Blues in the Night

by Dick Lochte

  ‘It’s hideous,’ the Brit said, ‘but the interior amenities are excellent. And one has the advantage, while seated inside, of not being able to see very much of the exterior.’

  The reflection of the sun on the limo’s windows effectively kept Mace from getting a sense of who the Brit’s friends were, exactly. The open rear door didn’t show much more, other than a foot or so of dark brown rug and tan leather seat.

  ‘I’m pretty comfortable right here,’ he said.

  ‘Aren’t you the least bit curious?’

  Mace was. But not enough to get into a limo with strangers, even if he’d had a gun, which he didn’t. ‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ he said.

  The Brit sighed. He stared up at the sun and winced. ‘We were wondering why you’re parked here?’

  ‘Any reason why I shouldn’t be?’

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ the Brit said.

  Mace reached out suddenly and pressed the Camry’s starter. The car came alive almost immediately. But before he could move it into drive, he felt cold metal pressed against his neck.

  ‘Don’t be rude,’ the Brit said. ‘I must insist you join us.’

  Mace turned off the engine.

  The Brit hopped back to avoid the car door should Mace attempt to swing it into him. He held his weapon steady and professionally while Mace got out of the car. As the two of them walked across the road to the mustard limo, Mace was able to see enough of the back of the driver’s head and neck to tell he was a black man wearing a white shirt, a black coat and sunglasses. He faced straight ahead as if his only interest was in the open road.

  Before entering the vehicle, Mace looked in at the other passenger. He blinked, and then looked again. What he thought he was seeing was a huge cowboy hunched forward on the leather-covered rear seat as if in eager anticipation. But it wasn’t the man’s western gear – the well-worn Levis, boots, a battered and sweat-stained Stetson – that made him doubt his vision. The Hollywood cowboy’s face was a duplicate of the twenty-something Elvis Presley’s, complete with sleepy eyes, curled upper lip and droopy jaw.

  As Mace got into the car, the Presley lookalike drew back, pushing as far away as possible. Then, with his lip curling even more contemptuously, he performed a smooth quick draw from his elaborately stitched holster.

  Mace paused, staring at the six-gun pointed at his chest.

  ‘Holster your weapon, Timmie,’ the Brit said.

  ‘Why should I?’ The cowboy Elvis seemed to be mocking the man, imitating his accent. ‘You’ve got a gun.’

  ‘I’m the elder. That means you have to obey me.’

  Timmie returned his six-gun to its holster and folded his arms, staring forward, pouting.

  Mace sat, trying not to brush against him.

  The Brit took the remaining seat and pulled the door shut. ‘All in, Sweets,’ he shouted to the chauffeur.

  Mace heard the locks engage. He saw no release buttons on the doors. It was probably why the Brit had put away his gun. As long as the driver was in control of the doors, Mace wasn’t going anywhere.

  Sweets put the limo in motion and the Brit asked Mace, ‘Might I take a peek at your billfold, old man?’

  ‘You boys have a very classy mugging style,’ Mace said, handing over his wallet.

  The Brit gave its contents a quick study. ‘Mr Mason is it? Do tell us what you find so alluring about this part of Southern California.’

  ‘What’s not to like?’

  ‘We were thinking you may be interested in a resident of Point Dume Estates.’

  ‘Don’t know a soul there,’ Mace said.

  The Elvis cowboy whipped his gun out again. ‘Liar, liar, pants on fire,’ he said, and jammed its barrel into Mace’s side. It hurt.

  ‘Timmie!’ the Brit said. ‘Put the gun away.’

  Timmie the Elvis cowboy glared at him. ‘He told a lie. You punish me when I tell a lie,’ he said. Then, with an elaborate twirl of the gun he plopped it into its holster.

  ‘He’s very intuitive,’ the Brit said to Mace. ‘Of course, even I know you’re lying.’ He leaned forward and said loudly enough for the chauffeur to hear, ‘Sweets, plug in the name “David Mason”, Louisiana driver’s license EQ3256987.’

  He repeated the license number and returned the wallet to Mace who stuck it in his pocket without much thought. He was too intrigued by the chauffeur. The more he saw of him the more familiar he seemed. He shifted to get a better view, but the chauffeur turned his head away. His mouth was moving. Possibly mumbling to himself, but more likely taking to some distant party via a hidden device.

  ‘You could save us time and effort, Mr Mason, if you simply told us why you were parked where we found you.’

  ‘I was about to take a snooze,’ Mace said.

  The Brit sighed again. ‘Perhaps you could tell us the name of your employer?’

  ‘I’m self-employed. But I’m not working now. I’m on vacation.’

  ‘He-e’s fib-bing,’ Timmie said in sing-song. He leaned closer to Mace and whispered. ‘Do not lie to Thomas. My brother can be mean. He won’t let me eat chocolate.’

  Mace looked at the Brit whose name was apparently Thomas. ‘Timmie’s your brother?’

  For a moment Thomas’s face seemed to soften. But only for a moment. ‘When Timmie was born, an attendant at the hospital made a mistake,’ he said. ‘One thousand cc’s of something or other, instead of one hundred. I was six at the time. Unaware of how that little mistake might affect both our lives.’

  ‘He good for anything besides comic relief,’ Mace asked.

  Timmie’s huge right hand suddenly grabbed Mace’s throat and began to squeeze.

  Mace gasped and clutched at Timmie’s fingers, trying to pry them free.

  ‘TIMMIE!’ his brother shouted. ‘LET HIM GO!’

  Timmie didn’t obey.

  His fingers were like iron, unyielding. Within seconds, Mace felt his strength and his life ebbing away.

  Then, suddenly, the hand was gone and he slumped forward experiencing a hot flush as his blood started to circulate again. Timmie was happily playing with a Rubik’s Cube that his brother had used to distract him. His large fingers, the same ones that had nearly choked Mace to death, were moving the sections of the Cube quickly and efficiently.

  ‘Sorry about that, Mason,’ the Brit whispered to him. ‘But you mustn’t nettle him. He may be mentally challenged but physically he’s . . . well, you’ve experienced his strength.’

  ‘Were you talking about me?’ Timmie asked. He tossed the Cube back to his brother, its puzzle solved. ‘What were you saying?’

  ‘Your brother says you’re very strong,’ Mace said.

  ‘I am. I am . . . like Superman. I have a Superman costume I wear sometimes. Don’t I, Thomas?’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘No Batman costume?’ Mace asked.

  ‘Batman is ugly,’ Timmie said. ‘Superman is handsome. Like Timmie. I have a lot of costumes. I make movies.’

  ‘Silence, Timmie,’ his brother said.

  Mace leaned back against the seat and waited for the pain in his neck to subside.

  The limo zoomed along Sorrel Canyon Road though light traffic.

  Then, suddenly, the driver spun the wheel and Mace became aware of a plaster cast on the man’s right hand and wrist. And he knew where he’d seen Sweets before. In Griffith Park, where Sweets had tried to kill Paulie.

  The limo made a right turn and began traveling on a macadam full of more potholes than Sweets was able to avoid. Mace had had a vague idea of where they were, but this road wasn’t on his memory map. It may not have been on any map.

  At first, eccentric plaster and wood houses dotted the landscape, trucks sharing their gravel driveways with old cars in need of paint and patching. But, after a couple of miles, the macadam was replaced by a plowed dirt road that was so narrow Mace wondered what might happen if they met another vehicle coming the other way.

  Maybe Timmie wo
uld get out and lift it over the limo.

  There was nothing but foliage out there on either side. No sign of human life, nor any of the accoutrements of human life, such as electricity or phone landlines. Not even barbed-wire fences or private-property signs.

  ‘Where exactly are we?’ Mace asked.

  ‘Just a nice quiet country road,’ Thomas said.

  ‘Where are we headed?’

  ‘That depends on you, actually.’

  The rough road bounced them around. Timmie did not seem to be enjoying the jouncing. ‘Make it smoother,’ he said.

  ‘Pretend you’re riding a stagecoach,’ Thomas suggested.

  Timmie grinned. ‘Goin’ to Deadwood.’

  ‘You’re right about him being intuitive,’ Mace said.

  ‘He’s many things,’ Thomas said. ‘Some good, some bad.’

  ‘You’re talking about me again,’ Timmie said. ‘What?’

  ‘Your brother was saying you can do many things,’ Mace said.

  ‘I can.’

  ‘But he said you’re not strong enough to kick that door open.’

  ‘I did not say that, Timmie. Do not kick—’

  Timmie had already smashed his boot against the door, jarring it from its frame.

  ‘Don’t you dare . . .’ Thomas said.

  But his brother booted the door again, this time flinging it open. The limo’s forward thrust swung it back in place and, giggling, Timmie kicked it open again, this time knocking it from one of its hinges, so that it dragged along scraping against the road, stirring up dust.

  The rear of the limo was filled with wind and noise and Timmie yelled, ‘This is fun,’ and tried to move over Mace to get at the other door next to his brother.

  ‘NO. NO. DON’T,’ Thomas shouted.

  Pinned to the back seat by Timmie’s massive body, Mace used the opportunity to slide the six-gun from the big man’s holster. Thomas’ gun was trapped by his linen coat, which was, in turn trapped by his brother’s legs. He struggled to pull the weapon free.

  ‘Leave it,’ Mace said, pointing the six-gun at Thomas.

  Thomas ignored the threat. ‘Do you think I’d give him real bullets?’ he said.

  Mace aimed the gun at Thomas’ face and pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  ‘Give me my gun,’ Timmie said.

  ‘Sure,’ Mace said and smashed the gun’s barrel against Timmie’s cheek.

  The giant wailed. A tiny cut on his cheek opened up and Timmie touched it. When he saw the blood, he stopped crying. His face turned red and he scowled and began waving his arms. He rolled backward on to his brother.

  Mace felt a large boot heel digging into his right shoulder. He brought the gun down on the big man’s ankle. With a screech, Timmie straightened his leg, pushing Mace to the side of the car near the open door.

  Mace took it from there.

  The limo had slowed because of the rough road. Mace checked to make sure there were no upcoming trees, threw the empty gun at the giant and dove through the door.

  He pulled his arms close to his chest and let his legs go limp, hitting the mud and scrub grass hard. When his body settled, before the pain could take over, he forced himself to get to his feet and run into the foliage.

  The limo seemed to be driving on, the door still hanging open, leaving a cloud of dust.

  Groaning, he weaved through the bushes and high grass. He barely thought about the other living creatures that might be sharing the canyon with him. Snakes. Wildcats. Cougars. He’d survived a boyhood among coral snakes, water moccasins and alligators. He’d take any or all over having to stand within arm’s distance of Timmie.

  He figured the limo driver was probably looking for a place where he could turn around. Then they’d drive back, maybe searching for him, maybe not. His plan was to hunker down within earshot of the road, wait for them to pass and then hike out.

  It wouldn’t be pleasant.

  He wasn’t dressed for a hike and his shoes were not made for it. And there was some pain. His right shoulder ached. Right elbow. Left knee.

  He rotated the shoulder, straightened his right arm. No breaks.

  So far, so good.

  He hadn’t taken more than a few steps when he heard the limo returning.

  He ducked down, well out of sight and listened as it drew closer.

  And stopped.

  He held his breath.

  ‘MR MASON?’ It was Thomas. Surely he didn’t expect a reply.

  ‘WE ONLY WANT TO TALK!’

  They waited a minute or two, then the limo’s engine revved and rolled on.

  Mace stood up slowly, in time to see the mustard-colored vehicle moving away, raising a wake of dust.

  Only want to talk? He hoped to hell that was a lie. Otherwise he’d put himself through a lot of crap for nothing. It was definitely bullshit, he decided. They didn’t have to drive up a deserted country road just to talk. And he’d already had a sampling of Sweets’ way with words.

  He decided to screw caution and save himself some scratches and tears by using the road. But there was the possibility that he might hike around a curve and find them parked, waiting for him. So he decided to rest for an hour or so. He figured the childlike Timmie wouldn’t let them sit still any longer than that.

  He found a comfortable spot on the ground beneath a tree and went to sleep.

  He woke over an hour later, sweaty, filthy and sore. He stood, stretched and worked his limbs, then started walking. He was surprised that there wasn’t more pain. Tomorrow, probably.

  He paused to slap dust from his coat, but that didn’t improve anything, so the hell with it. He draped the coat over his shoulder, Sinatra-style, and continued walking until he hit Sorrel Canyon Road. There he tested the generosity of drivers on their way in the direction of the ocean.

  He didn’t see the mustard limo again.

  TWELVE

  Night fell before he was offered a ride by a big Hawaiian with a Charlie Chan moustache-soul patch combo and heavily muscled arms that extended from a wife-beater sweat that read ‘He IS The Way.’ The rear of the man’s dust-caked, powder-blue van was filled with yellow pamphlets that Mace guessed carried some religious pitch since the driver had holy pictures stuck to the dash, along with plastic statues of, if he remembered his catechism correctly, Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

  Another clue came from the van’s radio, a music show that billed itself the Christian Top Twenty Countdown.

  During the short run to Wildlife Road, Mace was amazed by the facility with which Christian songwriters were able to find rhymes for ‘Jesus,’ though, for the most part, ‘sees us,’ ‘frees us’ and ‘please us’ filled the bill.

  ‘That yo’ cah?’ the Hawaiian asked, indicating the Camry parked by the side of the road.

  Mace could see no limo of any color lurking anywhere in the vicinity. He told the Hawaiian that it was indeed his car. ‘About that canyon where you picked me up . . . ?’ he said.

  ‘Sorrel Canyon? Yeah?’

  ‘Around fifteen miles east of PCH, there’s a road that angles off to the right. Any idea where it goes?’

  The big man shook his head. ‘All I know, Sorrel takes me from the I-10 to PCH. Them side roads, nothin’ but distractions. Like strayin’ from the true path.’

  ‘Well, thanks for the lift, friend,’ Mace said, getting out of the van.

  ‘Peace be with you, brudda. Let the Lord Jesus Chris’ shine his light into yo’ soul.’

  ‘Back at you,’ Mace said.

  The van turned and headed off in the direction of the Coast Highway. Mace watched it until it disappeared into the dark.

  He did not get into the Camry.

  Instead, he walked the short distance toward Dolphin Way. He had no particular plan. He’d check on the guards, see what they were up to. Then he thought he might scout a little, maybe find a footpath down to the beach that avoided the security post.

  The section of the road by the gate was brightly lit, a
s was the gatehouse.

  He saw no sign of any guards, which was odd. If you were paying top dollar for the security of a gated community, especially one as exclusive as this, having guards there at night made more sense than having them during the daylight hours.

  Maybe they’d been called away?

  He supposed that happened every now and then. Somebody might get drunk and rambunctious. Kids might get loud enough for the nearest neighbor to complain. There could be medical emergencies. Heart attacks. Maybe a bit of spousal abuse. Hell, maybe even a theft. But wouldn’t one guard stay put, to keep out the riff-raff and raise the gate for arrivals or departures?

  Strange.

  He moved quickly past the empty gatehouse and entered Point Dume Estates.

  It would have been nice to know which of the estates had been Angela Lowell’s destination. At least he had the yellow Mustang to clue him in. If she was still there.

  The car was parked some distance from the security shack, beside a high, smooth wall, painted a pastel pink. A few feet away, the wrought-iron gate to the property was hanging open a few inches.

  Mace approached the gate. He looked in at an overgrown garden; its flowers adding perfume to a chilly breeze off the ocean. He entered the grounds cautiously, not liking the creak of the gate. He moved down a flagstone walkway, scanning the foliage for some sign of motion. All he saw were leaves, ruffled by the ocean breeze, shimmering in the moonlight.

  Beyond the plant life was a modern beach home, all stone and metal and glass.

  The two-wheel security scooter stood sentry before the pebble glass front door. The guards had been called here. But where were they?

  Mace stood still, closed his eyes and listened.

  There was the comforting roar of the surf, the flutter of leaves, the distant cry of a gull, faint highway-traffic noise. Nothing else. The neighbors were too far away for him to hear, or too quiet or too absent. Not a sound came from inside the stone and glass home. Not from the guards. Not from anyone.

  Suddenly, a light began to flicker at a window to his left.

  He moved there silently in a crouched position, staying lower than the sill. A sound came from the room, the deep growl of a dog. Curious, he rose enough to peek through the window.