The Old Dick

by L. A. Morse

  On the way out, the nurse at the floor station asked me where I was going.

  “Out,” I said, not breaking stride.

  “You can’t leave.”

  “Sure, I can.”

  “They said you might be difficult.”

  “They were right,” I called over my shoulder. “So long.”

  I was starting to limber up a little by the time I reached the lobby. I kept going until I found a pay phone. It took half an hour for the cab to arrive after I called. This was a rotten town for taxis. It took another half hour to get to my place. My fare was bigger than a two-week grocery bill. At least I was still working on the money Sal had given me.

  We drove by Mrs. Bernstein’s house. I felt a twinge of guilt. What for, Spanner? I wondered. For being driven crazy by the woman? For putting her in danger? For saving her life?

  Come on. “J. Spanner: Crushed beneath an overly developed sense of responsibility.” Enough of that. No more.

  And no more obits either.

  Damn! but I was feeling good.

  I paid the driver and went to the garage where my car was parked, again courtesy of the L.A.P.D. They’d even washed it and filled it up. I muttered something sarcastic as it started like a champ on the first try.

  On the way into town, I tried to figure my chances, but didn’t have a clue. By rights, Sal should have been long gone, enjoying himself in Rio, Nassau, Geneva, or another of those places where they don’t pay much attention to people who arrive with briefcases filled with cash. There was no percentage in his sticking around, but somehow I had the feeling—almost a gut-level certainty—that that was just what he’d done. Had I been Sal and put such an elaborate mechanism in operation, I’d sure as hell be interested in seeing how it played itself out. Especially if I felt I was so well hidden, so deeply buried, that I’d never be found. It wouldn’t be exactly smart, but it was just the kind of overconfident lapse that was conceivable.

  However, even if I were right, I knew I wouldn’t have a lot more time. The game was over, as the spread in the newspaper made all too clear. The main thing going for me was that maybe Sal thought I was still in Intensive Care, hanging by a thread, and he wouldn’t be in that much of a hurry. If I could get a line on him around the museum—from the other vendors there, or maybe get onto the company he worked for—I might be able to run him down. It was a long shot, but once again it was the only shot I had.

  I parked the car on one of those deteriorating streets that bordered the University of Southern California, and crossed into Exposition Park. The approach to the History Museum was dotted with groups of little kids, outings from day camps and summer schools, there to look at the reconstructed dinosaurs. Look this way, kids, I thought; here’s one that’s moving.

  I was nearly at the main walk going up to the building when I saw him. I stopped dead, because I goddamn well couldn’t believe my eyes. But there he was. Standing next to a cart decorated with pictures of laughing ice-cream cones. He was wearing one of those white uniform jackets and a Dodger baseball cap, handing out stuff to a gang of tiny black kids that clustered around. Sal Piccolo, the world’s richest street vendor. As I’ve heard kids say: In-fucking-credible.

  I started walking toward him. I saw him glance up, then freeze, and I knew he’d spotted me. I kept walking. He reached into his cart, pulled out a box of ice cream bars, and tossed it over the heads of the kids, who went scrambling for it.

  He pushed the cart to get it moving, then jumped into the seat. The contraption was kind of a reverse tricycle, with the two wheels in front supporting the freezer box, and the handlebars, seat, and single wheel behind. Sal went along a walkway, cut across the grass, bounced over the curb and onto the street, moving in the direction of the Coliseum.

  I went after him at an angle. For the third time in as many days, I was involved in another chase. I knew it was recommended that old people get plenty of exercise, but this was becoming ridiculous.

  Sal’s legs were really pumping on the pedals, but his vehicle was designed for stability, not speed; and, stiff and sore as I was, I was gaining on him. He veered off to the left, attempting to broaden the angle between us, and tried to jump a curb. The front end of the cart was too heavy, and he bounced back. He took another run at it and was stopped again. I had closed to within twenty-five feet. He hopped off the seat and opened the freezer compartment. He reached in and came out with the famous black, red-striped attaché case. Talk about your cold cash.

  Sal started running toward the stadium with his long-legged stride, like an arthritic emu. He skirted the high surrounding fence, then went through an open service gate. I was right behind him. My body was starting to protest loudly, but I was not going to listen. No way was that S.O.B. going to get away from me this time.

  We followed the oval of the stadium. We were both moving slower, but his long legs had opened up a little distance between us. He ran into an entrance tunnel, turned right, and was out of my sight. I went through the tunnel and came out into the stadium, row after row of empty seats stretching before me. I heard a sound above me, looked up, saw Sal going up an aisle, to the top of the stadium. I forced my legs to move. Up, up, up, climbing five, six, seven stories of stairs. My lungs were filled with iron weights. Lightning stabs of pain shot from my ankles to my knees.

  As soon as I got to the top, he started back down, one aisle over. For once his long legs were a disadvantage. He couldn’t get the stride right for going down, and I closed back to about twenty feet.

  At the bottom, he clambered over the low wooden barrier, then across the cinder track and onto the football field. I almost didn’t get over the railing, stuck straddling it, an arm and leg on either side, stomach and chest heaving, limbs trembling. A gasping, groaning effort. Rolled off the fence. Onto the track. Up on my feet. After him.

  We were both hardly moving, one laborious, lunging step at a time. I crossed the goal line and he was ten yards in front. After him. After him. I no longer knew why I was doing this. Only knew there was pain, and that I couldn’t stop. I crossed the twenty, thirty, forty. Mid-field.

  And I was gaining. It was the slowest run ever, down that field, but I was gaining. The attaché case started to get in Sal’s way, hit his leg, threw off his rhythm. Thirty-five. Thirty. I could hear one of us gasping for air, but I didn’t know which. Twenty. Closing. Closing. Fifteen. I was certain I was going to die.

  At the ten, my foot caught a loose piece of sod. I hurtled forward, struggling to keep my balance, arms outstretched in front of me. I went down, but as I fell I caught him by the ankles and he dropped forward onto his face. A perfect saving tackle.

  Sal groaned but he was going nowhere. Neither was I.

  I lay there, out of time, out of space, the only reality my straining heart and lungs. I didn’t know if it was a minute or an hour before I shakily struggled to my feet.

  Sal was down on the two-yard line. I looked around. There were a hundred thousand empty seats, so the insane roaring I heard was not a jubilant crowd.

  The attaché case rested on the goal line. I picked it up and went back to Sal. I rolled him onto his back. He made a sound like rusted hinges on a dungeon door. He opened his eyes.

  “Mr. Winchester, I presume.”

  “Nice work, Jake.”

  “What the hell are you still doing here, you stupid asshole?”

  He looked up at me, blinked, took some deep breaths. Eventually, his face began to lose its burning-red glow.

  “I didn’t think there was any hurry. Figured I’d wait until things quieted down. Besides”—he did something that almost looked like a smile—”I had to see how it turned out. You did pretty good, Jake.”

  “Don’t give me that, you son of a bitch! You want to know what I been through? I been knocked out and I’ve been suckered. But you know about that. I’ve been in trouble with the cops and the mob. I’ve been threatened, tortured, beaten up, shot, and nearly killed at least twice. I’ve run a search and a couple o
f cons, though not nearly as good as yours. I committed armed robbery, fought a couple of thugs, had a high-speed car chase, saw a friend killed, and killed your fucking grandson.” My voice had risen to a maddened roar.

  Sal nodded, then said quietly, “It sounds like I missed all the fun.”

  I started to sputter, puffing up again, but found my anger rapidly deflating. To be honest, he wasn’t entirely wrong. “Yeah, I was having all the fun while you were peddling your goddamn ice cream. Why, for Christ sake? You had the dough.”

  He shrugged. “Since I was staying around anyway, it gave me something to do. Better than sitting in my room. I kind of like it. I’ve been doing this since I became Harry Winchester.”

  “What about that? What happened? The kid tried to kill you. How’d you get away?”

  “He knocked me out, but my head’s pretty hard. Always has been. I came to, and the building was burning, smoke everywhere. Fire had already taken the front rooms and was moving back fast. I tried to get the guy out of the room across from mine, but he was already gone. Had bad lungs—asthma, or something—and the smoke had gotten to him.”

  “And that was Winchester?”

  “Yeah. I moved him over to my room and took his pallet, and stuff. Hell, it didn’t matter to him anymore.”

  “Why’d you stick with the name?”

  “Why not? I needed to be someone. And Winchester had Social Security coming in. It helped keep me going until—”

  “Until you were ready to get even.”

  “Yeah. Can you believe it? After I laid it all out for him, gave that punk the biggest break in his life. My own grandson.”

  “And you saw the way to settle another old score, by using me.”

  Sal smiled. “It worked. You were pretty impressive, Jake. I hardly had to give you anything, and you came up with the goods. Really fine.”

  “Save it,” I growled. I shook the case. “About all I haven’t figured is how you knew he’d be carrying this.”

  “Hell, I’d set up the whole thing originally, so it was easy to keep tabs on it, once I figured out what I was going to do. Knew how the kid made the pick-ups, when. Knew he always used a case like this for the money, knew where to buy one exactly like it.”

  “Another creature of habit?” Sal shrugged, smiled. “And you kept pushing me on the deadline because you knew when the coke pick-up would be made, and I had to be in place to spot the kid with the case?”

  “Right.”

  “Jesus. What if I hadn’t gotten onto the kid?”

  “Then I would’ve remembered something else—some new bit of information—so you would have. But I didn’t need to. You grabbed it and ran with it.”

  “And where were you going to run with it?”

  “Tunisia.” I looked a question at him. “When I was little, I can remember my father telling me about this village. He used to go across with fishermen. He said there was this white village on a cliff, shining in the sun, looking out over the sea. Said it was the prettiest place he’d ever seen. While I was in prison, I thought about that place a lot, and I decided that was the place I most wanted to see. It was a long time ago that my father was there. Maybe it’s all changed. Maybe it’s not even there anymore. But that’s where I was going to start.”

  I nodded. It sounded nice, very nice. Not unlike my Moroccan memories, or daydreams, or whatever they were.

  “We can still do it, Jake.” I gave a disgusted look. “Think about it. The Mediterranean. Warm weather, spicy food, and hot women. The sun during the day, and a couple of nice girls to keep us warm at night. Not a bad old age, is it? What do you say, Jake?”

  “I say you’re crazy.”

  “Am I? What are you going to do? Give the money to the cops and get a handshake from the mayor? Maybe return it to the big boys? Say it was all a misunderstanding? Shit. Even if you gave it back, you think they’re going to let you waltz away? These are very serious people. And remember—you’re the one. The only one. As far as everyone is concerned, I died a couple of years ago. So it looks to me like you have to go away. With or without the money, you have no choice.” He paused and looked hard at me. “For once, Jake, don’t be a jerk. Take the money.”

  I looked down at him. “And you, too, I suppose.”

  “That’d be nice.”

  “After what you did to me?”

  “Remember what you told me last week? I didn’t do it to you. You did it to yourself. You did everything.”

  I started to say something, stopped. Again, Sal wasn’t far wrong. He gave me a push, but I jumped in with both feet and went along all on my own. In a way, I had trouble blaming Sal. He’d only acted according to his nature, just like I’d acted according to mine. Only he’d understood mine a hell of a lot better than I’d understood his.

  “Why shouldn’t I take the money and leave you to your ice cream?”

  Sal looked up at me, shook his head. “You couldn’t do that, Jake.”

  “No?” I said, but I knew he was right about that, too.

  Unfortunately. It must be nice to be without scruples. Very liberating.

  “After all this—” I waved my hand at the insanity of the last week and a half, “do you feel like you’re finally even with me?”

  “Oh, yeah. Absolutely.”

  I thought he meant it. But so what? I knew I could never, ever trust him about anything. Then I realized that I didn’t have to.

  I held out the attaché case. “What would you say if I controlled the dough?”

  “I’d say, fine.” Sal smiled broadly. “I trust you, Jake.”

  Shit.

  I looked around at the empty stadium.

  Goddammit. The son of a bitch had manipulated me again.

  But what of it?

  Warm weather, spicy food, and hot women? Hell, I now knew—thanks to Miranda, another episode in my adventure—that even the last of those still had some meaning for me.

  The mob, Mrs. Bernstein, and a losing battle against inflation?

  I stared down at Sal, then extended my hand. “Don’t you think this is an undignified position for two wealthy old gentlemen to be in?”

  I pulled him to his feet. He smiled at me.

  I shook my head, sighed. Sal Piccolo sure wasn’t my first choice as companion for my last years.

  On the other hand, it did beat the hell out of eating cat food.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1981 by L. A. Morse, Inc.

  Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media

  ISBN 978-1-4976-0114-7

  This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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