by L. A. Morse
Next to the cash register a young man with a bad complexion looked up at me without interest, and then went back to the book he was reading. Oddly enough, it was Proust. In French.
The bruiser was in a corner, sitting on a folding chair, flipping through a magazine. The kid wasn’t around, but there was a door in the rear that probably belonged to a small office.
I wasn’t too worried about being recognized, since I’d been face down in the dirt for most of the stick-up, but I stationed myself out of sight, near the office door, behind a rack of books and magazines. They were all wrapped in plastic and carried price tags of between five and ten dollars. I wondered what was inside them. It used to be that women were granted divorces, because their husbands had merely suggested some of the acts pictured on the covers.
A few men browsed the racks, careful to avoid looking at any of their fellow shoppers. Their sad-eyed expressions held nothing of the sense of liberated delight that the book titles so boldly proclaimed, and their presence here seemed more an act of penance than a search for pleasure.
In front of me were a lot of books with names like Love Slaves in Chains and Stewardesses in Bondage. There were about twenty of them, all by someone named Rodney Whipp. It must’ve been a series.
A mousy little fellow with thick bifocals and a flaking scalp pushed in front of me and scanned the books, his nose about six inches away from the covers.
“Oh, a new Rodney Whipp,” he said, grabbing Manicurists in Manacles and scurrying away.
And I thought my taste in literature was dubious.
Just then the rear door opened. I briefly poked my head around the book racks and saw the kid come out, followed by a bigger, older man. The second guy looked sort of green, and his forehead was covered with sickly perspiration. His lips were drawn back in the smile of someone who’d just got his sexual organ caught in a mousetrap and was trying to appear as though nothing was wrong. No expression of any kind showed on the kid’s round prepubescent face, but his slightly bulging black eyes were hard, the glassy, unblinking stare of a reptile.
I heard a voice say, “Things will be better next week, won’t they.” It was an order, not a question, followed by a short weird sound that I supposed was meant to be a laugh.
Bingo! The voice had the high-pitched, tinny sound of a character in an animated cartoon. The wicked rat, or something. I felt the laugh run up my spine and tickle the hair on the back of my neck. There was no question. I’d found the boy. The two lines had intersected. Incredible!
The kid left the store, followed by his muscle, who’d jumped to his feet the second his boss had appeared. My heart was pounding as I stepped out and stood next to the guy whom I assumed ran the store. He looked like he wanted to howl with anguish.
“Say, was that Jackie Edwards?” I said conversationally.
The guy shook his head without looking at me, staring at the front door, which was slowly closing on its pneumatic hinge. “Anthony Novallo—Tony New. Shit,” he said with considerable feeling, and then looked at me with surprise. “What do you want, old man?”
“I wanted a birthday present for my niece, but this stuff looks too tame.”
“We got the heavy stuff in the back room.”
Wonderful. I should’ve known better than to crack a joke in a place that was about as humorous as a medieval dungeon.
“Maybe later. I think my parking meter is about to expire.”
I hurried out in time to stay with Tony Novallo and the Ape Man. For the next couple of hours they continued their rounds, spreading sunlight and cheer where it would do the most good. Somewhere along the way, they picked up a woman who must’ve been a good foot taller than Tony New. Her halo of bright-orange hair looked like one of those kitchen scrubbers, and her monumental body could have come from the prow of a sailing ship. Her heavy make-up, though, couldn’t disguise her bored expression, and there was little doubt about her line of work. I didn’t want to even guess about what the kid might like to do.
At about eight o’clock the car pulled up under the porte cochère of a swanky apartment building in West L.A., and Tony and the woman got out. The uniformed doorman did everything except salute the kid, but when they passed inside he stared shamelessly after the woman. Tony’s hand was resting casually on her protruding rear like it was the head of a large family dog. For a minute I thought the doorman might have a coronary. He bit on his hand and stamped his feet, then regained his composure in time to greet an elderly woman whose hair was the same shade of pale magenta as her poodle’s.
The kid’s car pulled away. I thought about following it but couldn’t figure why I’d want to. The palooka driving it could probably get lost going around the block. He was just muscle, of no significance on his own.
The kid was the one I wanted, but I couldn’t see much reason to stick around there. It looked like he was going to be occupied for a good long time. And I was beat. I’d been up and out for way over twelve hours. However excited I was that the gamble had paid off, that I’d done it, actually located the guy we wanted, adrenalin was no longer enough to keep me going. Used to be, I would’ve sat in the car, all night, if necessary, until the kid showed again. Then, a cup of coffee and a pair of doughnuts and I would’ve been ready for another twenty-four. Jesus. Who was the guy who’d once been able to do that?
Besides, however pleased I was to have run the thing this far, I had no idea how to bring it home. And without that, the whole exercise would be pointless. With a sigh I started the car to take myself home.
When I got there I found O’Brien stewing like a father whose virginal daughter was out on her first date. Being caught up in the thrill of the chase, I’d forgotten to check in with him.
“Where the hell have you been, Jake Spanner? I’ve been sitting here waiting for hours, not knowing what was going on, and you—”
I cut him off. If I wanted stuff like that, I’d move in with Mrs. Bernstein.
I told O’Bee what had happened. He started grinning and rubbing his hands. Then I told him I was taking him back to Sunset Grove.
“What d’you mean? We’re in this all the way. That was the deal.”
“The deal was that you’d help me. And you have, O’Bee. Really. I couldn’t have done this without you. But it’s over. We’re at the end now.”
The one thing I had decided on the ride back was that it was solely my play from here on out. Whatever it was going to be, it would be mine alone. It had always been that way when it came to the crunch. Some things, apparently, never changed.
O’Brien started bullying and ranting, but his heart wasn’t in it. He knew I’d made up my mind. After a little while, he stopped. His big body seemed smaller, and he looked older and more tired than he had for the past few days.
“Hey, O’Bee. I’m sorry. It’s just—”
“Jake, forget it. I understand. I do. You’re responsible.”
I nodded. He was right: I was.
“You’re also a fucking jerk, but I guess that’s just the way you are.”
I didn’t know if he was right about that; probably.
“But you just be sure, Jake Spanner, that you let me know what happens.”
I assured him I would.
“Okay, let’s go. I got responsibilities, too. The Iron Maiden’s days must’ve been empty without me.”
He put his belongings back into the Safeway shopping bags. He looked around once more, like he would miss the place, and we went out to the car.
We didn’t talk much on the trip. When I pulled into Sunset Grove, he punched me lightly on the arm and said, “See you.”
He walked down the portico that ran outside the rooms. When he passed the office, I saw the Iron Maiden zip out and speak to him. He looked at her but didn’t say anything, and continued on. His lack of response must have surprised her, because she stared after him, legs apart and arms akimbo. Looking at her, I had the feeling that maybe, in fact, her days had been empty without him.
Shit.
Forget it, Spanner. I had enough on my mind without pondering vagaries like that.
I took my foot off the brake and eased down the drive.
Back home I picked up the adventures of Al Tracker, which I’d been too occupied to look into for the last days. Somehow or other he found himself trapped in a deep pit filled with hostile vipers. Some people sure led full lives.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I was out early the next morning after a night mostly spent lying awake, trying to figure possible scenarios, anxious to get going. I went by the dumpy office building, just to check, and then parked across from Tony New’s apartment house.
A little after ten, the two mugs showed up with the car and Tony got in the back. The lady friend wasn’t around.
I followed them back to Trans-Global, where I parked and waited.
And waited.
I still had no idea what I was going to do. The best I’d come up with was to continue surveillance, in the hope that something would turn up. Al Tracker wouldn’t have understood. “You make your own breaks,” he was fond of saying just before he kicked in a door or assaulted an innocent bystander in order to stir things up. About all he would’ve approved of was that I was now, reluctantly, carrying my gun in the glove compartment. Just in case something happened.
It did. At a little after one.
I was so astounded that I almost failed to react. Just sat there gawping like a goldfish who’d finally succeeded in jumping out of his bowl.
The kid came down the front steps. For the first time since I’d picked up his trail, he was alone. But that wasn’t the cause of my excitement. In his hand was Sal’s attaché case, black leather, with two red stripes running around it.
Jesus Christ, Spanner, somebody must sure think they owe you something!
The kid walked to his car, casual as anything. I turned the ignition. For a sickening moment the engine did nothing except sound like it was clearing its throat. I slammed the dashboard with my fist. Not now, you son of a bitch! No fucking way! Then it caught and turned over.
The kid had just started his car. I got the Chevy into gear and pulled out. I stopped alongside the kid’s Olds. There were cars parked in front of and behind him, so he was locked in.
“Move the fucking heap, asshole,” he said, staring ahead.
I slid across the seat, got the gun from the glove compartment, and climbed out the passenger side. I was standing next to the kid’s door. He looked up at me, his snake’s eyes bulging and glaring.
“I said, move the fucking heap. Don’t you understand English, you old sack of shit?”
“Is it all there?” I said, motioning with my head to the attaché case on the seat next to him.
“Is what where?”
“Open the case.”
“If this is a joke, you’re going to be sorry. I don’t find it very fucking funny.” The kid’s already high voice rose even higher.
I raised the gun from my side and held it so his little pop eyes were looking right down the business end. “Open it or I’ll blow your fucking head open, you slimy little punk.”
Jesus, who said that? It came out of my mouth, but it sounded like someone I used to be about a million years ago. Damn, it felt good, though.
“Open it!”
The kid kept his eyes on me. His right hand went down, snapped the catches, and pulled up the top of the case. It was filled with cash, all in neat bundles and rows. It looked real nice.
“Close it,” I ordered. “Keep your left hand on the steering wheel. With your right hand take the case by the end and pass it out to me. Slowly.”
“Do you know who I am?” The weird voice was still rising.
“I know who you are and what you are. Do it!” I jammed the barrel into his ear. Not too gently. I had to admit that felt pretty good, too. Shit. I was really becoming an incredible thug.
A noise came out of the kid’s lips, an evil-sounding hiss, but he handed me the case. Without taking my eyes or the gun off of him, I tossed it through my open door.
“You’ve had it, old man. You’re dead.”
“Now, with your right hand, slowly give me your keys.” He didn’t move. “Do it, you deformed little piece of shit!” I jabbed him again with the gun. This could get to be habit-forming.
He handed me the keys, which I put in my pocket.
“You won’t get away with this.” His lips barely moved and his voice wasn’t much more than a squeak.
“Look, Tony. You had your play. It was a good one, but it fell short. Now it’s over. Forget it.”
His mouth opened and his lips pulled back in an animal snarl. His jaw was working but no sound came out. Flecks of foam appeared at the corners of his mouth. People talk a lot about foaming at the mouth, but in fact you rarely see it. When you do, it’s a good time to make an exit. Tony New was frothing like he’d brushed his teeth with Burma Shave.
I kept the gun ready as I got in my car and closed the door. I put the Chev in drive and got the hell out of there. In the rear mirror I saw Tony standing in the street, staring after me. Just before I turned a corner, I saw him start to viciously kick and hit his car. The kid had a couple of problems.
When I was a few blocks away, I tossed the keys down a storm drain.
A few blocks more and it hit me. I had done it, goddammit! I had pulled it off! Neat as anything.
It may not have been appropriate for a fellow of my years but I bounced on the seat a few times, leaned on the horn, and then whooped out the window. This being a town where certifiable lunatics offered weekend seminars that were well attended, few people noticed my outburst. One dazed young guy with hair down to the middle of his back looked at me, smiled, and gave me the V-sign.
Right on, brother! Right on!
Whoo!
CHAPTER TWELVE
As soon as I got home I called Sal’s answering service and left a message that the mission had been accomplished. Within a few minutes he called me back. He could hardly believe I’d pulled it off. If I hadn’t been feeling so good, I might have been annoyed at this reaction. I mean, it wasn’t that surprising I’d succeeded, was it?
Who was I kidding? Of course it was.
I asked him if he wanted me to deliver the money, but he said he’d pick it up. I told him to hurry. I didn’t feel real comfortable sitting on that much dough. Sal told me not to worry; he’d hurry, all right.
He must’ve, because a cab pulled up in front of my place in about twenty-five minutes. I figured that even though he said he trusted his driver, he wasn’t taking any chances at this point. With a random taxi, he wouldn’t have to worry about a leak.
Sal came in. He was wearing either the same black suit or one just like it. Considering the strain he must’ve been under the last week, he looked pretty good. If anything, more relaxed, less cadaverous than before.
He looked at me, shaking his head, with the same kind of shit-eating grin I’d been seeing since I got home, whenever I looked in a mirror. He saw the attaché case on the couch and hurried over to it. He opened it and gazed at the contents. He put his hand on the money, closed his eyes, slowly exhaled. I didn’t think I’d ever seen anyone more relieved, like the doctor had just told him that the tumor was benign and he’d had his life handed back to him. In a way, maybe that’s what I’d done.
“Jesus, Jake, I still don’t believe it.”
“Well, at least you’re back to where you were.”
“What?”
“We were pretty damn lucky to have brought this off, but it doesn’t really accomplish anything, only makes you even again. You still have a long way to go.”
“I do.” He nodded. There was an odd smile on his face. “But I think this time it’s going to work out.”
“Let’s hope. You heard anything yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, when you do, I’ll lend a hand if you want.”
“Thanks, Jake. And thanks for this.” He motioned to the case. “I knew I could count on you.�
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“I don’t think either of us knew that. Like I said, I was lucky.”
“It doesn’t matter how. All that matters is that you did it. And I want to give you something for it.” He took one of the packets of bills from the case. The paper wrapper was marked $10,000.
“Forget it. I’ve already been paid.”
“Come on, Jake.”
“No. Besides, you’re going to need all that for Tommy.”
“I’ll deal with that. I want you to have this. A finder’s fee.”
“No.”
“Jesus, you’ll never change. A man of principle.”
“Not really. It’s just that I have so few, I figure I better stick to the ones I’ve got.”
“You mean, like being a jerk?”
I shrugged.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “If you haven’t learned by now, Jake, I guess you’re never going to. But I do want to give you something.”
It seemed really important to him so I said he could give me a hundred bucks and I’d treat myself to a good dinner. Sal looked at me, shook his head, then pulled a bill out of the packet.
“Thanks,” I said.
Sal shrugged, put the money back into the case, and shut it.
“Well, I’d better be off. The cab’s waiting.”
“Right. Take care of that money. I don’t want to have to get it back again.”
Sal smiled, the same odd grin as before. “I’ll do my best.” He paused, seemed about to say something more, then changed his mind. Instead, he nodded to me and left. He waved as the cab pulled away. I had the feeling he was trying not to laugh,
I could understand that. The only thing funnier than my trying to do this thing was my actually having done it.
