Solo Hand

by Bill Moody

  I direct her to my car and when I get out she says, “I’m not being very understanding, am I?”

  “More than you know, Cindy,” I say. “I’ll meet you at home. I’ve got to wait for a call.”

  I don’t have to wait long.

  The phone is ringing as I open the door.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Cindy is stretched out on the couch at her place, watching a rerun of M*A*S*H, when I come over. “Well, you wanted a night out. How does a drive-in sound?”

  Cindy is suddenly all smiles. “Really? I haven’t been to a drive-in since I was in high school. What a wonderfully romantic idea, Evan. You’re forgiven. Should I change into something easy to get out of?”

  “No, the halter top is fine.” It’s obviously time to sit Cindy down and explain to her at least part of what’s going on. While I bring her up-to-date, she listens carefully, but shakes her head as I kind of gloss over my role in things—Cindy isn’t having any of it. She stares at the gym bag I’m holding as if it’s a snake. I decided to leave the briefcase home. Megan will never know.

  “Is that the—money?” Cindy puts both hands to her face. “Why, you’re the key to the whole thing, Evan,” she says. “I don’t like this at all. It sounds dangerous.”

  I brush aside her objections, although she’s really struck a chord with me. There is a lot that can go wrong. Now, though, I just don’t want to think about it. “Well, it’ll all be over soon. C’mon, we’ve got a date.”

  While Cindy changes her clothes I sit on the couch and stare at the TV, willing myself not to think about all the things that could go wrong, wondering if I shouldn’t call Danny Cooper, wondering if I shouldn’t forget the whole thing, return the money, and tell them to get someone else to be bagman. But I’m too far in now. For some reason I can’t explain to myself I feel compelled to see it through.

  The Studio Drive-In is located in Culver City. I haven’t been to one in a lot of years either, so the first thing that takes me by surprise is the admission prices. Why did I think drive-ins were cheap?

  After some delay, we finally get in and inch toward the box office. A car full of teenagers in shorts and T-shirts just ahead of us is arguing with the attendant when they’re checked for extra patrons by opening the trunk. They’re finally admitted and I pull up and pay the tab. We snake in a long line of cars to one of the multiscreen complexes. Three of them are showing slasher movies, which seems to be the standard fare of drive-ins these days. But I’m more interested in following my phone instructions to the letter. We’re not going to see much of the movie anyway.

  I start counting rows from the front. I find row twenty-three okay and slowly drive, counting in seventeen spaces from the end. Sure enough, that spot is vacant; the out-of-service cover is over the speaker.

  “Why are you parking here, Evan?” Cindy wants to know immediately.

  “Because that’s where I’m supposed to park, okay?”

  I cut the lights and pull the cover off the speaker post. I’m almost surprised to find the tape cassette, held on the post with a thick rubber band. It’s a fifteen-minute tape, so I won’t have too much to listen to. I shove it in the dash tape player and sit back to see where we’re headed next. Cindy watches hypnotically as the tape light comes on and the message begins.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Horne,” it begins. The voice is normal, not the computer stuff but still muffled enough to make it impossible to recognize. “I’m sorry you won’t be able to enjoy the entire movie, but we don’t want to make things too late, do we?

  “At precisely twenty-five minutes after ten, you will leave the theater and proceed directly to Marina del Rey. There you will go to the outer boat-slip area, using the Lincoln Boulevard entrance. You will find a key taped under the telephone shelf at the pay phone at the end of the slip. That key will unlock the security gate and get you into the slip area. The boat you are looking for is called Your Choice. Once on board further instructions will be made obvious to you. Remember, Mr. Horne, no police.”

  That’s it, nothing else. I let the tape run for another minute and I check my watch. We have about twenty minutes to watch the slasher flick, but Cindy is ready to go now. For all I know we’re being watched even here, so I think we should wait until the precise minute we’ve been given.

  We watch some crazed goon with a battery-operated power saw chase young girls around. By ten twenty-five, I’ve had more than enough anyway. Cindy seems to find it kind of interesting.

  Once out of the drive-in, I head down Olympic as far as I can and then turn south toward the marina. Now that the actual moment is upon me, reality is setting in. It’s dark, there won’t be a lot of people around, and I’m supposed to go aboard a boat I don’t know, owned by someone I’ve never seen, with a bag full of money. Aren’t there night watchmen, security people of some kind, around the marina? Sure there are. What if I’m stopped or questioned by one of them?

  I suddenly become aware of Cindy watching me. As if reading my thoughts, she pats my leg and says, “Don’t worry, Evan, it’ll be fine. You’re just making a delivery.”

  I find the road with no trouble and park in the restaurant lot facing the boat slips. There are only a few cars in the lot, but the lights on in the restaurant look reassuring. Cindy can keep a lookout, I decide. “This shouldn’t take long,” I tell her. “You stay here and lock the door.”

  I look back once, wave, and start walking. The phone is there, just as the caller had said. I feel under the shelf and sure enough, taped to the bottom is a key. I walk up the steps to the slip area and find the security gate about halfway down. Obviously some of the boats are occupied. Lights wink at me, music comes from one or two, and the water laps against the pier, but all in all it’s very quiet.

  Your Choice is a beautiful forty-five-footer that looks perfect to cruise up to Santa Barbara in. I glance around then step aboard, very conscious of the gym duffel that contains one million dollars in cash. Well, I’m the only one who knows that. Now what? Further instructions will be obvious, the caller had said. I walk around to the bow and peek in the cabin window, but it’s all dark inside.

  I start to look around further when I sense rather than feel something in the air behind me. I turn slightly but not enough to avoid the blow. Then I feel a stunning pain on the back of my head, hear the bag drop on the deck.

  Money lost, no pictures, and I’m headed for the Marina del Rey channel, but it’s the shock of cold water as I go over the side that really gets my attention before I lose consciousness.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I’m out only a few seconds. I open my eyes, then squeeze them shut again. My arms are flailing. My clothes weigh me down as I fight toward what I think is the surface. I remember my attempts at surfing. Falling off the board, being flung into the boiling surf, disoriented, not knowing which way the surface is. It’s even worse in the dark.

  The water is cold, almost numbing, and for a moment the temptation to let go is great. In the dark I can’t just swim toward the source of light, but when I stop fighting it, I feel myself starting to go upward.

  My lungs are bursting when my head finally breaks the surface. I gulp in air, swallow water in the process, catch a flash of people on the boat, the pier, waving at me, yelling, then I go under again.

  I hear a splash near me. My eyes burn, my chest hurts. I strain to make out the dark form that slides behind me. Then I feel hands; the form has me around the waist, pushing me up. I break the surface again, this time closer to the pier. Hands reach out for me, pull me closer, then drag me up on the slip.

  “That’s it,” a voice says. “I’ve got him.”

  The hardness of the slip feels wonderful and secure. I lie on my stomach, hands flat on the boards as if I’m going to do push-ups, gulping in air, spewing water, my chest heaving.

  “He’s all right,” I hear someone else say. What do they know? I become more aware of sounds. People talking, lights flashing, and Cindy bending over me. Someone turn
s me over and I try to sit up.

  “Evan, Evan,” Cindy says. I look up at her, manage a smile, then roll over on my hands and knees, coughing and spitting up more water. A white uniformed paramedic throws a blanket over my shoulders. I’m suddenly very cold.

  Shivering, I right myself and pull the blanket around me. I feel like I’m getting my breath back after having the wind knocked out of me. The paramedic shines a pin flashlight in each eye. At least he doesn’t ask me how I feel.

  Another voice, also a familiar one, says, “Well, Horne, looks like you fucked up again.” Detective Lieutenant Danny Cooper grins down at me, a thin cigar jutting from the corner of his mouth. “I don’t suppose you got a look at him?”

  I shake my head, wondering how Coop got here. Cindy? How much did she see? Things are more in focus now. Besides the ambulance and two black-and-whites just beyond the fence of the pier, I see an unmarked car next to mine that must be Cooper’s. Just behind him is his partner Ivan Dixon, a tall light-skinned black man with a thin mustache.

  Coop hauls me to my fret. “C’mon, let’s get you home,” he says. “Your girlfriend can drive your car.” I nod at Cindy, who still looks shaken.

  “Shouldn’t you go to the hospital or something?” Cindy says.

  “I’m all right, really,” I say to her. “See you at home.” Thank God she was with me. She must have called the police.

  Coop stops to talk with the uniformed officers and a third, also wrapped in a blanket. The dark form. My rescuer?

  “Thanks,” I say, offering him my hand.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Dixon takes me to the car. “Good thing you can swim,” he says as he opens the door and guides me into the backseat. I sink into it gratefully and rest my head against the seat. Dixon gets in front and Coop arrives a minute later, gets in, guns the engine, and pulls away. A small crowd has gathered by now. Where were they earlier? We drive back to Lincoln Boulevard and Cooper heads south for Venice.

  The radio crackles. Dixon takes the call but I can’t hear what he says. I close my eyes again and hear Cooper say, “That’s what you get for playing detective.”

  When we get to my apartment, Dixon helps me out even though I’m feeling pretty good now. I don’t see my car. I fish for my keys, but of course Cindy has them. Coop and Dixon look at me expectantly. I shrug, dig the spare out from a hanging planter box near the front door. Both cops give me disapproving looks as I unlock the door.

  “This part of Venice is a high-crime area, sport,” Cooper says as we go inside. “You get out of those clothes and then we’ll talk.” Dixon is already surveying the apartment.

  I go in the bedroom, peel off my wet clothes, and stand under the shower for five minutes. When I come out, dressed in an old warm-up suit, Dixon is on the phone. Cooper is lounging on the couch, still puffing on his cigar, thumbing through a copy of Blue Note. “Well, well,” he says. “You’re in a bit a trouble.”

  My head is dearer now. “How did you get in on this?” I ask.

  “We got an anonymous call about something going down at the Marina. Ivan and I took it. Didn’t expect to find you, though.”

  Dixon puts his hand over the phone. “You still working for Lonnie Cole?” he asks me.

  I shake my head no. Cooper looks sharply at me while Dixon continues to talk on the phone with his back to us.

  “You want to tell me what this is all about?” Cooper says. Dixon hangs up the phone and waits for my answer. I look at them both, then pull out the Miles album where I’ve hidden the pictures and hand them to Cooper.

  “You got a typewriter?” Dixon asks, glancing at the photos.

  “Over there in the bookcase,” I say. Dixon pulls it out and starts going through my records.

  “You got some good shit here,” Dixon says. “Miles, Coltrane, Oscar Peterson, Bill Evans.”

  Coop snorts and looks at the photos. “Well, lookee here,” he says. “I didn’t know these dudes were fags. Charlie Crisp? I don’t believe it.” Coop is a hard-core country fan.

  “How much do you know?” I ask.

  Coop nods at Dixon, who pulls up a chair opposite us. I light a cigarette and offer one to Dixon. He shakes his head. “We got a call from someone named Megan Charles. Says you were supposed to deliver some money, pick up some photos. The mates to those, right?” he says, nodding toward the ones Coop is studying.

  “How much?” Cooper wants to know.

  “A million cash,” Dixon says. He and Cooper exchange glances.

  Coop shakes his head and stubs out his cigar. “Well,” he says. Coop hasn’t changed much since high school. Same square jaw and stocky build that made him a solid linebacker. His eyes are harder now, and there are a few lines on his face, but otherwise, the passing years have done little to his appearance. I know Coop well, at least I did at one time. There’s no point trying to bullshit him. He probably knows it all anyway.

  I explain my part, the blackmail, the money, the drop, and my unscheduled swim in the Marina. Coop listens, never interrupts me, just puffs on his cigar. I get the feeling he’s gauging my story against what he already knows. When I finish, we’re all silent for a moment, as if none of us knows what comes next.

  “Cole’s people—Megan Charles, they’re pretty pissed,” Dixon says. He strokes his thin mustache and focuses on me. “They want to know where their money is.”

  “So do we,” Coop puts in.

  “How the hell do I know,” I say. “I went in the water, remember? I was hit from behind.”

  “So you said,” Cooper says. “What was the girl doing with you? What’s her name?”

  “Cindy. Cindy Fuller. She went with me to the drive-in.” Dixon starts writing in a notebook he pulls out of his pocket.

  “The drive-in? You went to a fucking movie before this?” Cooper asks.

  I shrug. “That was part of the deal. I had to pick up a tape there. It had further instructions, where I was supposed to go with the money.”

  Coop looks disgusted. “How clever. Just like the movies. You still got the tape?”

  “Yeah, it’s in the car. No, wait. I gave it to Cindy.” He nods to Dixon, who’s already heading for the door.

  “Horne, what the fuck are you into here? You can’t play piano anymore so you hire out as a bagman?”

  Before I can answer, Dixon comes back. “Car’s still not here. Where’s the girl live?”

  “Next door, but if the car isn’t here, neither is she.”

  “Well, fuck this,” Cooper says, getting to his feet. He walks across the room and then turns to glare at me. “I want you down at the station tomorrow morning for a full statement. You got a lot of questions to answer.” He puts the photos back in their envelope and takes them.

  I have questions of my own. Where is Cindy and why has Megan called in the police? The word setup briefly runs through my mind. Dixon and Cooper head for the door. Dixon is carrying my typewriter.

  “Where are you going with that?” I ask.

  “We’ll tell you in the morning,” Coop says. “Nine sharp.”

  Dixon gives me a quick glance. “Later,” he says,

  I wander around the apartment for a fear minutes trying to sort everything out, especially Cindy’s disappearance. We both have keys. I’m just about to check her apartment when the phone rings.

  “Evan? It’s Cindy.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at LAX. I’m leaving your car in the parking garage. You can get the ticket from the America West desk. Ask for June.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “New York. I drove out here to talk to someone and one of the girls called in sick, so I took it. I’ll be back in a few days. Evan, are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, but I know I don’t sound very convincing. I think that if a friend of mine had had an accident, I wouldn’t just drive off.

  I wake up several times during the night and finally give it up at a little after six. The lump on my he
ad has gone down considerably, but I don’t feel great. I take a couple of aspirins, make some coffee, take it outside, and look at the beach. The old couple with the metal detectors is back, combing the sand again. Good luck, guys.

  Back in the apartment I watch the morning news on the tube, but there’s no mention of anything about Lonnie Cole. Well, there wouldn’t be. Megan would have seen to that. She’s probably got it locked up tighter than Buddy Rich’s snare drum. I take another shower, try to clear the cobwebs, get dressed, and cab it to LAX. Do I add this to my list of expenses? I wonder.

  I go for my keys and parking ticket at the America West counter. “Are you June?” I ask the girl punching keys on the computer.

  “Are you Evan?” She stops typing long enough to look at me.

  “I guess I am.”

  “Where was Charlie Parker born?” June asks.

  “What?”

  “Where was Charlie Parker born? Cindy said to ask you.”

  “Kansas City.”

  “Then this is for you.” June hands me a small envelope and goes back to her typing. I wave bye to June and head for the garage. Cindy has left me directions to my car along with the parking ticket and keys. I find it without too much trouble and check around for the tape, hoping Cindy might have left it, but no luck. I hope Cindy has taken it with her. I pay the overnight fee and head down Lincoln back to Santa Monica.

  Police Headquarters is a large white building a couple of blocks from the beach. I park and go inside. A young officer with a shiny badge mans the desk.

  “Is Danny Cooper in?” I ask.

  “You mean Lieutenant Cooper?”

  “The same.”

  “Just a minute.” He goes into one of the inner offices, comes back in a minute, and nods me in. Not only are Coop and Ivan Dixon waiting but Emerson Barnes and Megan Charles have decided to join us. Emerson sits in one of the straight-backed chairs. Megan is pacing around in front of Coop. I’ve committed the cardinal sin and kept her waiting.