Chapter 30
All over the studio, people stood like statues. The lighting man with the Hussong's T-shirt dropped his clipboard.
“I a new spirit,” Angel said. “Name of Darnell.” Mary Claire stared at her daughter, her jaw loose.
“Aton been given eternity off,” Angel said happily. “He been jerkin’ you people around pretty good. Wo, what a lotta catgut. Burn down the buildin’ indeed. We say to him, Aton, for Chrissakes, cheer up. Spirit don't listen. He that kind of spirit. Been stubborn for a billion years.”
A fat man in a San Diego State sweatshirt was frantically slicing his throat with his forefinger. No one looked at him. They were transfixed by Angel.
“Come on,” I said to Eleanor, moving quickly away from the wall. I took the man by the sleeve of his shirt and tugged hard. He looked up at me unseeingly. I pinched the skin of his forearm, and he focused.
“Knock it off,” I said. “You're a hired hand. Don't you know when your footage is going to make the NBC News?” He sawed reflexively at his throat a couple of times and then something clicked behind his eyes. He looked at me with fresh attention.
“You know what they'll pay for this?” I asked.
The man licked his lips.
“Keep the tape rolling,” I said. I winked at him. He closed both eyes back at me. He was one of those guys who can't wink. “Practice,” I said, opening my right eye horribly wide with my fingers and closing my left. “Works wonders in a singles bar.” I tapped his shoulder for emphasis. “Keep the tape rolling,” I told him again.
By now the reek in the studio had climbed to the treble clef. Some members of the audience had gotten up, frantically fanning their faces, and were heading for the exit. They were probably the same faint hearts who had left during the music. Even a few of the stagehands were deserting in the direction of the loading dock. One of the cameras was unmanned, peering dolefully at the floor. The people who remained in the audience seats, though, were watching Angel as if their lives, or the life of someone interesting, were flashing before their eyes.
So, I was sure, were the people at home. They couldn't smell it.
“Here they come,” Eleanor said.
There was a sudden explosion of activity at one of the exits. A sort of roiling force propelled itself in ripples through the people streaming out through the door, and Brooks came in, shoving his way frantically through them and dragging Barry in his wake. Brooks had had a rebirth of energy; he threw people aside like a mother trying to get to a drowning child. Which, in a sense, he was. He pulled Barry behind him like a carry-on bag on wheels.
“We follow them,” I said.
“I knew you were going to say that,” Eleanor said.
Angel had begun to clap her hands. Dexter was improvising. “Every clap,” Angel said, “gone open your eyes a little more.” Clap. “No more bullshit about the past.” There goes NBC News, I thought. Clap. “No more sendin’ in money to these folks. They just spendin’ it on dope and loose women.” Clap. “No more watchin’ TV. How come you not readin’ somethin right now?” Clap.
Brooks and Barry had fought their way to the stage. The stairs were clogged with departing technicians, but Brooks vaulted to the stage like a fourteen-year-old gymnast and yanked Barry up after him. The two of them sprinted past a bewildered Mary Claire and right in front of the remaining functional camera, manned by a dutiful gent who was holding his nose. I looked up at a monitor and saw them speed across it.
“Great,” I said, “they're on tape. Let's go.”
Brooks was hammering on the door of the dressing room, which was locked. “Allow me,” I said, tapping him on the shoulder. He nodded blindly, without even looking at me. I lifted a foot and kicked the door in. It jolted me all the way to my teeth.
Dexter looked up from his headset and gestured at all of us with the automatic in his right hand.
“Damn,” he said. “I thought you'd never come. I runnin’ out of bullshit.” On the P.A. system, I heard Angel say in the same singsong voice, “I runnin’ out of bullshit.”
Barry took a quick step back. I put the tip of Fauntleroy's Swiss Army knife against his throat and said, “Please try to get away.” He rolled his eyes at me and froze, as still as a Civil War photo.
Merryman was facedown on the floor, his hands tied behind his back with one of the handkerchiefs I'd given Dexter. With the door open, the stench was beginning to pour into the room. I pushed Barry forward, and Eleanor took Brooks's arm.
“I think you should go inside, Mr. Brooks,” she said politely.
Brooks was in shock. “Thank you, my dear,” he said in a courtly manner. “I believe I will.” He looked older than J. Paul Getty.
All of us filed in. I closed the door against the smell. Dexter, the automatic trained squarely on Barry, said into the headset, ”Th-th-that's all, folks,” and took it off. Then he gave me the broadest smile I'd ever seen.
“That's all,” Brooks repeated lifelessly.
“Any trouble getting in?” I asked Dexter.
“Trouble?” Dexter said. “I tell the man I come for the dead animal and he almost pick me up and carry me in.” He beamed.
“Five million dollars,” Merryman said from the floor.
Dexter gave me a quick glance. “Say what?” he said.
“Five million. Cash. Today,” Merryman said. He gave up looking at me and looked at Dexter. “Seven million. In an hour, if necessary.”
“Dick,” I said, “Your little girl just did a spiritual minstrel show. It's going to be on TV for some time to come.”
“I can fix it.” Merryman stopped craning his neck and rolled onto his back. “I'll think of something.”
“Man don't let go,” Dexter said admiringly.
“We can do business,” Merryman said. “Seven million dollars.”
“Must be makin’ a pile of money.”
“Oh, he likes the money, all right,” I said, “but what he loves is the little girls.”
Dexter stared at Merryman and made his eyes glimmer. Merryman, after a moment, looked away. “I ain't forgettin’ that,” Dexter said softly. “You gone be a big hit in the joint,” he said to Merryman. “All them teeth. Man, they gone to be linin’ up for you. You a two-cartons-of-Marlboro man any day. In about two weeks, you gone to have a rear end you can slip your head into. Probably you be pretty flexible by then, too.”
He got up and crossed the room to Merryman, towering over him. “So I gone do you a favor,” he said, “slow them boys down a week or two. Give you a little time to get acclimated. You'll thank me later.” Then he lifted his foot and put his shoe on Merryman's face. It was a very big shoe, black and highly polished. He ground it around for a while over Merryman's mouth and nose as though he were putting out a cigarette.
“What about Angel?” Eleanor said, watching with a kind of clinical interest.
“Thank you, Eleanor,” I said. “Go out and get her and Mary Claire, would you? Mary Claire may take a little persuasion.”
She left the room and I turned to Dexter. “May I borrow one of your guns?” I said.
“Wif pleasure.” He reversed it and handed it to me with a flourish, butt-first. “You,” I said to Barry. “Down on your knees.”
He looked from me to Dexter. Merryman was trying very quietly to spit out the taste of Dexter's shoe. His nose was bleeding nicely. Brooks was staring at a wall, looking like a man trying to do long division in his head. Barry went down on one knee and gave me a great sacrificial gaze.
“You're doing great,” I said. “Keep going.” He closed his eyes and knelt.
“Now turn around. Face the wall.” I held out a hand to Dexter, and Dexter materialized his other pistol from the waistband of his uniform trousers. He handed it to me.
I pressed the barrel of the automatic against the base of Barry's well-barbered skull. An involuntary muscular ripple ran down his back. “You enjoyed yourself with Sally Oldfield,” I said, “and with Eleanor. You enjoyed yourself
so much with Sally that you left a little souvenir on her face, didn't you? After you pulled out her fingernails. If you hadn't done that, Barry,” I said, “if you hadn't masturbated on her, I think I probably would have given you to the police. As it is, I won't.”
“No,” he said. “Please. You can't.”
“I sure can,” I said. Dexter was watching me with one eyebrow elevated. I even had Merryman's attention.
“Good-bye, Barry,” I said. I pushed the gun against his head sharply and pulled the trigger of the other one.
Barry swayed once and collapsed. He lay on the floor like something swatted.
Eleanor came in with Angel. She was carrying Angel's kitten. She looked from Barry to me with wide eyes. I held up the other gun, the one I'd fired into the floor.
“He fainted,” I said. “Let's call Hammond.”
Hammond brought five men with him, one of them the redoubtable Um Hinckley. They stood there clutching handkerchiefs to their faces and looking bewildered at the two men on the floor, the vacant lawyer, and the little girl.
“Welcome,” I said, “to the Burned-Over District.”
Hammond ranted at me while I told him what had happened. He ranted at me while his men put cuffs on Merryman, Brooks, and Barry and hauled them out to patrol cars. He continued to rant while his men brought in Mary Claire, who'd been hiding behind the podium. He stopped ranting when I took him down into the basement and showed him Ellis Fauntleroy hanging from his meat hook with his sign around his neck. When he saw Fauntleroy, he had a photographer start taking pictures.
“The Santa Monica TraveLodge,” I said. “Room three-eleven.”
“Tell me the whole thing again,” he growled. “I wasn't listening.”
I told it again while I led him on a tour of the basement. “Macaroons,” he said, “this'll make the news. Hell, it'll make Time.”
“You're out of Records,” I said. “It's all yours.”
“You mean that?” he said suspiciously.
“You figure out how to keep me to a minimum,” I said. “This is the work of Alvin Hammond, grade-A cop.”
In a drawer in Merryman's office we found stacks of small bills, almost thirty thousand dollars' worth. I flipped through it, counting, while Hammond watched.
“Mad money?” Hammond asked.
“He was pretty mad,” I said. “But we didn't find this,” I added, pocketing it. Hammond looked at me, the picture of innocence.
“Find what?” he said.
The only time he went stubborn was when we had to decide what to do with Angel. Merryman had brought her out of her trance as we all watched, and she had watched the proceedings in silence ever since, shrugging off Eleanor's attempts to comfort her.
“She goes to the Hall,” Hammond said doggedly. “Her mother's in the can.”
“Her father isn't,” I said. “She hasn't done anything wrong.” We were back in the dressing room.
“She's a material witness.”
“She's a little girl.”
“They got a place for little girls at the Hall.” Hammond's mouth was as straight and implacable as the center line in a game of tug-of-war. Angel looked up at us indifferently. She might have been sleepwalking.
“Al,” I said curtly, “she's going home.”
“Little girl belongs at home,” Dexter said. It was the first time he'd spoken since the police arrived.
“Thank you for your opinion,” Hammond said with the charm he reserves for black people.
“Tell your cops to go outside,” I said to Hammond.
He gave me a hard, stubborn stare, then motioned them out of the room. I took the money from Merryman's desk out of my pocket and gave roughly half of it to Dexter. Hammond scratched the back of his neck in disbelief.
“Without this man,” I said to Hammond, “You'd still be watching Um Hinckley pick his nose.”
“How you doin’,” Dexter said to Hammond with the aloofness of a subatomic particle that can pass through a cubic foot of solid lead without hitting anything. He put the money into his pocket.
“This is the Spirit Darnell,” I said to Hammond. “Also known as Dexter Smith.”
“Smif,” Dexter said.
“Smif,” I amended. “He has the makings of a first-rate cop.”
“No, thanks,” Dexter said, buttoning his pocket. “I don't shine no more to cops than I do to riptahls.”
Hammond turned dark red.
“You're going to want Dexter to keep his mouth shut,” I said. Dexter zipped his lips closed. “And neither Dexter nor I will keep our mouths shut if you don't let Angel go home to Daddy.”
Hammond wavered.
“I don't want Daddy,” Angel said in her New York cabdriver's accent. “I want Dick.”
“You shut up,” I said to her.
Angel, Eleanor, and I were driving toward Venice. A police medic had bandaged our fingers and let us go. It was nine o'clock, and the rain was back with us. A patrol car, Hammond's compromise, was following at a demure distance.
“There has to be a cop,” Hammond had said. “There has to be a report, Simeon. No discussion.” I'd let him win the point.
Eleanor had maintained a remote silence all the way. It was as though the interlude in the refrigerator had never happened. I reached over and took her bandaged hand. She withdrew it.
“I have to think,” she said. I put my hand back on the wheel. The kitten on her lap mewed twice.
“This is your kitty-cat, Angel,” Eleanor said to the little girl huddled in the back seat.
“Toldya I didn't want him,” Angel said spitefully. “He's got fleas. He was her idea.” Angel, like Jessica, referred to her mother as “her.” Another of Merryman's legacies.
“Just leave him in the car,” I said as I pulled to the curb in front of Caleb Ellspeth's house.
“You don't like cats,” Eleanor protested.
“I love cats,” I said, thinking about the way she'd pulled her hand away. “I live for cats. I'm leaving all my money to a home for stray cats.”
“All your money,” Eleanor said pointedly. She'd seen me give a wad of it to Dexter.
“You've got your story,” I said. “Come on, Angel, we're home.”
“Home?” Angel said, looking at the house. “This junk heap?”
“Home is where the heart is,” I said, yanking her hand a little harder than I had to. She followed me sullenly up the walkway, with Eleanor one step back and two bewildered cops trailing behind us.
The porch light was on. When the door opened Ellspeth looked at me glacially and then stared at the cops. “Look down,” I said.
He did, and saw Angel.
“Hello, darling,” he said. Angel said nothing. She was staring at her feet as though the answer to a riddle were written on her Alice in Wonderland shoes.
Ellspeth darted a questioning glance at me.
“All over,” I said.
He dropped to his knees in front of Angel. She looked past him. He took her hand between both of his and said, “Angel.” One of the cops behind me shuffled his feet.
Eleanor put a slender hand between Angel's shoulder blades and patted her.
Angel drew a deep breath. Without looking at her father she said, “Is Ansel here?”
Chapter 31
It was after ten by the time I got to Mrs. Yount's. With the kitten purring comfortably into my jacket, I trudged through the mud and climbed to the top of the wall that surrounded her awful little garden. I'd dropped Eleanor at home in a kind of monolithic silence.
All the lights inside were turned off, but the television screen was glowing. Mrs. Yount sat silhouetted on the floor on her old fur coat, her back to me, eating something out of a tall box. Crackers, maybe. She was looking at a woman named Linda Evans who was coming down an impossibly long stairway wearing a new fur coat.
“You're home, baby,” I whispered to the kitten. The kitten didn't say anything. I gathered my muscles and jumped.
I'd forgotten about t
he Great Wall of Bottles. I landed on top of it with a deafening, shattering tumult of breaking glass. I scrabbled to keep my balance as bottles rolled back and forth under my feet, and then I fell decisively on my backside. Broken glass bit my rear end through my trousers. To add insult to injury, the kitten began to claw at my stomach.
Inside, Mrs. Yount leapt up from the old fur coat and streaked toward the front of the apartment. She was screaming in some Balkan language. She pulled open a closet door and turned around, holding what looked in the half-light very much like a forty-five.
I cleared the wall in a single bound with the kitten still scrabbling at my viscera with its claws, and landed on my hands and knees in the mud. Behind me, there was a boom, and the sliding glass door was annihilated in a silvery cascade of glass.
Something right in front of my nose turned its body into a startled arc and spit at me. It was Fluffy, pink collar and all.
Fluffy hurtled off toward the front of the building and I heard the glass door sliding unnecessarily open. There couldn't have been much glass left. Mrs. Yount fired at the stars while I sprinted for the gray Camaro, bent over and keeping close to the ground.
I tossed the kitten roughly onto the front seat and then slid behind the wheel and tried to catch my breath. The kitten sat down calmly, licked one of its forepaws, and began to clean its face. I started to laugh. Mrs. Yount had always said she'd know in her bosom if Fluffy were dead. Two more shots boomed heavenward.
When I'd finished laughing, I drove home with my cat.
Other Books by Timothy Hallinan
The Simeon Grist Series
The Four Last Things (Simeon Grist #1)
Simeon Grist knows the City of Angels inside and out--the sex for sale, the chic seductions, the clientele of every bar from downtown L.A. to Venice. So when he's hired by a Hollywood recording company to shadow one Sally Oldfield, suspected of embezzlement, Grist discovers she's heavily invested in something far more lucrative than CDs--namely the Church of the Eternal Moment--a million-dollar religious scam built around a 12-year-old channeler and the voice of a man who has been dead for a millennium. Though he tails Sally all the Way to a seedy motel and a date with a murderer, he's too late to save her. And now he knows snooping has gotten him in way too deep, for he's become the next target of a very flesh-and-blood entity waiting in the twisted back alleys of sin and salvation to give him a brutal look at the four last things: death, judgment, heaven and hell--revelations he could definitely live without...
The Four Last Things Page 31
