.
Five minutes later, we were there.
At that late hour, the reservoir was the picture of placidity. Moonlight gleamed from its surface, and no joggers plodded around it, chasing the waistlines of their youth. Except for the electrical carpet of L.A., spread out and glittering between us and the ocean, we might have been in the Donner Pass.
“Remember the Donner party?” I said, hauling the pimp out of the car by his belt. His elbows cracked against the ground and he made a mushy sound. “I didn't think so. Guys like you have no frame of reference. The Donner party ran out of mules or horses or whatever pulled their wagon train in a pass some miles northeast of here. Then the snows came.” I dragged him up against an oak tree, substantial but not too thick, and slammed his back against it. He grunted.
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