“Me too.” Calvin’s face was screwed up in distaste. He had backed up several feet to safety and his arms were crossed protectively over his chest.
She stood and held her skirt up and shook it in case there were some on the fabric. Then she ran her hands up and down the full length of her legs several times.
When she finally looked over at Calvin, he was watching with what she suspected might have been a suppressed smile, but she wasn’t sure. “Mean fuckers,” he said laconically. “Put me in mind of the Viet Cong.”
Molly finally calmed herself down, though her feet kept making little involuntary steps and she scanned the ground constantly. Her feet and ankles felt badly burned; she knew from experience the bites would feel worse tonight.
“Let me see that thing you was picking up,” Calvin said, using his toothpick to point at the pipe she’d dropped.
Molly darted in quickly, picked it up, and shook it. Then she examined it. On the coarse rusted surface were some brilliant blue paint splatters that looked as if they came from a spray painter. She ran her fingers over the roughness of the rusty metal, feeling how much smoother the droplets of paint were. Silently, she handed it to Calvin.
He studied it, turning it around, and said, “That’s the color. Same as the car. This here’s the tailpipe. Must of broken off when they moved it.” He touched the jagged, rusty end with his thumb. “Or could of just rusted off before that.”
“Didn’t the police look around here?” she asked.
“Nah. They just took down what I told them and looked at the hole in the fence and give me the evil eye—you know, how they look at you when you got a record.”
Molly looked around the ground, under the car on the other side of the empty space, and in the vicinity. But she saw nothing else with bright blue paint. This tailpipe seemed to be all that was left behind—precious little proof that such a car ever existed, but she was starting to believe it.
She reached out her hand for the pipe and he gave it back to her. “Calvin,” she said, “you have any other old Mustangs on the lot?”
“No,” he said. “Only a ’87 ragtop, come in last week.”
Molly took a last look at the space where the blue Mustang had been and sighed. “Is there anyone else working here who could confirm the existence of this car?”
He reached up and took the toothpick out of his mouth. “You don’t believe me?”
“Yes, I do believe you, but I need someone else to say the same thing.”
“No one else. Just me and that’s why I got to get back to the office,” Calvin said, his voice hostile again. “Got to take care of them dogs and cover the phone and customers and every other damn thing like some one-man band.”
He started walking. Molly fell into step beside him. When they got back to the office, she thanked him and left him a card with her number on it—just in case something came up.
Back in her rental car, she wrapped the sharp end of the pipe in the New York Times business section, which she never read, and stuck it in her big bag diagonally so only a few inches stuck out.
Twenty minutes later Molly had found the intersection of Mansfield Highway and Loop 20. From there she could have located the place she was seeking by the stench. “Sam’s Body Shop—Painting Our Specialty—Lowest Prices,” the sign said, but the sign, which was several yards in front of the building, seemed to be the only thing that hadn’t been damaged by fire. The blackened brick facade had crumbled around the gaping holes where the front window and door had once been. Pools of standing water around the base of the walls were black with ash and cinders. A smoky haze still hung in the air.
She pulled into the parking lot at the side and shut off the engine. Her stomach was churning over missed opportunities. That was how it had been after her father was killed: everywhere she went, every step she took, she had turned out to be a day late.
chapter 17
Four sister-bitches
Three were cruel snitches
One had to get stitches
One got death twitches
They all give me itches
Inside my britches.
LOUIE BRONK
Death Row, Ellis I Unit,
Huntsville, Texas
Molly Cates rolled down the window, letting in a blast of hot air, and squinted against the noon sun. Sam’s Body Shop appeared to be housed in two buildings. The front one, which must have served as the office, had been reduced to a blackened shell. A long butler building at the back of the property, probably the shop, looked untouched.
She studied what was left of the front building. The cinder-block sides and brick facade were still standing, but the windows and doors had been burned out. Enough light filtered in through the caved-in places in the roof to illuminate the blackness of total destruction inside.
Molly stretched her right leg, propped the foot up on the dashboard, and scratched at the itchy bite behind her knee. She’d have to get in touch with the fire marshal and the police to let them know this was arson, if they hadn’t already figured it out. Some dead junkyard dogs, a stolen wreck of a Mustang, and now this. Someone was willing to go to a great deal of trouble over an old car. It was enough to get her juices flowing.
She opened the door and looked up and down the street. The neighborhood seemed quiet enough. Across the street stood a warehouse and on the corner an old auto parts store. Next door was a weedy vacant lot. No one was out on the street except for a small group of men standing on the corner a few blocks down.
She walked around to the front of the building and peered in through where the door had been. A flimsy strip of yellow police tape dangled loose from the door frame. Inside, the walls were blackened and wires and flaps of insulation hung in a tangled mess from the ceiling. The floor was littered with charred acoustical tiles that had fallen from the ceiling and solid chunks of unidentifiable objects that the fire didn’t digest. Puddles of filthy black water stood everywhere.
She glanced around for file cabinets, even though she knew it was hopeless. Anyone taking extreme measures like this would have made sure that all the files were burned first; they were probably the tinder used to get the fire started.
She stood in the doorway and called, “Hello. Anyone there?”
When there was no answer, she stepped inside. The floor was slick with a muddy film of wet ashes. She wrinkled her nose against the stench and called again, “Anyone here?”
Still no answer.
A collapsing door frame led to another room at the back. Careful to avoid the puddles and keep her clothes from brushing against anything, she made her way through the room. She stood in the inner doorway and looked into a gloomy room smaller than the front one. There were no windows. The only light came from the door where she was standing and two holes where the roof had caved in. The air was hazy with the dirty smoke that seemed trapped inside; the sun rays streaming in through the roof holes silvered the little flecks of gray and white ash suspended in the still air.
“Hello.” This time she spoke softly, apprehensive that any loud noise might bring the roof down.
In the far corner stood three metal filing cabinets, each with four drawers. They were blackened and covered with debris—ceiling tiles, burned plasterboard, and wire tangles. She walked around a heap of ashes in the center of the room to the file cabinets. The light in the corner was barely sufficient for her to see what she was doing.
The top drawer in the first cabinet was stuck, or locked, so she tried the next one down. It opened about an inch and then refused to budge. The fire and water seemed to have warped the metal. She worked at the drawer by jiggling first one side, then the other, gradually pulling it out a few more inches. She wished she had a flashlight to shine inside; she had just about every other damn thing in the world in her big shoulder bag, but not that.
Reluctantly, she reached a hand inside and felt around. The drawer was empty. She squatted down and worked the third drawer open. Empty, too. So was the bottom on
e.
She turned her head to look at the pile of ash and cinders in the center of the floor. Surely that was where the contents of these drawers had ended up.
She stood and tried the top drawer on the next cabinet. It made a rusty scraping noise as she forced it open. She stopped with her hands on the edge of the open drawer and listened, holding her breath. There it was again—a creaking noise she had not made.
She turned toward the sound.
Three men stood watching her. One was black, two white. The black man had already entered the room. The other two filled the doorway, blocking the light. Her breath caught in her throat. The way they stood. Their silence. Trouble. Bad trouble.
She looked around, desperate. She was trapped in a corner. In a room with one door. And the door was blocked. She was caught.
Her throat closed up tight.
A drop of sweat rolled from her temple down her cheek.
The man inside the room stood with his legs braced wide, his hands at his sides. Hanging from his right hand was a long rod—a tire iron, she thought. She remembered the junkyard dogs, heads smashed and bloody.
The man took a step to his right, the other two moved in. One stopped in front of the door, arms crossed over his chest. The other, a huge hulking shape, moved to the left. She was surrounded. It was happening. After all the years of covering crime. Her luck had run out. It was her turn.
She could have stayed home. She’d been warned. She could have had a cop escort. She had said no. Stupid. Stupid.
The man with the tire iron took a step closer. Muscle shirt cut off to show his flat belly. Camouflage gimme hat pulled low on his forehead. He took another step.
She opened her mouth. Had to try. Had to say something. No sound came out. Her throat was shut. She swallowed. “I—I have an appointment here,” she croaked.
“With us.” The man with the tire iron whispered it. “With us.” He took another step toward her.
Molly stepped back. Her heel hit the wall. The edge of the world. Nowhere to go.
Now the other two were closing in. Slow. One step at a time.
She pressed her back against the wall and pulled her arms in tight against her sides. Her bag was there, under her left arm. Hanging from a shoulder strap. Open. Grady’s tear gas! In there somewhere. She felt around with her fingers. God, such a mess. Keys must have sunk to the bottom.
The man with the tire iron was closer now. He slapped it into his palm.
She should scream. Someone might hear. But she couldn’t. It would unleash her panic. Speed things up. It would be the end.
She had to talk. Her only advantage—words.
She held her right palm up. “Wait. I’ve got a police escort. Outside,” she said. “Right outside.”
“Po-lice escort?” the man with the tire iron said, wiggling his hips. “Lady here has a po-lice escort, Dooley.” He turned his head to the big man.
The fingers of her left hand grazed the tailpipe wrapped in newspaper. She slipped her hand inside the newspaper and circled the pipe with her fingers.
The big man called Dooley took three steps and smiled, looking her up and down. He was only a few feet away.
She clenched her teeth. Goddamn. Going out as a victim was the pits. This was how Louie’s victims felt—terror and shame at being too weak, too dumb to see it coming. If only she had a handgun, a machete, an Uzi, a grenade, an atomic bomb—she’d use them. With no remorse. If only she’d worked harder on her push-ups. If only she were Rambo, or Wonder Woman, or Charles Bronson—any-fucking-thing but the middle-aged, female sitting duck she was.
“You’d better check,” she said in a high voice she barely recognized. “Out front. Go on. Take a look. What can it hurt?”
The man in the camouflage gimme hat said, “Fuck. That don’t even work in the movies.” He stopped two feet from her, his mouth hanging open.
Hot spurts of sweat popped out on her forehead and trickled along her eyebrows.
She gripped the tailpipe inside her purse. She had it by the smooth end. The other end was sharp and jagged. It could do damage. If she picked her time.
The man with the tire iron was right in her face. She could smell his sweat over the fire stench. Under the hat visor his open mouth gaped pitlike.
She was trembling. Every inch of skin vibrated.
Slowly he raised the tire iron.
Her head pulsated with hot terror. She held her right hand up. Her throat opened. “Listen,” she screamed. “Listen. A siren!” She made a sound she didn’t know was in her—a shriek, a wail.
From the side, the big man darted in. She saw his fist draw back. Then she saw a spinning light. It was like getting hit by a truck at eighty miles an hour. Her head was torn right off the neck. She crashed into the wall and slid to the floor. Blinded. Head jangling. Cheek blazing with pain.
When she opened her eyes, the big man was squatted over her. His fist was drawn back again.
Her left hand still grasped the tailpipe. She drew it out of her bag and passed it to her right hand. She scrambled to get her feet under her and rose to a crouch. She choked up on the pipe, lunged forward, and drove the jagged end at his face. Her intent was to kill. Or blind. She went for an eye. But it felt like bone as she drove it in. And twisted it. The roar of pain—she couldn’t tell if he was roaring or she was. Or both. He fell back. The pipe went with him.
The man with the tire iron loomed over her, the iron poised over his head.
Crouched, Molly put her arms over her head and curled into a ball. The perfect victim. Just roll over and wait for the ax. Christ, there was nothing else to do. So she waited, her body shuddering. There was a moment of silence. She curled up tighter to keep the shuddering from shaking her apart. She thought she heard a car door slam. And then another.
A voice hissed. “Shhh. Fuck it, Marcus. Someone’s here.”
Voices drifted in from outside. From another world.
“Le’s go. Come on, man,” said an urgent voice. She held her breath and prayed. Yes, go. Please go. Oh, please. God make them go.
Then she heard the sound that made her heart stop—the snick of a switchblade opening. She pressed her face tighter against her knees and waited to feel it in her back.
“No,” a voice hissed, “we ain’t been paid to do no killing. Le’s jus’ go. Help Dooley.”
The sound of feet scuffling. Moving away. Retreating.
Molly let out her breath and stayed curled up.
Then nothing.
She opened her eyes and lifted her head. She was alone.
Shouts came from outside. Then more shouts.
She struggled to her feet. The left side of her face felt destroyed.
As fast as she could, she stumbled through the debris and into the front office. Through the door she saw a red car with a light on the top. And a shield on the side that said “Fire Marshal.” Lord, oh, Lord. Had she gotten lucky. She felt like falling to her knees. It was the kind of timing, she thought, that could happen only once in a lifetime. She felt like laughing. Or crying.
She straightened up and walked to the door. Two men in brown uniforms, one in a suit, and a woman with a huge black beehive hairdo stood around a tan car. One of the men in uniform was talking into a hand-held radio.
“Did they get away?” Molly asked.
They all looked toward her.
“Who the hell are you?” snapped the man in the suit.
“Molly Cates. Those three men attacked me in there.” The words poured out. “Use that radio. Get a police pickup call out on them.” She walked toward them. “Now. Do it now. One of them is hurt. The patrol cars can cover the area. They may be your arsonists, too.” She had to stop and gasp for breath. She leaned against the red car.
The man in the suit nodded at the man holding the radio. “Do like the lady says,” he said.
Three hours later Molly Cates sat on a bench at the Fort Worth Central Police Station holding an ice bag against her swollen cheek. She had made
and signed her statement, had her face photographed for evidence, and she had identified with enthusiasm two of the men who had attacked her. The police had picked them up five minutes after the fire marshal had called it in—the leader in the camouflage hat, whose name turned out to be Marcus Gandy, and the big one, Dooley Smithers. The third man seemed to have slipped away. So far, the two in custody had kept a sullen silence.
Dooley had gotten stitches at Fort Worth General for deep cuts in his cheek. A half inch up and he would have lost the eye.
A police paramedic had glanced at Molly’s face, looked deep and long into her eyes, declared her not concussed, and had given her an ice pack for the cheek. A sergeant-investigator from FWPD Burglary and an arson investigator from the Fort Worth Fire Department had talked with Grady Traynor in Austin to check on Molly’s story. Both the detective and Grady had talked with the patrol officers who had taken the call at A-One Auto Parts and they had all talked with Molly Cates—several times and in dull detail. Her throat felt raw from all the talking.
But no one really knew what the hell was going on.
Finally, at three o’clock Molly got a chance to talk with the one person she really wanted to talk with—Nelda Fay Ferguson, the sole owner of Sam’s Body Shop since her husband Sam Ferguson had “passed over” three years earlier.
At an age Molly estimated near sixty, Nelda Fay had a hairdo larger than her skirt; she wore her dead black hair teased into a mound and her tight denim miniskirt showed off legs so thin that the shin bone resembled a razor. Once Nelda Fay started talking Molly couldn’t remember why she’d been so eager to talk to her. The woman talked without ever taking a breath.
“This sucker don’t look anywhere near’s bad as some of them we get coming in,” Nelda Fay was saying as she looked down at the photograph of Louie Bronk. “Don’t get me wrong now—I wouldn’t screw around with this one neither, but I seen much worse. No. I don’t remember him. It’s a real damn shame those records got burned, ’cause we keep the best damn records you ever did see. Got audited two years ago and that IRS auditor, she said she’d never seen such pretty documentation. Our bookkeeper, Willie Pettigrew, he does everything just perfect. A real fuss budget. Just like my late husband. Just the kind you want to do your bookkeeping. If you’re on the up and up, of course. And we got nothing to hide. Not a thing at all. So we run a real honest, clean business just like when Sammy was alive and—”
The Red Scream Page 25
