“In the first place.”
“Mott brought it home. Said I should keep it around for protection. Shitty neighborhood, you know? I think someone traded it to him for dope.”
“Do you know how to use it?”
“I took it out in the hills once.”
A shot hit something nearby. Deanna fired off one of her own. Another came back in reply.
“How many bullets in that thing?” I said.
“Seven, I think. Or was it nine? Mott told me. I don’t remember. Maybe it was fifteen.”
“How many have you shot off?”
“Three, four, maybe.”
One of our windows bit the dust. Deanna fired back twice.
“Make that five or six,” she said.
“So you might just have one left.”
“I might. Or three. Or … shit, I suck at math. I’m not doing a whole lot of good with this thing. You want to give it a try?”
“I can’t even climb a goddamn fence. I’m not going to be much good with a gun.”
“That’s logical.”
“Coordination, that’s all I mean. I don’t have any.”
Another window got destroyed. Deanna fired right back. “I can see the flash,” she said. “I’m kind of shooting at that.”
“You may have just kind of used your last bullet.”
“Oh.”
“Can’t you knock the clip out and count them?”
“I told you, I don’t know how to work this thing. I’d probably drop them all on the ground.”
Two more shots smacked the microbus. “Here’s a question,” I said.
“Uh-huh?”
“He knows we’re behind the bus. It’s doing a pretty good job of protecting us. So why is he still shooting? Why doesn’t he come down closer so he can go after us at close range?”
“I don’t know, why?”
“I think he’s trying to get you to use up your bullets.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Because you keep shooting back at him. He’s just sitting up there, taking potshots at the van, knowing each time he does you use at least one of your own.”
“Fuck,” she said. “So what do we do now?”
“Don’t shoot back. Make him think we’ve used up our bullets.”
“And then what?”
“Then he comes down here.”
“That sounds promising.”
“And then you nail him.”
“I don’t know if I could do that.”
“What do you mean? These bastards are trying to kill us. We’ve got to defend ourselves.”
“That’s not what I meant. I meant, even if the guy was five feet away I don’t know if I could hit him.”
“Sure you could.”
“I don’t think so. Maybe you should take the gun.”
A couple more thumps into the other side of the bus. Deanna fired one of her own back. “Damn it,” she said.
“I thought we were going to—”
“I know, I know. It was instinct. At least we know I didn’t use up all the bullets before.”
“But we don’t know whether you used them up just now.”
“I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure there was an odd number.”
“How sure are you of how many you’ve shot off?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s eight now.”
“So we have two pretty sures. We multiply them and get one maybe. God, that stuff stinks. The gunpowder.”
“I think you’re right about letting them come down here.”
“Maybe you should give me the gun.”
“Really, I’ll be all right. I can get my itchy trigger finger under control.”
“You’d better.”
We sat there a couple of minutes. No shots from up above. “Maybe he’s out of ammo,” Deanna said.
“I have the feeling this guy would’ve brought more with him.”
Two more bullets splashed into the VW. One hit metal. The other went through one of the empty windows and continued through the other side, the one we were hiding behind, way too close to my head.
I threw myself on my stomach and shoved myself under the chassis. “Get on the ground,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because—”
I heard the shot and the scream at the same time. The shot came from above, the scream from Deanna. It tore through the darkness, loud and sharp. She fell to the ground, hard.
“Dee!”
The voice was a whisper. “I told you not to call me that.”
“What the hell?”
“Ssh. I’m playing possum.”
I racked down my volume. “Why?”
“Because our other plan sucked. Him coming down here and us jumping out from behind the bus and shooting him? I don’t think so.”
“So how is this better?”
“A couple of ways. If he thinks he’s gotten us both, we have the element of surprise. Or maybe he just leaves.”
“Don’t they usually come down to pump a couple of bullets into their victims’ heads to be sure?”
“I don’t know.”
“And what’s this ‘gotten us both’ stuff?”
“You’re supposed to be an actor. Here’s the role of a lifetime.”
“Next time he shoots I scream and make falling-down noises?”
“Uh-huh. Got a better idea?”
“At the moment, no.”
“So get ready for your cue.”
I took a deep breath and blew it out. Another. A third. “I guess this is our best chance. Assuming you still have bullets in the gun.”
“Maybe it was eight.”
“We’re dead.”
“Are you ready?”
“I suppose.”
I lay there scrunched against the bottom of the VW. It was going to be tough to make falling-down noises when I was already flat on my stomach, but that was a bridge I could blow up later. I took one more deep breath and waited for a shot.
It came. I missed it.
“Joe!” Still whispering, but she got her point across.
“Sorry. I guess my mind was wandering. I’ll do better next time.”
“How could you let your mind wander at a time like this?”
“Blame your friend Hoss.”
“What’s he got to do with it?”
“I’m still feeling the dope. I keep thinking I’m fine, and then I drift away.”
“Try mooring yourself to the dock.”
“Nice simile. Metaphor. Whatever. Okay, I’m concentrating now.”
A minute passed. Two. Three.
Pow!
“Aaaiiiiieeeeeee!”
I slid out and got to my knees and slammed my body into the side of the van. I made scrabbling noises with my fingernails, then plotzed back on my stomach. The big finale was a mournful, lingering moan.
“How was that?” I whispered.
“Not bad, except for the moan.”
“What was wrong with the moan?”
“Makes him think he didn’t kill you.”
“I didn’t think of that. Maybe I should draw another shot.”
“Just keep quiet, and he’ll figure you lasted a minute before you died.”
We lay there. And lay there. Five minutes. Ten. Twenty. I tried to slide back under the bus but my jacket got hung up on some metal protrusion that refused to let go. My squirming dislodged a rock that sounded thunderous but didn’t bring a response. “Maybe he left,” I said.
“We would have heard the car. Now please shut up.”
Another ten or fifteen minutes.
We heard the car.
It was coming closer.
It stopped. A car door opened and closed again. He didn’t slam it, but he wasn’t trying to be quiet with it either.
A minute or two later: footsteps. Crunch, crunch, crunch on the dirt and gravel. They came closer. Closer. Closer still.
When the footsteps reached the other side of the microbus, I did the atheists-
in-foxholes thing.
The steps moved around the back of the vehicle. Crunch, crunch. He’d get a chance to shoot me before Deanna took him out. Or before he took her out.
He came around from the back. He walked along the side of the bus. His feet stopped less than a foot from my head.
Who Are You
I knew about the feet because of the flashlight that flicked on. It was the gunman’s. Ours was back at the fence, not that it would have done anyone any good except as a small club. His was shining down at the ground, but it still dazzled me.
“Son of a bitch,” the guy said. I twisted my neck up to see what was what, and I saw the gun. It was like a bigger version of the one Woz had bought for me. A revolver, reeking of gunpowder. Like something you’d see on Bonanza. Where there were characters named Hoss and Little Joe. The actors were both dead, and soon I would be too.
I tried to wedge myself tighter but my jacket was still caught. Lots of my torso was exposed, with all sorts of vulnerable organs inside.
The guy crouched down. He shined the light in my face. I couldn’t see anything but that damned light. But I knew he was selecting a target. Maybe it would be my head. That would hurt the least, wouldn’t it? The brain would shut down immediately, and I would go off to the next world in a relatively painless fashion. It wasn’t a little gun that would turn my brains to goop. It was a big gun that would kill me cleanly.
Okay, Deanna, I thought, now’s the time.
She thought so too.
Click.
“Fuck,” she said.
“What the—” said the guy. His light snapped off. In my head I saw him turning, saw him and his Night-o-Vision tuning in on Deanna, shooting her dead, coming back to do me.
I got a hand free and took hold of his ankle and pulled. He jerked his leg away. I said good-bye to Gina. To Aricela too, while I was at it, and my father and Elaine and—
An enormous noise rent the darkness. I smelled fire and brimstone. I thought, This doesn’t seem that bad. It hadn’t hurt a bit. Unless the fire and brimstone were indicative of where I’d—
The guy fell on me.
He didn’t land exactly on top of me. It would have been impossible, given that my mercifully-unriddled body was partially shoved under the chassis. But some of his parts ended up on some of my parts. And he had me wedged in so I couldn’t get out. I knew that right away, because I tried to get out right away. He had to be a big man. He didn’t budge. And, just for grins, one of his bodily fluids was soaking my midsection.
“Joe? You okay?” It was Deanna.
“I’m fine.”
“Let me see if I can find the flash.”
The light snapped back on. It shined in on me through a little gap between the shooter’s body—I assumed it was a body; he didn’t seem to be breathing—and the bus’s bottom.
“I’m fine, I think. You scared the shit out of me. With that first shot. Thank God you tried again.”
“I didn’t.”
“What?”
“When I pulled the trigger and nothing happened I freaked out and froze up.”
“Then who shot him?”
“Maybe he shot himself.”
“Suddenly overcome with remorse? I doubt it.”
“Then who?”
“I don’t know. Hey! Whoever shot this schmuck! You out there somewhere?”
If he was, he wasn’t admitting it.
“He’s gone,” Deanna said.
“Or playing a game with us. You think you could drag this corpse away so I can get out from under here?”
“You’re sure he’s a corpse?”
“If he’s not, he’s doing a damn good imitation.”
“What if he comes to life?”
“What is this, Carrie? Just pull this cadaver off me, okay?”
She put the light on the ground, pointing at me. She pulled, the body shifted, she grunted and groaned, it inched away. I pushed and Deanna pulled and as soon as I could squeeze through I did. I grabbed the flashlight and stood, then pointed the beam at where I guessed the head was. I came across the night vision goggles first. They’d slipped off his head. Then the end of the rifle. It was still strapped on and he’d fallen on top of it.
Then I found the face. His eyes were open. This I hadn’t expected. I looked away, then back. He had fleshy features, a crooked nose, a shaved head. I ran the light along his body and came to the place he’d been shot. There wasn’t much to see. Just a hole in his jacket and, when I pulled the jacket away, a hole in his shirt. I didn’t pull at the shirt. “Bullet went in here, I’m guessing. Then out his back, which landed on me, which is why I have blood all over me.” I shined the light up and down my front. “What a mess.”
My jacket and shirt were sodden. The top half of my pants too. I stripped off the jacket and shirt and tossed them aside. Then undid my jeans and pulled them down. They wouldn’t come off over the boots, which were a bitch to get off. I pulled the pants back up.
“What do we do now?” Deanna said.
“Go find the cops.”
“Do we have to?”
“You think we should just leave him and drive away?”
“Who would know?”
“The cops, once they checked the registration on the bus.”
She took the light from me and carried out her own inspection. “His eyes are open.”
“I know.”
“Can we close them?”
“You want to put your hand on his face, go ahead.”
“Can’t you—”
“Get in the van. Now.”
“But—”
“Deanna. He’s dead. He doesn’t care if his eyes are open. Now get in the van and let’s get the hell out of here. In case whoever shot him decides to shoot us too.”
She just stood there. She was in shock, something like that. I picked up the guy’s handgun. I tried for the rifle too, but it didn’t want to come out from under him and I didn’t want to argue. I took Deanna’s arm, led her around to the passenger side, seated her, belted her in. I went around to the driver’s door and got behind the wheel. I managed to get the keys from her, find the one I needed, and stick it in the ignition. I flicked off the light, found a secure cranny, and tucked it away. I turned the key and nothing happened.
“There a trick to this?” I said. “It’s not starting.”
“It always starts. I’ve had it twenty-three years, and it’s never not started before.”
“It’s not starting now.” I tried the key again. Nothing. “One of the bullets must have hit something.”
“Can’t you fix it?”
“I know nothing about fixing cars.”
“Please try.” Her voice quivered.
“All right.”
I took the flashlight around to the engine compartment, got it open, did a quick scan. It was quick because I saw the problem right off. One of the bullets had severed the cable from the coil to the distributor. I went around to the passenger door. “This thing’s not going anywhere.”
“So what do we do?”
“His car must still be up there. We’ll borrow it.”
I took the flashlight, got her out of the bus, started back around it toward the dead guy.
“What are you doing?” Deanna said.
“Getting his keys. Stay here. Don’t move.”
“All right.”
Someone started shooting again. I yelled, “Down,” and hit the dirt. There were three shots. Four. Five. Then silence.
“You okay?” I said.
“Yes.”
“We better get our asses out of here.”
I ran to the dead man. Going through his pockets was only moderately appalling. The keys were in his pants. I trotted back to Deanna and we started up the road again. We came to the car a couple of minutes later. It was parked half in the bushes by the side of the road. No one was in it. It was a New Beetle, this one bright yellow. Someone had pumped bullets into it. Five of them, forming a neat pentagram on t
he driver-side door, matching the number of shots we heard after the bad guy was dead.
I told the police the story half a dozen times, some with Deanna, some without. After the first runthrough they took away my pants, let me get cleaned up, gave me a Ventura PD T-shirt and gym shorts. I had them call Kalenko in L.A. and he more or less convinced them Deanna and I were more or less on the level. Eventually somebody checked out the scene down by the beach and reported back. Deanna couldn’t tell them who made the holes in the VW, and I wouldn’t. They took copious notes and filled out a ream of forms and did everything in triplicate.
Four and a half tedious hours later the lead questioner, a tall, handsome man named Ruiz, said we could go.
“Go where?” I said.
“Home.”
“Home’s sixty miles away. And our transportation’s indisposed. Or should we take the Beetle?”
“Hang on.” He left and came back a few minutes later. “One of our officers has to go down to L.A. to testify tomorrow morning. You can catch a ride with him.”
“When’s he leaving?”
“Little after nine.”
“It’s a quarter to six. What do you suggest we do till then?”
“There’s a Bob’s Big Boy down the street. We’ll have him pick you up there.”
“You ever spent three hours at a Bob’s?”
“It’s Bob’s or the Greyhound station. Or a bench in the lobby.”
Bob’s won. We walked the two blocks over, dropped into the darkest booth there, ordered tea and toast. I kept Deanna talking. She did the same for me. Three hours passed like six. Deanna nodded off half a dozen times. So did I, but I was too amped up to sleep more than a few minutes.
Our ride showed up right on time. A young guy, barely old enough to be out of the academy. He quickly figured out that we didn’t want to be chatted up. Deanna fell asleep somewhere around Camarillo. Somewhere around Thousand Oaks, so did I.
Talk Dirty
Our escort detoured off the Hollywood Freeway to drop us at Deanna’s place. We said a woozy good-bye. She sleepwalked upstairs, and I stumbled to my truck. I got home at ten-thirty, took a shower, and was headed for bed when I remembered to check the machine. There were three calls. The first two were from Gina. One from the night before: “It’s almost eleven and you’re not home. Very weird. Call me.” Then: “You weren’t there at eleven and now you’re not there at seven in the morning. I hope you’re okay. Call me.”
One Last Hit (Joe Portugal Mysteries) Page 20
