Die Now, Live Later (A Mike Faraday Mystery Book 5)

by Basil Copper

  ‘Too bad,’ he said. There was genuine regret in his voice. He got up and started putting the stuff back into my inside coat pocket. I hoped he wouldn’t put his hand into my outside pocket. He didn’t though. He put my P.I. licence back last. He stood reading the contents of the plastic folder like something was amusing him. I wasn’t amused. Krug’s boys seemed like a pretty deadly crowd.

  There was a scrape of feet on the concrete floor and Krug and Beale came back.

  ‘And no slip-ups,’ I heard Krug say in his rasping voice.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Beale.

  ‘I am not in the least worried,’ Krug told him smoothly, ‘but in case anything goes wrong I should advise you to do some worrying.’

  Beale came and stood in front of me. He looked with satisfaction at my battered face. ‘All right, Milo,’ he said at last.

  The blond character went down the room and I heard the rasp of the big sliding doors. A car door slammed and the engine started. It ticked over smoothly and the hot, sharp smell of exhaust fumes came down the hall to us. Beale got one side of me and the man with the Stalin moustache the other. I found I could stand, but I pretended I was still weak. I sagged against Beale. He buttoned my blood-stained coat across my chest. He picked up my raincoat from somewhere and they started getting me into it. Milo had gotten out of the car now and came and stood back in the entrance, blocking my retreat. Then I looked over my shoulder and saw Krug had got the shot-gun.

  ‘Come on, pal,’ Beale said. ‘We’re going for a pleasant little run up the Canyon.’

  I walked down the room between them, their hands supporting me under the elbows. I found I could walk fairly steadily and the throbbing in my head had stopped. We went through the doors and Milo slid them to after us. A black Chrysler stood on the concrete ramp, with its side-lights on. The light from the loading bay behind us shone on the stencil of a hire-car firm on the front door panel. The doors slammed shut and Milo went round into the driving seat. I breathed the night air and looked up at the stars above us.

  ‘Looks like a lovely night for a drive,’ I said.

  Chapter Eleven -Flamer

  We rolled slowly down the front drive of Sunset Gardens. I sat on the back seat, wedged between Beale and Joe Stalin, with my brain doing overtime. Going up the Canyon could mean only one thing in L.A. jargon. Sunset Canyon was the nearest place to Sunset Gardens for the purpose. It was a favourite dumping ground for local hoods. Only other people who ever went there were courting couples. A character could lie around for a month or two without being found. And I hadn’t got that time to spare. Not with the pressure of spring business coming on.

  I couldn’t see my wrist-watch; Beale had a gun jammed hard in my ribs. Joe Stalin sat to my right and stared straight ahead; he was only there to stop me jumping out the opposite door. I tried to figure how long I might have been out. I couldn’t have been in the Gardens less than two hours. I wondered if Kathy was still on watch outside.

  The Chrysler slowed to a stop and Milo got out. He left his driving door open and the engine running. I heard the clink of a padlock as he unlocked the big main gate of Sunset Gardens. We drove through and then Milo re-locked the gate after us. The car whispered on and turned to the right; this was where Kathy Gowan’s little car would be stationed. I looked towards the dark shadows of the trees but I couldn’t see her. Neither was there any sign of the lights of a following car when I glanced in the rear mirror a minute later. I noticed Beale kept his eyes glued on the rear visor too.

  ‘Why the hire car?’ I said, more to pass the time than anything else.

  Beale shifted his grip on the gun. His breath blew hot on my face when he replied. I caught whisky fumes.

  ‘Hired in your name, pal,’ he said. ‘Less expensive than smashing one of our own up. Wouldn’t look good, tracing back to Sunset.’

  Milo turned the car off at an intersection. The amber roof light of a police car grew out of the darkness behind us. It blossomed in the rear visor and filled the boulevard. I heard the hammer of Beale’s revolver go back and the barrel dug deeper into my side. Then the police job blammed past us; it must have been doing more than eighty and I could see the profiles of two officers inside, clear-minted against the lights of the opposing stream of traffic. A moment later the thin note of their siren started to grow; it came back to us, mournful and muted on the wind.

  Beale hadn’t said a word. I heard the click as he eased his grip on the gun and he took the barrel out of my side. Joe Stalin started a tuneless whistle.

  ‘Why didn’t you do the job back at Sunset?’ I said. ‘You got all the facilities.’

  ‘Old Krug’s a bit sensitive,’ Beale said. ‘He’s got a point. It is getting kinda crowded up there.’

  ‘Sure, I said. ‘What with Van Rieten and Morey Wilson, space must be at a premium.’

  Beale made a long, low sound through his marble quarry teeth. I didn’t know whether it was derision or a salute to my suicidal mood. ‘Well, well, friend,’ he said. ‘You sure are asking for it. This is going to be a real pleasure.’

  ‘Anything to oblige,’ I said.

  I sat forward in my seat. My right hand was resting on my knee and I eased it back a little to where my jacket pocket overlapped. The thin shape of the metal cylinder inside was solid enough beneath my fingertips. It wasn’t a long drive. After about a quarter of an hour the road petered out into a narrow lane. We had left the metalled surface far behind. Milo slowed the Chrysler to a crawl and was driving on the side-lights. Beale had the lights on inside the car now. The rough, unmade road surface was bumpy and despite the superb springing of the Chrysler it flung the three of us about on the back bench seat.

  By now Milo was driving at around ten miles an hour and evidently searching for a predetermined spot. He put his headlights on now and again to see where he was. I hoped I would be staying in the car or I didn’t give much for my chances. I figured they would be sending the car over as well as me, to make it look like an accident. And if I stayed on the back seat there was a slim possibility of trying something I’d been working on all the way out.

  I tried a glance out of the window but there was nothing except trees and a distant triangle of starry sky; then the lights of L.A. powdered the far distance. I knew the spot now. It would be ideal for the purpose. The shoulder of hill shelved gradually and then ran off through thin scrub. There was at least a hundred feet of clear space before one hit solid rock at the bottom. Me and the car that is. Only I didn’t aim to be in it.

  Milo pulled the Chrysler cautiously off the gravel. He stopped it and set the brake. The bonnet was aimed straight at the spot where the stars met the man-made smog and neon in the far distance. ‘This is it, gents.’ His voice was completely without inflexion. He got out and stood by the open door. There was a stir of activity on the back seat.

  ‘Take it nice and easy, friend,’ said Beale, ‘or you get it early.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. I hoped my voice was steady.

  Joe Stalin got up behind me; he opened the door on his side and went to get out. I shifted over with him. I was afraid he might lock the door behind him. But he didn’t. I heard it click as I got up against it. I sat in the angle of the seat, my back to the door and stared down the barrel of Beale’s gun. He eased slowly away from me. Joe Stalin came around behind him and opened the door on his side. Milo was still up front, by the driving door. I knew he was waiting to throw the car in gear when the time came. He wouldn’t have a moment to spare for me.

  Beale got out the car, putting his feet very carefully on the ground. He lowered the barrel of the gun momentarily as he got down. I had my hand in my pocket by that time and brought out the metal cylinder. I put it behind me. I leaned down towards the car cushions like I was beat up twice as bad as I really was. I felt the door latch behind me with the same hand; made sure it was in the off position. Beale steadied up the gun and held me covered.

  ‘We shan’t keep you waiting long,’ he said.
/>   ‘No hurry,’ I said. ‘Mind if I have a cigarette?’

  He shook his head. ‘Strictly no smoking.’

  The one with the Stalin moustache had gone around to the boot. I heard him unlock it. There was a muffled clank. Then I saw him struggling with a jerry can. He went around to the car bonnet and the driving seat. He slopped liquid around the cushions. I caught the heavy fumes of gasoline. This was going to be riskier than I thought. Stalin came round to the back at last; he spoke with Beale in a low voice. I steadied up my finger behind me and started to stroke the catch on the cylinder. I hoped I’d got it right. Sweat started to run down my forehead, dripped off the bridge of my nose.

  Joe Stalin lifted up his second gasoline can towards the open door on Beale’s side. To do so he had to displace Beale at the door. I could see the big man’s face over his shoulder. Joe Stalin slopped the contents of the can over the cushions on his side of the car. He was awkwardly placed at the open door and the can was heavy; I noticed he spilt some over his own coat. The stink of gasoline drifted over to me.

  I sat hunched in the back with my head down and sensed rather than saw Beale lower his gun barrel to get out a box of matches. It was then that I stroked Dr Krug’s capsule lighter into life; I tested the small flame behind my back, with the tip of a finger. The pain steadied me; the flame burned free and clear. As Joe Stalin lifted the can to douse the interior and completely blocked the doorway I flung the burning lighter at him, opened the door behind me and threw myself down the slope.

  Somewhere a vast oven opened and the hot blast crushed and sucked and blew me down the hill; Beale’s gun slammed once and caught the cushions of the car. The gasoline went up like a torch; I rolled down the slope towards the underbrush and saw the Chrysler like a Ferris wheel on the Fourth of July. There was a moment of deep silence and then a high-pitched scream like an animal. Joe Stalin, his body outlined in a ball of fire went blindly away from the car; the gas can, fused to his dying fingers by the intense heat, went with him. He looked like a comet as he went over the cliff. The scream cut off and the underbrush a hundred feet below burst into crimson blossom.

  Another great door slammed then. I caught a glimpse of Rex Beale, rolling on the ground, beating at his flaming coat. Milo was still in the front of the car. It began to move as he put it into gear but then the whole thing went up. I could see the interior cushions and even the ashtrays in the brilliant light; then the Chrysler, Milo’s charred legs sticking from the open driver’s door, careered down into the valley to join J.S.

  I scrabbled farther down the scree and must have fallen or passed out. When I came around the silence was like a roaring in my ears. I lay and felt myself to see if I was in one piece. Flames still lit the distant skyline and a faint siren came from the road above. I crawled away among the bushes and vomited a couple of times. Then I must have passed out again.

  *

  When I came around, I lay looking at the sky. It seemed so peaceful I figured I might stay the night. Then I moved my leg and felt pain stir in me. The night dew was wet and cold on my face and clothing. I sat up slowly and felt I might live with a little good doctoring. At least there were no bones broken. I heard voices far off. I looked up at the top of the cliff. The moon was as bright as a gas-station sign and I could see the road was thick with people. The amber light of a police car revolved in the dusk and a portable searchlight mounted on a fire truck probed the foot of the cliff.

  I made my way through the bushes and long grass until I got down to a lower level. Presently I found a road and walked along it in the direction I thought the city must be. After ten minutes a car came along and I flagged it down. It must have been my lucky night. It was a taxi. The driver’s face was a picture.

  ‘You free?’ I asked.

  ‘You’re joking,’ he said. ‘Hop in, buddy.’

  I got up in front next to him. He looked at me curiously as he drove. ‘Jeeze, you sure look in bad shape,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve been in a car-smash,’ I said. ‘Just going to get help.’

  He goggled. ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘No,’ I said. I felt in my pocket. Beale hadn’t taken my money. I came out with a fistful of bills.

  ‘Police know already,’ I said. ‘Just take me where I want to go.’

  His thin face looked suspicious in the dim dash-light but greed won out over propriety in the end.

  ‘Sure, mister,’ he said. I got him to drop me several blocks from Park West. I went in the porch of a white-timber house set back on its front lot and waited while he made a U-turn. I chuckled when I saw him stop and make a note of the address. Then he went off down the boulevard. To the nearest police phone box was my guess. I waited until he was well away and then came out of the porch. I walked up to my place, making no attempt at concealment. There were several cars parked along the edge of the road. I picked my way through. My Buick was still in the car-port, just as I’d left it. I went up the front path to my place without a care in the world.

  I had just got my key in the door when a shadow moved at my elbow. I turned as the cold barrel of a pistol chilled the side of my head. I made a grab at a raincoat and then something hit me and I went down into a deep pit for the third time that night.

  Chapter Twelve - The Fourth Estate

  Kathy Gowan’s face looked strained. She pushed a stray lock of dark hair back from her eyes and gazed at me with compassion.

  ‘God, Mike, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know it was you and I got scared.’

  ‘It’s all right, honey,’ I said. ‘But don’t make a habit of it.’

  My headache was back. I was lying flat on the floor of the porch. She had put a scarf or something under my head and was kneeling, holding my face in the two palms of her hands. There was a pleasant perfume in my nostrils. She wrinkled her face as she dabbed cologne on to my forehead with a minute handkerchief. It came away dark red.

  ‘Try the one in my pocket,’ I said. ‘It’s bigger.’

  I struggled up then but the muzziness came back. I leaned against the door jamb and felt in my pocket for my keys.

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ I said.

  She opened the door and put the light on. I got to my feet and she helped me inside. I went and sat in an armchair while she locked the front door.

  ‘You’ll find some bourbon in the kitchen,’ I told her. She went on out. I heard the clink of glasses. I put my feet up on the seat of the chair opposite and concentrated on preventing myself from falling to pieces. Kathy came back with a glass with ice in it. It had two fingers of the right stuff in.

  ‘Fill it up,’ I said. She poured out the rest, slopping some down my jacket. She looked white.

  ‘Sit down, kid,’ I said gently.

  She sat down near me and smiled faintly. ‘Sorry, Mike,’ she said. ‘I’m not used to this.’

  ‘Neither am I,’ I told her. ‘Be a good girl and get some food ready. I’ll go up and take a shower.’

  I drained my glass like it had been water. She filled it for me again and went on out to the kitchen. She left the bottle on the table near my elbow. I lay back and felt the warmth creeping up from my legs. I closed my eyes. I must have slept for a while. When I woke up I felt a lot better. I looked at my watch. Nearly half an hour had passed. Kathy Gowan came out of the kitchen. She put a big cup of black coffee in my hands. Her lips brushed the side of my cheek; on the one undamaged place.

  ‘We eat in about an hour,’ she said. ‘Okay?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, ‘and many thanks.’

  She squeezed my hand and went over to the kitchen door. ‘How do you like your steaks?’

  ‘Medium rare,’ I said. ‘You’ll find a bottle of wine some place.’

  ‘I already did,’ she said. I grinned and finished off the coffee. When I drained the cup I felt the top of my head might still be attached to my body. Kathy was at my elbow again. She held out my Smith-Wesson butt first.

  ‘I’ve finished with this.’

/>   ‘I’m glad of that,’ I said, rubbing my head. I paddled her bottom as she went back towards the kitchen. I could hear her singing as I went up to my bedroom. I ran the shower while I undressed. My clothes were a mess. I threw them on one side while I rummaged for some fresh linen. I put the revolver back in my holster and hung the whole thing over the bedrail. I didn’t dare look in the mirror when I went into the bathroom. The water was so hot under the shower it almost made me jump through the ceiling. I clung on to the shower fitting and waited for the shaking in my legs to subside. Then I soaped myself cautiously.

  By the time I’d finished towelling myself dry I felt almost normal and the aroma of finely grilled steak was coming up the stairwell. I got into my shirt and trousers and laced up my shoes. Then I went back to face the bathroom mirror. I didn’t look too bad, considering. The bruises wouldn’t really start to show until tomorrow. There were two bad cuts, one over the eye and one on my right cheekbone. I treated these with a styptic pencil, combed my hair, knotted my tie and finished dressing. All in all I looked and felt pretty human as I went down the stairs.

  *

  ‘Cooking’s great, Kathy,’ I said. I speared another morsel of delicately grilled meat. ‘Now let’s hear what happened.’

  Kathy Gowan rolled a little red wine around on her tongue appreciatively. She gurgled something, turned pink and looked like she was going to choke.

  ‘Could I share the joke or is it private?’ I said.

  She caught my arm. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude. I guess I’m not cut out for this espionage stuff. The explanation’s simple. I stuck it out for an hour or so and then I wanted to spend a nickel. I drove back towards town. I was only away about twenty minutes.’

  I grinned. ‘By which time I was way up the canyon.’ Kathy looked worried again. ‘Oh, Mike, I am so sorry.’ She looked like she was going to burst into tears.

  ‘Don’t make a big production of it,’ I said. ‘As it happens you couldn’t have done much about it anyway.’