The Comedy is Finished

by Donald E. Westlake

  While the car continues to jounce along Koo tugs and pokes, his fingers losing their sensitivity from hitting too hard too often against unyielding metal. And that sharp thing—What is that? The lip of something, he can’t quite figure it out—Goddamn it, the thing moves! It’s a lever or something, the only part of the whole gizmo that moves, and the only way to make it move is to push directly against the sharp cutting lip with the ball of the thumb—no, with the flat part of the thumbnail—and there’s no way to tell while he’s cutting himself to pieces here if he’s even doing any good, pushing this sharp lever bit by bit to the right. It won’t stay where he pushes it, but springs right back every time he lets go. Okay; goodbye, thumbnail. Gritting his teeth, pressing with the heel of his other hand against the ball of his braced thumb, Koo puuuuuuuusssssshhhhhheeeesss.

  Snap!

  Light, daylight, the trunklid lifts an inch, two inches—

  It stops. Koo, now squinting against the unexpected daylight, sees the metal finger hooked against just one of the two metal bars. So that’s the way it works. He can see it now, a safety mechanism, it locks at one level and then at another level, it—

  The car hits a bump. The lid snaps down. Darkness.

  “Oh, shit!” The fucker’s locked itself again!

  Koo pauses to regroup, his cut thumb in his mouth, sucking thoughtfully. The car stops briefly, then starts again. Jounce jounce.

  Okay. It opened once, it’ll open again. This time, Koo can hold it up in the safety-lock position by wedging his knees against the lid, giving him light to examine the lock more closely. Then, the next time the car comes to a stop, he’ll spring the second lock and get the hell out of here.

  Jesus, is it possible? Home again, I’m going home again. I’ll call Jill, she can spend the whole night. I don’t care if I get it up or not. Just to see a friendly face, sleep nestled on a soft tit, wake up safe and happy in a bed full of warm and willing woman. Oh, boy. Oh, boy.

  Gingerly, he reaches out to the lock again, presses, moves the sharp-edged lever to the right, farther, farther, farther...

  Snap. Light, the slit widening, narrowing, widening, the car jouncing on rough pavement, Koo pushing up with his knees, in a desperate hurry because the slit is closing again, the lid is slamming down, it whacks his right kneecap, he pushes up, digs his heel in against the bottom of the trunk—and the lid stays up.

  Now. Just stop, fellas. Just a brief little halt for a traffic light or a pedestrian crossing or a red stop sign or any damn thing you want. Just pause, and old Koo will be out of this trunk like Venus out of the sea, like toothpaste out of the tube, like the human cannonball—

  Slowing. The car is slowing. “Ohhhhhh, Jesus,” Koo whispers. “Oh, I’m scared.”

  Nothing to be afraid of. When the car stops, he’ll be up and out, into the nearest house or store depending on neighborhood, or maybe into the next car back. Something like that. The point is, he has a known face, people will recognize him, they’ll know him and help him. All Koo has to do is get out of the car fast, and everything will be all right.

  “Feet, don’t fail me now.” Oh, shit, what if he’s too scared to move? What if his legs give out?

  Well, it won’t happen, that’s all.

  Slowing, slowing. Will you stop?

  Yes. The car stops.

  “Oh, boy. Oh, boy.” Teeth chattering, gibbering words without knowing it, Koo claws at the lock, forces himself to lower his knees so the lid descends, descends, just enough so he can shove that metal finger back. Snap, it flips away, the trunk lid yawns upward and Koo, eyes staring, mouth strained wide open, lunges up onto his elbows, kicks his feet over the rim of the trunk, shoves himself up, slips, falls back, shoves up again, lunges, gasps, groans, grabs the rear bumper and pulls himself out of the trunk; losing his balance, toppling forward onto blacktop.

  Up. Up. Koo rises, staring around for houses, cars, people, rescue, civilization, assistance, succor, aid, help—

  Nothing. Where in holy hell is this?

  It’s a fucking desert. Scrubland on all sides, no houses, no traffic, just this intersection with the stop sign. And the other sign: Mulholland Drive.

  Oh, no. Mulholland Drive, that’s the road running east and west along the ridge line of the hills, with Los Angeles to the south and the Valley to the north. Some parts of Mulholland, particularly the eastern end near Hollywood, are as built up as any residential section anywhere, but much of the Drive is virtually unpopulated and parts of it are still dirt, not even paved.

  What a fucking asshole way to build a major city, with a deserted mountaintop desert right smack in the middle of it! Peter and his pals, to be absolutely safe, have been taking back roads toward where their destination is, and that’s why there’s been so much jouncing. And here they come, boiling out of the car, all four doors flaring open. They have seen the trunk lid in the rearview mirror.

  Terrified, Koo looks around in all directions. The road they’ve just come up angles away steeply downhill through pines and shrubbery back toward the Valley. To left and right Mulholland Drive meanders along the ridge-line; way to hell and gone that way, east, he can see a couple of houses, but he’d never get that far. He can’t outrun these people.

  Hide; it’s the only chance. While the gang is still clambering out of the car, Koo makes his dash, across the road and out over dusty tan earth, low shrubbery, stunted low trees, then a steep stony slope, his feet scrabbling for purchase, dust rising, half the goddamn San Fernando Valley visible out there far below, and nobody to help. Voices shout behind him, he clutches at the rough trunks and branches of stunted pine trees, not quite falling, tottering, careening and blundering down the hill, directly into a tangled mass of prickly shrubs, knee-high, waist-high, covered with thorns, all too thick to force his way through, so that he wades at an angle to the left, stumbles into a tiny rain-formed gully making a deep narrow wedge-shaped cut into the shrubbery, drops to hands and knees, crawls down the gully under the thorny branches, deeper into the brush, finally turning, gasping, staring, peering out past branches and leaves and thorns, his mouth dry with dust and fear, the dust-stained sweat pouring down his face as he stops, and waits, and listens:

  “He came this way!”

  “He’s hiding someplace! In the bushes!”

  “He can’t get far! He can’t get away!”

  “Circle to the left!”

  “Koo! Koo!” That’s Peter’s voice, uncomfortably close. “Don’t make it tougher on yourself, Koo, we’re going to find you anyway! Don’t waste our time, Koo!”

  Screw you, Mac. Koo knows it’s no good, his luck is rotten, he isn’t going to get away, but he’s damned if he’ll make it easy for them. “Do your own work,” he mutters, and closes his eyes, and waits with his face turned away.

  “Here he is!” Larry’s voice, the son of a bitch. “I see his legs.”

  “Come out of there, you old bastard!” That’s Peter, sounding shrill and angry. “Larry, Mark, drag him out of there!”

  Hands grab at his ankles, tugging at him, and he says, “All right, all right, I’ll come out.” But they won’t let him do it himself; they insist on dragging him out, back bumping on the stones, branches and thorns picking at the arms he holds protectively over his face.

  They’re all clustered there, panting, on the steep slope. Larry and Mark pick Koo up, get him on his feet, and angry-faced Peter comes over, glares briefly, then deliberately punches Koo hard on the left cheek. Koo staggers, and would fall backward into the bushes if Larry weren’t still holding his arm. “Peter!” Larry cries, reproach in his voice. “You don’t have to do that!”

  “I’m sick of this old man,” Peter says, and comes close to Koo again, glowering into Koo’s eyes, saying, “Don’t try anything else. I’m not feeling patient today.”

  “You’re a nasty son of a bitch,” Koo tells him. His mouth is too dry with dust and fear, or he’d spit in the bastard’s lousy face.

  And Peter knows it; look a
t him withdraw a pace, a fake superior smile on his lips. “That’s right, Koo,” he says. “I am a nasty son of a bitch. You remember that, and watch your step.” To the others he says, “Bring him back to the car,” and turns away.

  20

  Mike walked into the underground room where Jock Cayzer stood with hands on hips, cowboy hat pushed back from his forehead, disgusted expression on his large face. “Flown,” he said. “But he was here, all right.”

  “That’s what they said upstairs.”

  Jock sniffed. “You can smell how sick he was.”

  Mike could, but he’d rather not. “Who ran the check on this place?”

  “One of your boys, I’m happy to say. Dave Kerman.” Jock’s smile was sympathetic, not malicious. “According to him, he did enter that utility room out there, and this door was hidden behind a stack of wine cartons. You can see them in that corner there, all tossed behind the water heater.”

  “We haven’t been running in luck.”

  “The worst of it is, I should think our man’s visit is what spooked them. But there is one hopeful item.”

  “Tell me quick.”

  “They didn’t plan to move. This was their base, but now they’re scrambling, improvising, it’ll be easier for them to make mistakes and attract attention.”

  “And harder to keep Koo Davis alive.”

  “Ah, Mike, take comfort where you can.”

  “There’s no comfort until we’ve got him back,” Mike said. “Do you realize he was in this room less than an hour ago?”

  “I do.”

  “And he told us!” Moving toward the window, gesturing at it, he quoted, “Inside the whale.”

  “I’ve been remembering that statement myself,” Jock said.

  Mike stood at the window, gazing through his own faint reflection at the heavy wobbling oily translucent water; it seemed a less friendly element from this vantage. He wished he’d had time for another drink at the club, or that he’d taken a snort from the pint in the glove compartment. He would when he left here.

  This thing was taking too long. It would be better if the bastards killed him. Let Davis be found murdered and the heat wouldn’t be so heavy on Mike Wiskiel anymore. Everybody would agree he’d done his best, and the incident with the transmitter would merely have been an example of over-eagerness. He could still come out of it clean, he could still have that shot at getting back to D.C.

  Or, if the sons of bitches weren’t going to kill Davis, then Mike and Jock and everybody else better get on their horses and find the guy, while there was still some glory left to reap.

  Turning away from the window, Mike said, “Do we know whose house this is?”

  “Some musician named Ginger Merville. He’s away in Europe, we’re trying now to get in touch with him. The house is for rent.”

  “Something wrong there,” Mike said.

  “Yes, there is,” Jock said gravely. “It’s been sticking in my own craw, I must admit. But I don’t quite see what it is.”

  “Was this house supposed to be empty? Would they all hide in here if the realtor brought around a prospective tenant? And wouldn’t the realtor know about this room, even make a point of showing it?”

  “Those are all good questions,” Jock said.

  “I’ll talk to the realtor,” Mike decided. “Do you have the name?”

  “Calvin Freiberg. He’s got an office on Ventura Boulevard in Tarzana.”

  “I’ll go see him now, on my way to the TV studio. You’ll run things here?”

  “Your people and mine are upstairs now,” Jock said, “poking and prying.”

  “Good luck to them. Where’s Dave Kerman?”

  “He went back to the office, he said to beat his head against the wall.” Jock’s ruefully sympathetic smile appeared again. “He says he now believes the woman who showed him through the house is the one we have in the sketch.”

  “No shit.” Mike shook his head. “When Dave gets done beating his head against the wall, I’ll beat his head against the wall. See you later.”

  “Happy hunting,” Jock said.

  “Calvin Freiberg?”

  The realtor, a narrow bald man whose polyester leisure suit, huge sunglasses and deep regular tan all looked like the parts of some masquerade costume, rose from his desk to blink mildly at Mike and say, “Yes?”

  “FBI, Mr. Freiberg.” Mike held open his ID. “My name is Michael Wiskiel.”

  “Oh, my goodness, I’ve seen you on television. Sit down, sit down.”

  This paneled and vinyled office was actually a small storefront on Ventura Boulevard, its street wall a sheet of yellow-tinted glass, its interior neat, cheap and impersonal. There were three desks spaced around on the functional tan carpet, but Freiberg was the only one actually present. Taking the client’s chair as Freiberg re-seated himself behind his desk, Mike said, “You handle the rental on a house in Woodland Hills owned by a musician named Ginger Merville.”

  “That’s right!” Freiberg seemed surprised to hear this information. “That’s right, I do.”

  “I’ve just come from there, Mr. Freiberg, and until an hour ago that was where the kidnappers were hiding out with Koo Davis.”

  “Kid—! Koo—! Oh, my God!”

  Such astonishment could not be faked. Mike watched the flush glow pink through that artificial tan, watched Freiberg sit there open-mouthed and blinking, and waited for the man to recover himself. Finally Freiberg swallowed, shook his head, and said, “That’s incredible. My God, it’s lucky I didn’t try to show the place with those people in it.”

  “Was that luck?” Mike said. “I mean, was the house available for rent or not?”

  “Well, yes and no.” The realtor frowned, as though he’d confused himself with that answer, then said, “I take it you know who Ginger Merville is.”

  “A musician.”

  “A rock star,” Freiberg said, then corrected himself again: “Well, not a star, precisely. A sideman with stars, I suppose you’d say. In any event, he has a good deal of money, and he travels a great deal, so from time to time we rent his house for him. If he’s going to be away for an extended period.” Turning to a nearby filing cabinet, he fingered rapidly through the three-by-five cards, withdrew one, and handed it to Mike. “That’s the record of our rentals over the last several years.”

  Mike glanced at the card without much interest, and said, “Why isn’t it rented this time?”

  “He wanted too much money.” Freiberg pointed at the card in Mike’s hand, saying, “You see the prices there, gradually going up. A thousand a month, twelve hundred, fourteen hundred. At the moment, we could surely get fifteen or sixteen for the place; perhaps a bit more if we were willing to wait. Ginger for reasons best known to himself, insisted we market the property at three thousand a month!”

  “Ah,” said Mike. “Did he give a reason?”

  That Freiberg’s professional advice had been ignored had obviously left in the man a residue of resentment, so that a kind of petulant irony came into his voice as he passed on Merville’s reasoning: “Well, he would only be gone two months, and he found sub-tenants more trouble than they were worth anyway, and really he’d prefer the place empty if he couldn’t get his price. I told him it was hopeless, but he wouldn’t take my advice, and the result is, the house is technically for rent, but we haven’t seen any point in showing it. I mean, three thousand a month. There isn’t even a tennis court. And it’s still the Valley, it isn’t Brentwood or Beverly Hills.”

  “How long would the place be available?”

  “Till the end of next month.”

  “So by this time you probably wouldn’t show it anyway, at any price.”

  “Weekly rentals.” Delicately the realtor shivered. “Not a good type of tenant, usually. Not careful, as a general rule.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Freiberg,” Mike said. “Thank you very much.”

  Metromedia, Channel 11, in addition to air-time, was providing the FBI with office spa
ce in its Sunset Boulevard studio, and even a receptionist. On arrival, Mike identified himself to this girl and said, “Is Mr. St. Clair here yet?”

  “Is he the gentleman expected from Washington? No, sir, not yet. We received a call about an hour ago that he’d landed at March Air Force Base in Riverside. He’ll be traveling by helicopter to Burbank Airport, and then a car will bring him here, so he should be arriving any time now.”

  “Fine.”

  “Agent Kerman is in that office there, sir. He asked me to let you know about him when you came in. He’s on the phone with St. Louis.”

  “Dave Kerman?” Frowning, Mike crossed to the office she’d indicated. What was Dave Kerman doing here? When last heard from, according to Jock Cayzer, Dave Kerman had been in Burbank, beating his head against the office wall next to the sketch of the woman he hadn’t recognized. Secondly, and even more bewilderingly, what was he doing on the phone to St. Louis?

  Waiting. When Mike entered the office—smallish, square, neatly but anonymously furnished, with windows overlooking the buzz of traffic on the Hollywood Freeway, half-screened by trees and shrubbery—Dave Kerman was seated at the desk with a telephone receiver hooked between ear and shoulder, and with the semi-doped facial expression of a person who’s been on hold for a long long time. He grabbed the receiver away from his ear and hopped to his feet at Mike’s entrance, his manner showing a combination of pleasure and embarrassment. “Mike! Hello!”

  “What’s happened, Dave?”

  Kerman became sober, apologetic. “I’m really sorry about the fuck-up, you know. I could kick myself.”

  “I’ve seen the house, Dave. Nobody could have guessed that room was there.” If you want the troops on your side, you’ve got to be on their side; even if you’d love to kick their ass.