by L. A. Morse
“Then you’ll let the lady go? You don’t need to hold her.”
He smiled and shook his head.
“What for? She has nothing to do with this.”
“Insurance.”
“What?”
“I go with you. My boy stays with the old broad. That way you don’t try anything cute, like speeding or going through a red light, or something to cue the cops. If he doesn’t hear from me that everything’s okay, he finishes her.”
I heard Mrs. Bernstein suck in some air but she didn’t move or cry or say anything. I had to hand it to her; she had more spunk than I’d thought.
“Understand?” The kid smiled.
I nodded.
Shit. It was one thing to screw up when it affected you. It was something else when another person got involved. I wasn’t crazy about old Mrs. Bernstein, but if nothing else, I’d do my best to see that she got out of this. However, being something that might be considered a witness, she probably didn’t have much of a chance. Shit.
“Now just sit down, old man, and we’ll wait.”
I sat, and we waited. On the kid’s instruction, Shithead got out some simple laboratory gear from his case—an alcohol burner, a flask, some glass tubes, a thermometer—and tested samples from some of the bricks of cocaine. It looked like he was determining the melting point. Whatever he did, all the coke proved to be pure and first class. I was so glad.
At one point Mrs. Bernstein started snuffling a little.
“Don’t worry,” I tried to reassure her. “It’ll all be all right.”
She shook her head. “No, the cabbage rolls are ruined.”
About three dozen snappy remarks came to mind, but I merely smiled encouragingly.
As I watched Tony New calmly sitting on the couch, feet barely touching the floor, smoking one long cigarette after another, I thought back a couple of centuries to that afternoon, when I sat in Pershing Square and just wanted all this to be over. I still wanted that. What scared me was that I found I was no longer very interested in the way it might turn out. I’d been floating at sea, hanging onto an old log, for so long that I just wanted to let go and sink. And rest. And the hell with everything else.
“J. Spanner: Sank without a trace, in the Slough of Despond.”
I shook my head. My broken finger was throbbing. Tony New grinned coldly at me. Mrs. Bernstein shifted in her chair. Not yet, goddammit. Not just yet.
It finally got dark. Shithead found a suitcase of mine and put the coke into it. Then he filled up the original canvas carrier with a bunch of old paperbacks that were stacked in the spare room.
Tony New looked at the dramatic covers and the titles promising havoc, bloodshed, and mayhem, and shook his head. “Is this where you get your ideas, old man? It would’ve been healthier if you’d stuck to Reader’s Digest.”
For once, I had to agree with him. Hardly anybody in the Digest ever got involved with kidnapping, robbery, the cops, cocaine, or the mob. Mostly they just whittled. Or carved funny faces in apples. Sounded good to me.
The kid dropped the transmitter in with the books, zipped up the bag, and we were ready to go. But not before I had to watch Shithead tie up Mrs. Bernstein, none too gently.
There wasn’t much I could say to her, but I tried to say it. She smiled.
Shit.
Tony New and I went out the back door. It was another hot, gritty night, much like the one that had started all this. Cloud cover was low, and no stars were visible. It figured.
I had wanted to make a wish.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Tony New had me back the car out of the garage while he stayed shielded by the house. After the Chevy’s usual hesitation starting, I pulled even with the back porch, got out, picked up the carrier bag, opened the rear door, and tossed the bag onto the seat. At the same time, Tony New took the suitcase of coke and hustled into the back, where he lay on the floor. He was in view for maybe two seconds, but he needn’t have worried. I knew that Nicholson was sticking to the plan and had his men keeping their distance. Even if he hadn’t, the sight lines were so bad that an observer would’ve had to be at the end of the driveway in order even to stand a chance of seeing the kid’s entrance into the car.
From his place on the floor behind me, Tony New reminded me not to try anything funny. As an aid to my memory, he showed me a nasty-looking automatic.
Again, he needn’t have worried. Even without considering the hostage Mrs. Bernstein, I had no more bright ideas. The cops would be staying out of sight, following from at least a couple of blocks away, and all regular units in the area would undoubtedly have been alerted and told to avoid me at all costs. Short of having an accident, there was no way I could attract attention. No, I’d just have to play it by the book and hope that somewhere along the line something would present itself.
Like maybe the kid getting carsick. Yeah, sure.
I didn’t have that far to go to make the drop. Tony New had arranged for it to take place near the southwest corner of Burbank, close to where there were three or four movie and TV studios, and, more importantly, where there were five places that the city streets overpassed the Ventura Freeway.
I drove carefully, staying well within the speed limit and minding all traffic lights, and reached the drop point without incident in about fifteen minutes. I crossed to the end of the overpass and pulled up, just above the outside westbound lane. I was in exactly the right place at exactly the right time. Everything was going like clockwork.
Wonderful.
I got out on my side. There was no other traffic. After dark there hardly ever was, except on certain main streets. I opened the rear door. Tony was propped up on an elbow, smiling and pointing his gun at me.
“You’re doing fine, old man. Just keep it up.”
I got the duffle bag off the seat, shut the door, and walked over to the side of the bridge. I thought about getting the transmitter out of the bag and pocketing it. I glanced over my shoulder. It was dark, but I could still see the top of the kid’s head through the rear window and knew he was watching me.
I looked over the guardrail. Traffic was light on the freeway. About fifty yards away, a car was pulled onto the shoulder. Its hood was up and a couple of warning flares were lit behind it. I could just make out a figure standing next to the front fender.
I hoisted the bag up to the guardrail, then pushed it over so that it fell into the low creeping plants that covered the sloping sidewall of the highway. As soon as the bag hit, I saw the hood of the car come down and the figure start to move toward where it had landed. I went back to the car and got in.
“Was he there?” Tony New said.
“Yeah. Who was it? Rudy?”
“No. Just some kid. Doesn’t know what this is all about. Just that he’s to pick up a package and deliver it to an address in Woodland Hills.” He giggled.
Woodland Hills was one of the more recently developed areas, an expensive suburb of large ranch-style houses, about twenty miles away. I guessed that that was what he thought was so funny, the cops chasing clear across the Valley after nothing, after a hired punk with a load of sleazy paperbacks. Pretty hilarious, all right.
My link was cut. I was alone and on my own. I could remember when I used to like that feeling, when that feeling was one of the reasons I had chosen my line of work. But that was a long time ago, a time when, even though I was on my own, I still had some resources to draw upon. Now all I had was a scared feeling deep in my stomach and a jaw that was starting to ache from the tension.
“What now?” I said.
The kid gave me directions. I went along a surface street that ran next to the freeway, then turned into Griffith Park. This was about six square miles of nature straddling the eastern end of the Santa Monica Mountains. Even with a golf course, zoo, planetarium, outdoor theater, thirty or so miles of road, and lots of picnic grounds, there was still plenty of wilderness there, and at night, much of the park was as deserted an area as you could find
anywhere in the city. It was a good place if you wanted privacy.
After I’d been driving through the park for five minutes, Tony New sat up on the seat directly behind me and nestled the barrel of his gun in the hollow-behind my right ear. We drove around for a while, taking random turns. At one point we ran next to Forest Lawn Cemetery, which bordered on part of the park. I tried hard not to see any significance in that. I didn’t quite succeed.
When the kid was finally satisfied that we weren’t being tailed, he directed me to one of the picnic grounds, halfway between the theater and the planetarium. If something was on at the theater, the parking area was always filled, but nothing was playing that night, and there was only one car there, way at the farthest corner, near the trees. It was a black Oldsmobile, with license number SAM 726, which had recently been of passing interest in my life. Rudy was leaning his bulk against it, smoking a cigarette.
I parked near the car and turned off the engine. The kid told me to get out, then got out himself, holding the suitcase. Rudy stood up straight, looking as alert as was possible, with the pea that served him for a brain. I noticed that his pants only just reached his ankles and his socks didn’t match. Pretty dapper.
“Clear?” Tony New said.
Rudy nodded.
They both looked at me as though I wasn’t really there. With a chill of recognition, I realized that I soon wouldn’t be.
“Hey—” I started to say.
Tony New made a small motion with his head, like shaking off an annoying fly. “Finish him,” he hissed.
That was all. It was that easy for him. A matter of no significance. Just some minor waste to dispose of.
My knees buckled momentarily and my hands and feet went cold. I knew I couldn’t reason with him, and I wasn’t going to beg, so I just looked at him.
He gave me his little viper’s grin. “You ripped me off. And then you tried to set me up. That’s two times too many, old man.” He turned to Rudy. “Do it.”
Rudy pulled a cannon out of his pocket and took a couple of heavy steps toward me.
“Slow or fast?” he asked.
The kid looked at me and then at the suitcase he was carrying. Prudence won out; he wasn’t willing to risk three quarters of a million dollars, even for the great pleasure my slow death would have brought him. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, and glanced around. “Take him over there.” He indicated the picnic tables that were among the trees beyond the paved parking lot.
Rudy waved his gun. I walked in front of him. He silently pointed to where he wanted me to go.
Seventy-eight years scuffling and hustling, working and struggling, and it was going to end next to a wire rubbish container with a sign on it saying, “Help keep your park clean.”
No way. No fucking way. They were going to kill me, but I wasn’t going to be a goddamn lamb on my way to the slaughter.
Age had taken nearly every possibility away from me, but my age was also the only advantage I had left. As far as Rudy was concerned, I was too old to try anything. Had I been twenty years younger, he would’ve been more cautious. As it was, he was much too casual, walking too close, probably thinking ahead to having something to eat or getting laid.
I let my ankle twist under me on the uneven ground. A cry of surprise, and I went down on my hands and knees. Rudy nearly tripped over me, then prodded me with a toe. I scrabbled with my hand and picked up some loose soil. Thank god the ground was dry and dusty. With a quickness that amazed me—not to say Rudy—I leaped to my feet, whirled around, and hurled the dirt in his eyes, all in one smooth simultaneous movement.
There was no way I was anywhere near strong enough to grapple with the brute, but I didn’t need much strength to slow him down some. My foot kicked out and the toe of my shoe caught him square on the kneecap. For my visit downtown I had foregone my usual sneakers or sandals, and had on a pair of heavy brogans, left over from a time when I’d spent a lot of hours walking rain-slick winter streets. It was a good solid blow that caused him to grunt with pain, but that also almost caused me to overbalance and fall on my back. I caught myself, though, and saw him hopping on one leg, rubbing his eyes. I took careful aim and kicked again. This time right in his crotch. He said something like “Ork, ork!” I knew that I might not live out the next five minutes, but at that instant I sure as hell felt joyful. Rudy made that sound again, clutched himself, and, almost in slow motion, began to sink to the ground. My arm shot out straight ahead. The heel of my palm caught him flush on the nose. I felt a flash of pain go from my wrist to my elbow to my shoulder, and I knew that I’d jammed my arm good. I also felt his nose squish flag beneath my hand. Rudy’s profile, hardly very Roman to begin with, would henceforth be even more anthropoid. I hadn’t broken anyone’s nose since 1937. I remembered it felt pretty good the last time as well.
Rudy continued his descent to the ground. After my dazzling exhibition I should’ve been able to stay around and admire my handiwork, but I knew I had to take advantage of the time I’d bought, and get going. It would’ve been better if I’d been able to go into the woods, but that direction was all uphill and I knew I wouldn’t get more than forty or fifty yards before I’d collapse in a panting heap. Adrenalin was making me feel pretty good at that moment, but I still knew that in my case, reality equaled gravity. So I started moving toward the parking lot with a stiff-legged, ice-skating kind of stride—more a fast walk than a real run—heading back down the road in the hope that I’d run into someone before the pair caught up with me.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Tony New, suitcase still in his hand, jumping up and down and shrieking hysterically, like a stir-crazy inhabitant of a monkey house. “Get up, motherfucker! Get up! Get that fucking bag of bones! Get him!”
I glanced back. Holy shit! Rudy was getting to his feet. If he’d had even a minimally developed nervous system, he would’ve been out for at least a few minutes. Christ! The son of a bitch was so goddamn primitive he could probably regenerate severed limbs.
I picked up the pace. After a couple of minutes—which seemed like a couple of hours—my old brogans, which had done such good service, suddenly felt like they were made of iron. It was harder and harder for me to lift my feet. Soon, I really was skating over the pavement, dragging-pushing my legs in a spastic shuffle, gasping in air that felt like liquid fire, molten smog.
I looked back. Rudy was gaining, getting close. Blood was gushing from his nose, dripping from his chin, splashing down on his white rayon shirt. He wasn’t moving very well, limping, his heavy bulky body not designed for speed, but it wouldn’t take a world-class sprinter to catch me. My shuffling strides were getting shorter and shorter, and a moderately mobile tortoise would soon be more than my match.
I didn’t have to look back anymore. I heard Rudy’s bubbling breath, sucked in through his mouth, louder even than the roaring waterfall inside my skull. I could sense his bulk behind me.
A clubbing blow between my shoulder blades expelled what little air had gotten to my lungs. I went sprawling, arms and legs flying out in four opposing directions. I hit ground with my hands, then my forearms, then elbows, knees, shins, chest, and then chin. I tried a kind of crawl- in motion, but my arm still hurt from hitting him, and wouldn’t work.
A large foot dug in under me and roughly rolled me over. Rudy straddled me, a foot on either side of my heaving chest. I tried to grab an ankle but he kicked my hand off, then stood heavily on my wrist. I looked up into his eyes. They were expressionless, like little red marbles. A drop of crimson blood fell from his nose and splattered on my cheek.
His gun was in his hand, moving toward my head. My eyes were fastened on the bottomless dark circle of the barrel. My only thought was that I wasn’t ready. Shit! Seventy-eight years and I still wasn’t ready. I felt more alive at that moment that I could recall feeling for ages.
There was a tremendous clanging, whirring, roaring sound. A huge wind swept over us. A dazzling, blinding light covered us, bleaching all
color. What the hell was happening? It was like the hand of God was reaching down to pluck a damned old fool from his self-inflicted fate.
Then a tinny, metallic voice boomed down from above. “This is the police. The area is surrounded. Throw down your weapon and do not move.”
The light shifted slightly, and I was looking up at a black and white L.A.P.D. helicopter.
Sounds of sirens. Cars screeching to a halt. More lights. Shouts.
Rudy squinted upward, bewildered, indecisive.
With energy I didn’t think I had, I reached up and grabbed the revolver from his slack fingers. He looked down, surprised, then started to run toward the trees. Three quick shots exploded from somewhere behind the blazing lights. Rudy’s legs seemed to give way beneath him. He fell onto his face and lay twitching, groaning.
I fell back. My mouth dropped open. I couldn’t tell what I was feeling—relief, or exhaustion, or utter disbelief. Or all three. It hardly mattered.
I laughed. It seemed there was no end to the ludicrous absurdity. Talk about a deus ex machina! Incredible. I’d been rescued by the goddamn cavalry.
I laughed again, so hard tears filled my eyes. I was probably in a mild state of shock, slightly hysterical.
“Hey! Are you okay?” a voice said above me.
I stopped howling and blinked my eyes clear. Nicholson was leaning over me, looking surprisingly concerned.
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Fine.”
“You sure? We got an ambulance on the way.”
I shook my head. “Just help me up.”
Nicholson pulled me to my feet. I almost crumpled back down, but the cop caught and held me. The momentary lightheadedness passed and I waved him off.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m sure. Just a little shaky, a few scrapes, is all.”
Nicholson smiled. I thought back. It must’ve been the first time I’d seen him do that. “You know, you’re one tough old goat.”
