One for Our Baby

by John Sandrolini

  “Hallo,” she said, the voice a nasal vibrato.

  “Millie. Hi, it’s Joe Buonomo.”

  “Oh, hi, Joe. How ahh ya? Lahng time, no heah.”

  The Rs were falling like dominoes—the Boston was never going to leave that kid. Millie was another one of Helen’s Hollywood gang perpetually hoping for that big break, and she just kept throwing herself into the fire in the hope that one of these days someone was going to catch her. She sure as hell wasn’t going to make it as a voice coach.

  “Millie, I’m trying to find Helen. Have you seen her?”

  “Oh, that’s sweet. She told me she sawr you the other night.”

  “When did you see her?” I demanded, my pulse surging.

  “She came by real late a couple of nights ago, asked could she stay with me. Of course I said yes. But, Joe, she was real scahed—didn’t have no clothes with her or nothin’, just what she had on.”

  “Was she okay?”

  “Oh, shu-uh, just upset, I guess. She wouldn’t talk about what it was, though.”

  “Do you know where she is now?”

  “No. She made some phone calls in the mornin’. Somethin’ spooked her again and she said she had to get away. I thought I heard her mention your name on the phone. That wasn’t you?”

  I nodded as the tumblers lined up in my mind. “Any idea where she went, Millie?”

  “Said she was headed toward Lahng Beach; I thought she was goin’ to see you, the way she was mentionin’ your name. That’s the last I seen of her. You ain’t seen her neither? Funny, huh?”

  “Yeah. Funny. Thanks, Mill.”

  “Shu-uh. Say, Joe, if you two don’t make a go of things, why don’t you give ol’ Mill’ a call someday. Ya got my numbah now.”

  I frowned. “Gotta go, Mill’. Thanks, doll.”

  “G’bye, Joe.”

  It was the closest thing I’d had to a lead in a while. In Long Beach I could find Helen, or she could find me when she was ready, but L.A. was another story. There were three million indifferent people marking time in the smog grid below, along with one rather interested party in a brown Chevy.

  That reminded me that I needed to check in with Sam to see if he’d brokered some kind of a truce with my old enemies.

  I fished in my pocket for some more change and dropped it in the slot. That pleasant ding sounded twice more as the phone determined the coins weren’t slugs. I dialed Sam’s number, waiting for the wheel to clack-clack all the way back after each of the nines.

  I never made it through the last one.

  A thunderclap exploded in my ears, then the glass above me disintegrated, the booth shaking like the Big One had hit. My hands flew to my head as I covered up, hunching forward and low beneath the phone.

  There was another detonation and Ma Bell took one right in the gut, the coin box bursting open, a metal storm of dimes and nickels raining through the air amidst the pulverized glass.

  Despite my shock, my numbed brain made a grim connection—someone was using the phone booth for shotgun practice.

  I scrunched down on the floor and kicked at the door, which slid about one inch before jamming on a buckshot-mauled track. A dirty brown haze began to fill the cloistered air in the booth, the reek of gunpowder and scorched aluminum stinging my nostrils.

  A third explosion punched a hole through the metal frame a foot above me.

  I curled up in a defensive position as twisted shavings of hot metal and a thousand shards of shattered glass pelted me. Somewhere along the way, the severed receiver fell upon my head with a thok. It was hell in a tin can.

  And I had had my fill of it.

  Drawing my weapon close to my chest and cocking it, I twisted my head around to see who was blasting chunks out of my world.

  There was an Oriental man at road’s edge. He was sporting a tan suit, a short-brim fedora, and a very large pump-action shotgun. White teeth shone beneath black sunglasses as he advanced.

  The shotgun clicked loudly as he racked it. It was an awful sound. I had maybe one second to get off a shot—but I didn’t get the chance.

  The roar of a speeding vehicle filled my ears. Twelve-gauge Charlie turned toward it and froze.

  There was a brown blur of a car, a splattered watermelon thump, and then Charlie wasn’t there anymore. I didn’t even see where he landed.

  The shotgun came down from the sky a second later, clattering down on the gravel in front of the booth, brakes shrieking around the corner as the car skidded to a halt.

  Seizing my opportunity, I grabbed the folding door and slung it open. I turned, gun drawn, and spotted a black Mercury across the street—just like the one I’d seen on Afton two days earlier.

  Two suited Orientals occupied the front seats. The passenger swung out onto his door and pointed a pistol across the roof at me. I didn’t wait to see if he just needed directions.

  I squeezed off a round as I dove onto the gravel, poorly aimed shots whistling through the air above me.

  A dust tornado kicked up several feet away from a bullet impact as I hit the ground, lunging for the fallen shotgun. I kept firing with my left hand as I reached out with my right.

  Another bullet zinged into the gravel, rock fragments stinging my cheek.

  Then I had the shotgun.

  I rolled right, bracing the barrel with my left hand, then pulled the trigger.

  Somehow I hit something. Not much, but enough.

  Double-ought shot blew out the top of the driver’s window, shredding the roof above his head. The shooter panicked and slid back down inside. A second later, the car lurched forward. I sat up, swapping hands on the weapon and pumping the action back hard.

  This time I saw it before I heard it—a brown Chevy cruiser with a smear of blood on a wrinkled fender—barreling down hard from my right then absolutely plowing the black coupe in the driver’s-side door.

  Car pieces flew in all directions amid the crunch of rent metal. Both vehicles careened sideways, the Merc slamming to a stop against a guardrail along the canyon’s sheer edge thirty feet away.

  A lone chrome hubcap spun crookedly away from the crushed cars as busted glass tinkled down to the pavement in small plinks. A radiator hissed a dying breath. Someone moaned inside one of the cars. Then nothing.

  A grinding whine spun up suddenly as the Chevy flew backward toward me. I dove away in confusion as it drew back a good fifteen feet then surged forward toward the stricken Mercury, smacking into it like a wrecking ball hurtling down.

  The wooden guardrail snapped with a crack as the black hulk of the coupe was driven within inches of the abyss.

  The Chevy squealed into reverse again.

  I could see the Merc’s dazed driver trying to right the steering wheel as the passenger gestured wildly with his arms, hunks of rock and dirt spraying out beneath the rear wheels as they dug into the loose shoulder.

  The brown battering ram surged forward as the coupe’s passenger looked on in terror, hauling himself onto the doorsill, trying to climb out while the driver struggled desperately to open his crumpled door.

  Neither guy made it.

  The Chevy hit the black coupe square, punching it through the splintered guardrail and clear off the edge of the cliff.

  It seemed to hang there just a moment, its wheels spinning uselessly in space. Then it plunged out of sight, a fading scream trailing out as the car dropped away.

  An echoing thud of breaking metal issued from the depths of Coldwater Canyon moments later. I winced at the palpable finality of it.

  The Chevy was already in gear and pulling away as I neared the road’s edge, mesmerized, but I still got a long look at the driver as he flashed by. The recognition astonished me. It was Lo Chi, the sleepy-eyed cook from Chinatown I thought I’d known all these years.

  It was immediately clear that he did a whole lot more than pluck ducks for Sam Woo.

  I shook my head several times in disbelief at the nightmare that had just unfolded before me, then backed
away toward my car. I got in and made fast tracks out of the area before any witnesses could creep out from the store.

  I looked back reflexively as I sped away. The view of the canyon was just as striking as it had been five minutes earlier—but I wasn’t ever going to think of it in the same way.

  32

  I just drove. Straight down Mulholland, westbound and fast, up into the hills and the hell away from Los Angeles.

  The world was coming apart at the seams. It was all gunfire and corpses and blood—and I had no idea why.

  Radiator pipes were clanging in my head, iron fingers clutching at my chest. I was having trouble breathing, started hyperventilating. Blood shot in surges through my heart as that old shuddering dread rose up inside and began to overwhelm me.

  I tore open my shirt and opened the vent windows, letting the air rush over me as I fled down the road. I needed to get away. It didn’t matter where—just away.

  I drove for miles and miles on Mulholland, twisting around curves and switchbacks, running up and down through the hills. Gradually, the houses came less frequently and other cars not at all. I could feel my chest unwinding, realized I wasn’t laboring as hard to breathe any longer.

  At some point, I turned onto Topanga Canyon. I didn’t have a plan, just let the car go. Something inside was driving me now—I couldn’t fight it.

  Eventually, I pulled into a state park, far, far away from anything. There were quiet places there, hiking trails. I took to one, began to walk.

  The path wound up into the hills, past a thicket and out among the Santa Monica Mountains. The air felt good. Sea air, even several thousand feet up.

  The trail wrapped around the hilltops, bathing me in bright sunshine one moment and plunging me into dark shade the next. The views were spectacular, I knew that, but it could have been Gary, Indiana, to me for all I noticed.

  After forty minutes of walking, I realized that the trail was familiar to me, that I’d been on it before. None of my thoughts were coalescing, though. Too much wild energy was still coursing through my head.

  An hour in, I crested an incline and looked down to the end of the dirt path, which dead-ended on a cliff facing the sea. I shambled down the last two hundred yards, stopping at land’s very edge. A strong wind blew off the ocean over the scrub and low grass, carrying the chill of autumn on its swirling currents.

  I sat down on a boulder, staring at Malibu’s beaches far below. Farther down, beyond Point Dume, the great expanse of the mighty Pacific thundered, sweeping out and away from Los Angeles and its horrors, rolling six thousand blue miles toward another world I knew a long time ago.

  * * *

  I don’t know how long I sat there, but the sun was slanting down in the west when I shook free from my memory sanctum.

  Nothing had changed while I was melting down. Betty was still dead. Ratello and the Chings were still on the loose. Helen was still missing. And the only guy with a hope in hell of finding her was burning daylight on a hilltop sanitarium. Jesus Christ, Joe.

  I dropped out of the clouds, reacquainted myself with the planet. Cupping my hands against the wind, I flamed a Lucky, took in a drag, my mind drifting through my night with Helen. I started at the airport, moved on the bar. One cigarette later, I still had nil. Then I walked myself through her apartment again, culling my mind for details.

  I remembered the pleasant sensation the scent of her pajamas gave me, and the feeling of nearness the hairs in her brush brought me—a nearness from another time, not the present.

  Other observations came and went: Betty’s dress, the mohair quilt, the Crosley clock. There was something about that picture on Helen’s nightstand. I framed it up in my mind, turning it around once or twice. It surprised me that she would still have a photo of me next to her bed, still carrying the torch five years on.

  She’d taken that picture, giggling as she did because she couldn’t figure out the shutter speeds on the Voightlander I’d picked up in Germany after the war. I recalled telling her she needed to reduce the light because there was less haze than on the mainland.

  And then I had it.

  So goddamned obvious—and literally right in front of me.

  I stole a glance to the south, through the glare of the falling sun. There it was, forty miles away, jutting dark and remote out of the sparkling sea.

  The place where we’d taken that picture.

  The place where I knew she was.

  33

  Santa Catalina is one of the Channel Islands that lie hard off the Southern California coast. Just twenty miles out at its closest point, Catalina rises steeply from the ocean in several uneven hills along a central spine. Avalon, the only town, is a sleepy place most of the year, but comes alive in the warmer months. Thousands of visitors come by ferry on summer weekends to dance at the Catalina Casino at harbor’s edge, or to enjoy the island’s many other charms. Sailing, swimming, sunbathing, salooning—Avalon’s got something for everybody, sober or torched.

  It was a regular stop for me since they needed all sorts of things on a time-critical basis. Helen and I had spent many nights there dancing, strolling the waterfront, or shutting down the bars. We both loved the place and knew it well.

  What clicked for me when I thought of us on the island together was the memory of the night we stood on the Casino balcony, watching the ocean swells cruise by under a bright harvest moon. It was just before I had to go back to China. We were taking a break from dancing, grabbing a little air.

  Out of left field, Helen had said, “This is a special place. I feel safe here, like I could always hide away from my worries.”

  It was almost as if she knew our time was near its end. There was something unnaturally serious in her eyes as she spoke.

  I said something dumb like “Wrap your troubles in dreams, huh?” and didn’t think anything more of it. Went back to dancing a few minutes later.

  When I came back from China and read her note, I thought that she might return soon, or at least contact me, but she didn’t. Then I recalled her words and her face that night at the Casino, decided I had nothing to lose, and caught the next boat over.

  I searched for her on Catalina for several days, walking the few small streets of Avalon, riding up and down the hills on my motorcycle. Every afternoon I checked the waterfront and the pier, looking for her face among the many. I asked about her in all the shops and bars as well. A couple of friends pulled me aside and told me I was just hurting myself.

  In the evenings I’d go to the Casino and wander among the dancers on the curved balcony high above the sea, watching, waiting for her. Every night the surf rolled in and broke over the rocks, the people danced the old dances, and the moon bounced cold light upon the dark water—but that was all. She never came.

  That was five years ago. Time and grief helped suppress the memory, and it was just as well buried anyhow.

  But this time was different. I knew I’d find her there. I just couldn’t believe I hadn’t figured it out sooner. Might have saved a hell of a lot of trouble—and a few lives—if I had.

  Always the hard way, Buonomo, always.

  * * *

  My first impulse was to run all the way back to my car, but then it hit me that I was about as far away from Long Beach as I could get and still see it with the naked eye—a good two hours of walking and driving, maybe more.

  Now I knew why Helen had gone to Long Beach from Millie’s—to hop a ferry—but the last one for the night had already sailed, so I would be flying myself over to the island.

  It was well after sunset by the time I’d worked my way down the hills and onto the coast highway. At Santa Monica, I cut across on 66 and joined the 405 southbound toward Long Beach. There were a couple of wrecks. It was a slog.

  I finally made the hangar about nine. The DC-3 wasn’t scheduled out that night so I grabbed her. She was a beast but she’d do. The tanks were pretty low, too, but there was enough gas to get over and back. I didn’t bother to phone anyone,
either; I just wanted to get there. Took me less than ten minutes to get her in the air.

  34

  The sea was black, but the lights of Avalon were visible at altitude by the time I crossed the coast outbound. I dead-reckoned the heading toward Catalina’s only airfield, the Airport in the Sky, which was in the center of the island and flung right on top of a 1,600 foot mountain. They’d chopped it out of the rock in 1940 to make a small private strip, but the government shut it down during the war and kept it that way for many years. It opened again as a civilian field in 1952—for those daring enough to land there.

  The field was short, poorly lit, and sloped down dramatically on the south end. The winds usually came shrieking in off the open Pacific, skipping off the mountaintops in treacherous, swirling gusts. Landing short or long was a sure ticket to the undertaker as the terrain fell away precipitously at both ends of the runway. Even veteran pilots got their lunch handed to them at Catalina on occasion.

  The moon was nearly full, so I was able to locate the field about fifteen miles out, but there was a west wind blowing, dropping in a marine layer as the island cooled in the night. Sea smoke was already slinking down the hills, obscuring visibility near the ground. And when it came, it came for the night. It looked like I’d get just one shot at a landing.

  The field was legally closed after sunset, so I knew I couldn’t get the wind report or the local altimeter setting. I’d been up all day, wasn’t on top of my game, and didn’t have an instrument approach available to guide me down. Other than that, it was a walk in the park.

  I turned down all the cockpit lighting, slowed to 70 mph and lined up on 22. At three miles out I dropped the gear, flicked on the landing lights, and began a shallow descent toward the field.

  The runway was just a smudge in the moonlight, a negative space outlined by fuzzy edge lights magnifying by degrees in my windscreen. It reminded me of those night carrier landings I’d made during the war—a tiny landing strip against a dark ocean, a one-way ride to Poseidon’s palace waiting on all sides if you screwed up.