Short Straw

by Stuart Woods

  VITTORIO AWOKE with a jerk. The movie had ended, and there was an infomercial on, selling some sort of diet drug. The bedside clock read 2:34 a.m. He went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. Time to visit Barbara Eagle. He would get the signatures from her, hurting her if he had to, and then… He wasn't sure about then. He was still very angry with her for dumping him into the Gulf of California, but his anger had cooled a little, and he wasn't sure he was going to kill her. He'd decide later.

  He slipped into his black sneakers, pulled on a black knit shirt and a matching ski cap, grabbed his briefcase and, after switching out all the lights, except the night light in the bathroom, left the cottage, having first unlocked the door from the bedroom to the terrace.

  He switched off the porch light and stepped outside; he stood stock still, looked and listened. There was a breeze, which rustled the palms around the gardens, and a new moon, the sliver of which didn't give much light. He stayed there for perhaps five minutes, listening for footsteps and waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. The only electric light visible was from low lights along the flagstone walkways around the resort, but that was enough to allow him to be seen, should anyone, perhaps a night watchman, happen along.

  He knelt and put a hand on the grass outside his front door. Dry. The breeze had kept away the dew, so he would not leave footprints on the grass. He stepped off his front porch and walked quickly along the paved walkway for a few yards, then stepped off the walk and began moving from tree to tree, shrub to shrub. Then, from some distance away he heard the click of hard heels on pavement and a jingling sound. He stepped into the deep shadow of a cottage and waited, listening.

  The sounds grew closer, then seemed to pass. Vittorio looked around the corner of the cottage and saw a uniformed security guard ambling away into the darkness. He noted that the man was armed with a Glock in a holster on his belt and that he carried a can of pepper spray and handcuffs there, too.

  Vittorio then moved quickly. Assuming there would be no more than the one security guard, he ran lightly alongside the path, making no noise, until he came to an overlook of the sea, then made his way toward Pine Cottage.

  The cottage was dark, with only a glow from a small window that must be the bathroom. It had a night-light, like his own. He went to the window and looked through the slatted blinds into the bathroom, seeing only the floor. Empty. He walked around the cottage to the front door and found the porch light on. He ducked back into the shadows, took a pair of latex gloves from a pocket and pulled them on. That done, he checked again for security guards or guests, then walked to the front porch and unscrewed the light bulb until it went out. He put an ear to the front door and listened for a moment. No TV or music. Nothing.

  He slowly turned the front door knob, but it held firm. He could breach that, he knew, but it might make noise. Instead, he walked around the cottage to the seaward side, to the terrace off the bedroom that was a feature of every cottage at the resort. He was pleased to see that the French doors to the bedroom stood open. Apparently, Barbara liked the night air.

  A cloud drifted over the sliver of a moon, and he saw his chance. He vaulted lightly over the balustrade that separated the terrace from the gardens, then stopped and listened for a moment as he pulled the ski cap over his face. He had cut holes for his eyes.

  BARBARA HEARD A TINY scraping sound from outside her front door. She opened her eyes and listened hard. Then came a sound, perhaps a footstep, from her terrace. She lifted her head and thought she saw a black shape standing in the open door.

  VITTORIO MOVED FORWARD and stepped into the bedroom. As he did so, he heard a sharp pfffttt! sound, and felt a searing pain in his right side. He did not hesitate; he turned and ran, leaping over the terrace balustrade and running across the grass toward the next cottage, his right forearm clamped to his side. Not until he had the next cottage between himself and Barbara did he slow down and think. Much to his astonishment, he had been shot, and with a silenced weapon! He had underestimated her.

  He sprinted for his cottage, wanting desperately to reach it before she raised the alarm. He leaped onto his bedroom terrace and ducked inside, listening. Nothing, no alarm.

  He went into the bathroom and set down his briefcase, then stripped off his black knit shirt. Standing next to the night-light, which was incorporated into a shaving mirror, he looked at his side. A small groove about two inches long was bleeding freely, and there were three or four of what appeared to be pellet holes in his skin. He grabbed a handful of tissues and pressed them to the wound, while he went through his shaving kit. He found some antibiotic cream and several bottles of pills.

  He applied the cream to the wound, which was bleeding more slowly now, then he flushed the bloody tissues down the toilet, folded a clean washcloth, pressed it to the wound and clamped it there with his forearm, while he ripped off a piece of duct tape from the roll in his briefcase. He taped the washcloth in place and turned his attention to the pill bottles. Holding each up to the night-light, he found some naproxen, an anti-inflammatory and painkiller, and some amoxicillin, an antibiotic, left over from a trip to the dentist. He washed down two of the naproxen and two of the amoxicillin, then he rinsed the blood from his knit shirt and stuffed it into a laundry bag from his dressing room. He got out of his clothes into some pajamas and into bed, still breathing hard.

  When they came to his cabin, he wanted to be calm and free of sweat.

  Barbara sat in a chair for a long time, holding the pistol and thinking. Who was the intruder? Her first thought was of Vittorio, but that was impossible, since he had no idea where she was. She dismissed Cupie as a possibility; it just wasn't his style. Finally, she concluded that she had fired at a would-be burglar or rapist who, now that he knew she was armed, would not be back.

  She thought of alerting the management, but that would only result in a visit from the police, and she did not wish to explain herself and her pistol to them. Finally, calmer, she went back to bed and got some sleep, the pistol in her hand.

  Fifty

  VITTORIO JERKED AWAKE; THERE WAS SOMEBODY AT HIS front door. He turned and looked at his bedside clock: nine o'clock. He got out of bed, wincing at the pain in his side, and went to the door. Birgit stood there, smiling, her folding table slung over one shoulder, her huge handbag over the other.

  "Good morning," she said. "We have a nine o'clock appointment. Am I waking you?"

  "Yes, I overslept. Please come in and get set up. I'll be right with you." He went into the bathroom and swallowed two naproxen and an amoxicillin, then brushed his teeth and went back into the bedroom.

  Birgit patted the table. "Up," she said.

  Vittorio stripped off his pajamas and started to get onto the table.

  "Wait," she commanded. "What is this?" She took hold of a corner of the duct tape and ripped it off.

  Vittorio gritted his teeth but managed not to scream. "Just a nick," he said through gritted teeth.

  "Lie down," she ordered. "On your back." She was already digging into her big handbag. "What kind of wound is this?" she asked. "I've not seen anything like."

  "You've seen a lot of wounds?" he asked, avoiding a straight answer.

  "I am trained as a nurse," she said. "You need sewing."

  "I don't have the time to go to a doctor," he replied. "You can put another bandage on, if you have one."

  "I have one; I also have the needle. What I don't have is the local anesthetic. Can you stand some pain?"

  He started to tell her that he was Apache, but he didn't want to explain. "Yes," he said.

  She went into the bathroom and came back with two facecloths, then dug a bottle of peroxide out of her bag, held one cloth below the wound and poured the foaming liquid on the flesh, catching the excess with the cloth. Then she produced a small, plastic box, a curved needle, forceps and thread. "Don't worry, is sterile," she said.

  "I believe you."

  She folded the second facecloth and
held it to his lips. "Bite," she said.

  He bit down on the cotton terry, and she went to work. When she was done she took some long, slender tweezers from her kit.

  "Now I must dig," she said.

  He nodded, and bit down again for what seemed an interminable time.

  "Good," she said, finally holding out her hand to show him four tiny pellets. "What is this?"

  Vittorio shrugged and took the facecloth out of his mouth. "Don't know."

  She looked at him skeptically, then she bathed the area in more peroxide and bandaged it. "Now you need antibiotic," she said. "I don't have."

  "I've already taken antibiotics," he replied.

  "Okay," she said, "on your belly."

  Vittorio turned over gingerly, but the naproxen was working now, and there wasn't much pain.

  Birgit began working on his neck and shoulders. "You are tense from my medicine," she said.

  "Can you blame me?" he asked. "Next time get some lidocaine for your kit."

  "Good idea," she said, "but I don't do many gunshot wounds since I worked in emergency room in Stockholm. Not many then, either."

  Vittorio said nothing.

  She continued her work. "I am wondering how you got gunshot wound since last night," she said.

  "Let's just say there was an intruder," he replied, "and let it go at that."

  "You want police?"

  "I appreciate your concern, but no, thank you."

  "Okay," she said.

  WHEN SHE WAS FINISHED she helped him sit up and checked the bandage. "No bleeding," she said. "I will give you extra bandages; you must change every day and put on peroxide."

  "Thank you," he said.

  The cell phone on her belt rang, and she answered it and listened for a moment. "Yes, thank you," she said, and closed the phone. "Did you see your friend Barbara?" she asked.

  "No, we didn't cross paths."

  "Too bad," she said. "She just cancel her ten-thirty appointment. Checked out."

  "Shit!" Vittorio said.

  "I think you are following her," Birgit said. "I think you are private eye."

  "You've been seeing too much film noir," he replied, standing up and stretching gingerly.

  "You are not getting gunshot wound from movies," she replied. "You want me to find out where Barbara Woodfield goes?"

  "Can you do that?"

  "Bell captain would know. He wants to fuck me pretty bad; he will tell me anything."

  "Well, yes, I would like to know, but I wouldn't want you to fuck him on my behalf."

  "Don't worry; I pick out who I fuck," she said, folding her table and packing her bag. "You would be good for this, I think."

  "Well," he said, "you're not going to get an argument from me."

  "Not now, though; when you recover from gunshot wound." She took out a card and wrote something on the back. "Cell number," she said, handing it to him. "I bet your name is not Victor Whatsit," she said.

  "No."

  "What is your name?"

  "Vittorio."

  "Just the one?"

  "Just the one."

  "I will go talk to bell captain. You checking out, too?"

  "Just as soon as I can get dressed," he replied.

  "I will come back soon," she said. "You wait."

  "I'll wait," he said, heading for the shower.

  VITTORIO was packing his bag when Birgit came back. "Any luck?"

  "Much luck," she said. "Ms. Barbara asks him for nice, quiet apartment hotel in Beverly Hills somewhere. He books for her at Chateau Sunset." She handed him a slip of paper. "Here is address."

  Vittorio took her face in his hands and kissed her gently. "You are a good guy," he said.

  "You think I am a guy?" she laughed, taking his hand and placing it on her breast.

  "A figure of speech," he said. "Do you ever travel?"

  "When I feel like it," she replied. "You need your bandage changed, you call me, Vittorio."

  He gave her his card with the cell number. "In case you can't wait," he said.

  She laughed loudly. "Maybe you must change your own bandage!"

  Vittorio grabbed his bags and headed for the front desk. He checked out, paid in cash and called for his car. When the car arrived the bellman put his bags in the trunk, and he drove away. Shortly, he pulled over, went to the trunk, got out his Walther.380 and slipped the holster onto his belt. He would not again approach Barbara Eagle Woodfield unarmed.

  Shortly, he was headed for Los Angeles in his rented Jaguar.

  Fifty-one

  ED EAGLE WAS AT HIS DESK WHEN THE CALL CAME.

  "Vittorio for you on line one."

  Eagle pressed the button. "Ed Eagle."

  "Mr. Eagle, I've found Barbara."

  "Was she at La Reserve?"

  "Yes, but she checked out this morning."

  "Why didn't you get the signatures before that?"

  "I visited her cottage last night and got shot for my trouble."

  "Are you badly hurt, Vittorio?"

  "No. I had some stitches, but it's superficial."

  "Where is she now?"

  "She's on her way to L.A. The concierge at La Reserve booked her into an apartment hotel called Chateau Sunset."

  "I know the place; it's the kind of hotel where people who've been thrown out of their houses during divorces go to live termporarily. It's expensive, but not as much as the Beverly Hills or the Bel-Air."

  "She's still got whatever traveler's checks she hasn't spent."

  "I can't imagine that would last her long, if she's living in places like Chateau Sunset."

  "I guess not. I'm on the road, about two hours behind her."

  "I'm coming to L.A.," Eagle said.

  "I don't think that will be necessary," Vittorio replied.

  "I'm coming anyway. You confirm that she's checked in at Chateau Sunset, then find yourself a room. Meet me in the bar at the Bel-Air at seven o'clock."

  "As you wish," Vittorio said. "What's your plan?"

  "I don't have one yet, but I will by seven o'clock."

  "I'll see you at the Bel-Air, then."

  Eagle hung up. He might not have a plan yet, but he was sure of one thing: Barbara did.

  VITTORIO CALLED A SUITE HOTEL, Le Parc, and booked himself in. It would be half the price of Chateau Sunset and a better place for Barbara, he reflected. He drove straight to the hotel, off Melrose in West Hollywood, and checked in, then he called Chateau Sunset.

  "Chateau Sunset," the operator said.

  "May I speak to Barbara Woodfield?" he asked.

  "Just a moment… She hasn't checked in yet, but we're expecting her. Can I take a message?"

  "This is the concierge at La Reserve, in La Jolla. Please tell her that we called just to see if everything was all right. There's no need for her to return the call."

  "I'll see that she gets the message on check-in," the woman said.

  Vittorio hung up, satisfied that Chateau Sunset was where she was headed. He changed the dressing on his wound, then lay down for a nap.

  BARBARA EAGLE WOODFIELD checked in at Chateau Sunset a few minutes later.

  "There's a message for you," the desk clerk said, gazing at his computer screen.

  "A message?" she asked, alarmed. Nobody knew she was here.

  "The concierge at La Reserve in La Jolla called to be sure everything is all right. No need for you to return the call."

  Barbara heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank you.".

  A bellman wearing a pin-striped suit led her to a corner suite overlooking the pool in the courtyard behind the hotel, got her some ice and accepted her tip.

  Barbara had a look around and approved. She unpacked and ran a bath, then called the concierge.

  "Yes, Ms. Woodfield?"

  "I'd like a massage in my room in an hour. Can you arrange that?"

  "Of course. Would you prefer a male or female, and what technique?"

  "Female, Swedish."

  "It will be done, Ms. Woodfield."<
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  Barbara hung up and walked into the bathroom, then stopped. She was feeling randy, and she wanted male company. She went back into the bedroom and got her address book from her purse, then called a number.

  "Hello?"

  "Hi, there. How are you?"

  "Who's this?"

  "Don't you recognize the voice?"

  "Of course, I do. How are you, Barbara?"

  "Very well, thank you."

  "Last I heard, you were married and living in Santa Fe."

  "Both of those are over. You free for dinner?"

  "Sure. Where are you staying? I'll pick you up."

  "I'll be out and about. Why don't we meet somewhere?"

  "You name it."

  "How about the bar at the Bel-Air, at seven-thirty? We could dine there, too."

  "See you then."

  "Oh, I'm a blonde, now."

  "I can't wait to see that."

  "Bye-bye."

  EAGLE CALLED SUSANNAH.

  "Hello?"

  "Good morning. How are you?"

  "I'm just dandy, thanks."

  "I have to go to L.A. overnight, maybe two. Want to come with me?"

  "Funny you should mention that; there are some things I want from my apartment there. How are we traveling?"

  "In my airplane. If they're small things, no problem."

  "Great. I'd invite you to stay at my place, but it's being redecorated and will be a mess."

  "I'll book us in at the Bel-Air. Pick you up at, say, noon?"

  "Fine. Shall I make us a sandwich?"

  "Good idea. See you then." Eagle hung up and buzzed Betty.

  "I have to go to L.A. for a day or two. Cancel all my appointments for tomorrow and the next day."

  "All right. There's nothing pressing."

  "And please call the Bel-Air and book me into my usual suite for two nights, then call the rental car people and get me something nice, delivered to Supermarine at Santa Monica airport at three-thirty P.M."

  "Will do."

  Eagle went home and packed a bag. He gave some thought as to whether to take a weapon, but he didn't have a California carry license, so he put it out of his mind. He called the airport and asked that his airplane be pulled out of his hangar and refueled, then he went to his computer and his flight-planning software. He constructed a plan, then called for a weather forecast and filed the flight plan.