The Nice Guys

by Charles Ardai

  “What?” March said, and then he realized Healy was shouting: “Wake up! Wake up! March!”

  Holy shit—March’s eyes shot open to reveal a row of orange traffic cones going flying one by one as the front end of the car plowed into them. Up ahead, the side wall of an overpass was zooming toward them. He grabbed at the steering wheel, tried to turn it, and Healy was grabbing at it too, but they were pulling in opposite directions, so all they both managed to do was steer the car straight ahead. They smashed into the line of hard plastic water barrels at the foot of the overpass, which exploded, showering water everywhere. The rear end of the car fishtailed into the air before landing back down again with a spine-jarring thump. March watched with horror as Tally’s metal suitcase, unsecured in the back seat, went flying overhead and struck one of the concrete pilings of the overpass. Better it than them, that was for sure. But the case snapped open under the impact and its contents spilled out, paper raining down all over the goddamn highway. A hundred thousand dollars.

  Only it wasn’t a hundred thousand dollars.

  As the blizzard of paper fluttered over them, March saw white, he saw red, he saw black. He didn’t see green. It was like that old joke, what’s black and white and red all over? Cut-up newspaper, that’s what. Fucking newspaper. Someone had switched out Tally’s cash for—

  But no, she’d said she’d packed it herself.

  “That’s not money,” Healy said, with his gift for the obvious.

  “Why.” March pounded his fists on the steering wheel. “Why would she send us off on some wild fucking goose chase?”

  Healy looked at him. “Amelia.”

  35.

  Amelia was asleep behind the closed door of Holly’s bedroom. Holly was cleaning up in the kitchen, having fried up the last of the corned beef and chased it with a batch of Nestlé Toll House cookies, following the recipe on the package. They’d come out a little too hard, but like her dad would say, fuck it. Bad cookies were still cookies and, between them, she and Jessica had eaten them all.

  Jessica was on the phone now, with Rosie Milligan, a friend of theirs who never seemed to do anything but loved to hear about everything everyone else did, and consequently spent her whole life on the telephone. Not entirely unlike Jessica.

  “No, like The Waltons,” Jessica was saying. “Yeah, like on TV. Richard something? Yeah. What’s that actor’s name…?”

  “Jessica,” Holly said, “get off the phone.”

  “All right,” Jessica said, but she turned right back to her call. “Yeah, anyway, so this John-Boy is like a murderer, or something? Uh-huh. The actor. Shit. Now it’s going to bug me.”

  The front doorbell rang, and Holly ran to get it. The man outside was dressed in a three-piece suit, bland and brown, and he carried a doctor’s bag in one gloved hand. He smiled down at her. “You must be Holly.”

  Holly smiled, nodded.

  “Dr. Malek,” the man said, and he extended one hand for a shake. Did he look like a doctor? Well, Holly supposed so. He was a bit younger than she’d have expected, and a good deal better-looking, though he’d really have been more attractive with a better haircut, and without that huge mole on the side of his face.

  “Hi,” Holly said. “She’s inside. Come in.”

  * * *

  They’d managed to get the car untangled from the barrels, raced along the freeway to the nearest exit, hunted down a payphone by the side of an all-night convenience store. Dialed March’s number twice. Three times. Each time, a loud busy signal had blared back at them.

  March looked at his wristwatch, hammered the gas, and prayed the goddamn car would hold together long enough to get them to his house.

  * * *

  “You mind fetching your dad?” Dr. Malek asked, looking around the March home in a queer sort of way.

  “Uh, he’s running an errand,” Holly said.

  “Back any time soon?” Dr. Malek wanted to know.

  “Oh, an hour, tops,” Holly said.

  “Fine,” said Dr. Malek. “Now, then—Nurse Holly. How’s our patient?” He looked over, saw Jessica on the couch, phone receiver glued to her ear. “That her?”

  Holly laughed. “No, that’s Jessica. What she’s got, you can’t fix.”

  Dr. Malek laughed at that one, like it was the cleverest joke he’d heard in a long time. It was a guffaw, really. “You are very funny.”

  “In there,” Holly said, pointing to her bedroom. “Asleep. Slight fever.”

  “Hm,” said Dr. Malek. “On drugs, do you think?” And he gave Holly a little we’re-all-grown-ups-here wink. He lifted a thumb and forefinger to his lips, made a toking gesture. “Maybe smoking the reefer?”

  It was at that moment that Holly began to doubt this was a real doctor.

  He drew closer to her. “What was she saying? Was she…making sense?”

  Holly started stammering a response. “She, uh, called us fascists—”

  “Hold on,” Jessica said into the phone. She took the receiver away from her ear. “Hey, Holly? What’s the name of the guy on The Waltons who plays John-Boy? With the hockey puck on his face? It’s driving me crazy.”

  Holly froze. The man standing before her was staring. He wasn’t blinking. She looked past his ice-blue eyes to the hockey puck on his face.

  “That show’s for retards,” she said weakly. She forced a laugh.

  A slight smile bent the man’s lips upward just the tiniest little bit, like he knew human beings smiled at times like this and he figured he should do it if he wanted to pass for one. It was chilling.

  “Dr. Malek,” Holly said, “would you like a cookie? Just baked ’em.”

  He opened his mouth to answer, but Jessica—back on the telephone—jumped in helpfully: “There’s none left. I looked, remember?”

  “No,” Holly said, her voice rising, insistent, “there’s a couple. Doctor…?”

  She started edging toward the cookie jar on the counter.

  “I could be persuaded,” he said, “after I have a look at Sleeping Beauty.”

  Holly slid the top off the cookie jar, stuck her hand inside, and came up with her father’s .38. She pointed it at the son of a bitch in a two-handed grip, just like her dad had taught her.

  The man raised his arms up high to either side, like he was being crucified, and shook his head slowly from side to side. “Nurse Holly,” he said. He was very disappointed.

  He let his doctor’s bag drop heavily to the floor.

  Jessica finally looked up from the phone. “Holly…! What are you doing? Are you crazy?”

  But Holly wasn’t paying any attention to her friend. Her eyes were focused on the man in front of her. “There are handcuffs behind the bar, asshole,” she said. “Get them.”

  He glanced over at his watch, then back at her. “This is really slowing me down, Holly.” His too-friendly fake doctor voice had been replaced by a low growl.

  “What’s going on?” Jessica cried, dropping the receiver.

  “Jessica, it’s him. He’s the guy!”

  “Jessica,” John-Boy said, calmly, lowering his hands, and reaching into his pocket, “if you help me with this…” He took something out, flicked it open. It was a straight razor. “…I’ll only kill Holly.”

  * * *

  They were off the highway and rocketing along side streets, March driving maniacally while in the next seat Healy loaded his gun. One of his guns, March corrected himself. There was the ankle gun too. Jesus, he hoped they wouldn’t need either of them.

  He floored it, tore through a red light.

  Go ahead, get on my tail, he thought, try to give me a ticket. Please. He’d have welcomed the sight of a cop car, pulling in behind him from a concealed location. Sirens, lights. The more the merrier.

  Just don’t let us be too late.

  * * *

  “Jessica,” Holly said, trying to sound firm and confident, trying to keep panic out of her voice, “dial 911.”

  “Jessica,” John-Boy sai
d, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  Jessica looked from one of them to the other, like there was a choice here for her to make. Seriously? The killer with a straight razor in his hand or your best friend? Granted, with a gun in hers, but still. A killer or your best friend? A six-foot-something grown man who you know has murdered, what, a dozen people? More? Or your friend? Come on. On the scale of life’s little dilemmas, this was an easy one. Get back on the phone, Jessica. It’s what you do best. You’ve been on that goddamn phone all night, you can do it again. It’s just lying there on the couch where you dropped it. Just three little numbers, a nine, a one, and a one. Come on, Jessica—

  But Jessica was completely frozen.

  Outside, some distance away, they heard the sound of a car, engine racing, tires squealing. Holly allowed herself to hope. But this was L.A. That was a sound you heard ten times an hour.

  It did seem to break Jessica out of her paralysis, though. Her hand moved toward the telephone.

  “Jessica…? I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” John-Boy repeated sternly.

  “Jessica, don’t listen!” Holly shouted. “Get help!”

  It was too much for her. Some girls just can’t handle pressure, Holly knew that. She’d just been hoping Jessica was made of stronger stuff.

  Jessica bolted. Which wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world if she’d chosen to run away from the killer. But what she did was cross in front of him, trying for the shortest path to the front door. And then his arm was around her waist, and his razor was at her throat.

  Holly would’ve pulled the trigger, but he was holding Jessica in front of him, like a shield. Jesus. “If you hurt her, I swear to god, I’ll kill you,” Holly said.

  But he had something else in mind. He lifted Jessica off her feet and threw her at Holly, who dropped to the floor. Jessica passed overhead, arms flailing, screaming as she flew toward the side window and smashed through it. Glass scattered everywhere.

  John-Boy raised his razor overhead and took half a step forward—

  But now that engine sound was louder, and a pair of headlights blasted through the front window, raking John-Boy’s back and blinding Holly as she looked toward the door. Please let it be them, please let it be them…

  John-Boy was a professional. As much as he would have loved to slice up this little bitch who’d caused him no end of trouble, he had a job to do, and he never let personal pleasure interfere with getting his work done. He turned on his heel and in two steps was out of the house, razor tucked away in his pocket for another time.

  * * *

  “You hear that?” March asked, as he and Healy jumped out of the car. It had sounded like breaking glass.

  There was a man in a brown suit walking calmly, casually, from their front door to a gold sedan parked by the curb.

  “Excuse me,” March called to him.

  “Evening,” the fellow called back, raising one hand to wave and smiling a little stiffly.

  “You hear that sound just a second ago?”

  “Oh yeah, just now.” The man was at the trunk of his car, unlocking it with his keys. “That was me. I threw that little girl out the window.” And without missing a beat he reached into the trunk, drew out a Sterling submachine gun, and started firing in their direction.

  Healy and March dropped to the ground as bullets started flying their way. The car was peppered, reduced within seconds to an undriveable wreck.

  Well, at least it had gotten them home.

  “Cover me,” March said, the killer’s words echoing in his ears: I threw that little girl out the window. Was it terrible that he was hoping he meant the other little girl? Nah. He was entitled.

  Healy whipped out his gun and popped up above the car door, took two shots at John-Boy, then a third. Didn’t hit him, that was too much to hope for, but the machine gun stopped firing as the assassin ducked behind a tree, and March used the brief respite to run across the street, crouching, praying, making himself as small a target as he possibly could. He heard Healy firing again as he made it to the far side. Thank you.

  And thank you again—this one for the big guy, since the girl lying in the shrubs below the side window was a) alive, and b) not his daughter. She was groaning and covered with glass. But she’d live. He hefted her onto his shoulder, in a sort of half-assed fireman’s carry, and ran with her toward the door. “Holly!” he shouted. “Holly!”

  From inside, Holly shouted back: “Dad!”

  “Get in! Get down!” March threw the door open and carried Jessica through the living room and on into Holly’s bedroom.

  Back on the street, Healy was running for the door, too. Only he was doing it without any covering fire but his own. March chanced a look back. The crazy bastard. Why didn’t he just stay by the car?

  “Is she okay?” Holly asked, and it took him a second to realize she meant Jessica.

  “She’s fine,” March told her. “Now come on.”

  * * *

  The machine gun fire had resumed, and it was tearing up the street, the trees, the neighboring houses. Healy was sheltering behind a concrete planter, planning his next move. This was like fucking D-Day, like his dad on Omaha Beach. He was remembering the stories the old man had told him on his rare visits home, about taking territory one bloody yard at a time. He’d wanted those stories when he’d been seven and eight and nine, couldn’t get enough of them, but then he had outgrown the heroic bullshit when he’d hit his teens. And that’s when his dad had told him, at the end of one particularly difficult conversation, that it wasn’t about being a hero, none of it was, son, it was just about staying alive. One more day, one more hour, one more minute. You were alive or you were dead, those were the options, and if you survived one minute, that just bought you the chance to try for another. And another. That’s what war is, and that’s what life is: getting to the next minute. And Healy had called him a coward, because it’s the word he figured would hurt the old man the most, and because he was angry, and four months later he was picking avocados and trying to make sense of Thomas Aquinas.

  But the old man had been right, of course. When pinned down under fire, you have one job and only one job, and that’s to stay alive.

  So Healy did his job. He crouched, he popped his hand up over the planter’s edge, he fired two more times in John-Boy’s direction, and then he ran, hell for leather, chased every step of the way by gunfire, until he could drop to a squat behind the dense trunks of a cluster of palms. And reload. And hope March had gotten the girls out of the line of fire.

  * * *

  Which March had—for now. He had put Holly and Jessica (still unconscious, and maybe that was just as well) in the large bedroom closet, sitting on the floor, then he’d jumped a good three feet in the air when Amelia had popped up out of the bathroom and shouted, “Fucking fascists!”

  “Jesus!” March screamed.

  “Sorry,” Amelia said. “Didn’t know it was you.”

  “Get in there,” he said, pointing to the closet, and Amelia meekly followed. Well, okay. That was better.

  “Come here,” he said to Holly, and drew her into a quick, desperate hug. “Now, stay in there and don’t move. Okay?” He closed the closet door.

  “Wait, dad, wait,” came Holly’s voice, “Here.” The door opened and his own gun poked out at him.

  “Jeez,” March shouted, stumbling back again, away from the wildly waving firearm. Then he grabbed it from her. Good girl. He headed for the door. Couldn’t believe that’s what he was doing, but there were his feet, and they were carrying him toward, not away from, the sound of gunfire. Will wonders never cease.

  * * *

  Right about then, Healy was wondering whether the gunfire would ever cease. Didn’t seem likely, unless he ran out of bullets himself. Which—he calculated in his head—wasn’t so far off. Damn it. He rose up, shot once, dropped back down. He had to start conserving ammo.

  Then he heard shots coming from the direction of the ho
use—one, two, three—and saw a row of bullet holes spring up along John-Boy’s open trunk. March! Healy saw John-Boy’s head swivel, take in the sight of March sheltering behind the door jamb, gun raised. The killer didn’t miss a beat, just reached into the trunk with his free hand and came back up with a second gun. Now he was firing two-handed, the submachine gun aimed at Healy, a tight little black handgun aimed at March. Holy shit.

  March ducked back into the house as the wood splintered where his face had just been. Healy ducked as well, then heard an ominous creaking sound overhead. He looked up—then jumped to his feet and started fucking running.

  * * *

  In the closet, Jessica stirred. Holly felt her friend’s head move against her shoulder. “Jessica!” She turned to Amelia, “I think she’s awake.” Then she realized that Amelia wasn’t sitting next to her anymore, she was standing with her hand on the closet door. “Wait, where are you going?”

  Next to Holly, Jessica moaned.

  “It’s okay,” Holly said. “You’re okay.”

  From outside, the noise of the gunfight continued. Holly turned back to Amelia.

  But Amelia wasn’t there. She’d left the closet and was heading toward Holly’s bedroom window.

  “What are you doing?” Holly shouted.

  Amelia was up on the sill now, then she had the window open and one leg out. She called back, “Tell Mr. Healy thanks for nothing.” And she dropped out of sight.

  In a quiet instant between gunshots, Holly heard Amelia’s desperate footsteps pattering away.

  * * *

  There’s cover and there’s cover. Healy’s cover in this case came in the form of one of the palm trees, which, having been raked across the trunk repeatedly by machine gun fire, had finally had enough and decided it was time to lie down. The whole fucking thing started tilting, and then falling, and Healy ran behind it as it fell, all the way to the house. As the tree crashed down with a colossal roar of snapping fronds, Healy put his arms up in front of his face and hurtled through the big kitchen window in an explosion of glass. He rolled when he hit the floor, scrambled, came to a rest with his back against the wall, head just below window level. He was feeling around his jacket desperately for his last spare magazine as March came around the corner.