by Bill Moody
“I don’t see that I have much choice. I told you, Andie, I want this over.”
She looks away. “I know, I know. There are just so many ifs. Gillian has to call again, she has to agree, and I don’t know how we’d handle it.”
“What do you mean? Handle it?” I reach for my cigarettes. “Come outside with me.”
I go out on the patio. Andie joins me and brings another beer. I lean on the railing, feel Andie brush against me as she hands me a bottle.
“I mean we can’t just let you go off alone. Gillian’s too unpredictable. She’d spot surveillance a mile away. She’s too smart. We wouldn’t have any control.”
I take a deep drag of my cigarette and look out toward the pool. “We’ll just have to figure something out, won’t we?”
“What have you figured out about Natalie?”
I turn and look at her. “Wow, that’s quite a segue.”
“Sorry, it’s just on my mind. If you don’t want to talk about it—”
“No, it’s okay. We met last night, kind of a showdown. She thinks we need some time away from each other.”
“And what do you think?” Andie moves away, not closer.
“I think she’s right.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
Before I can answer, we both hear a muffled phone ring. “That’s mine.” I go back inside, take my phone out of my coat, and press the call button. Andie turns off the stereo and stands in the middle of the room.
It’s Charlie Parker with strings this time, “Embraceable You.” I nod at Andie and sit down on the couch. Andie sits close, at my left. I can feel the warmth of her leg on mine.
“Hello, lover,” Gillian’s low, languid voice says. “Have you been busy on this rainy day?”
“Very.”
“Tell me.” The volume of Bird’s horn drops down. I hold the phone slightly away from my head, and Andie leans in closer so she can hear.
“I’m back from San Francisco, and I’ve got your brother’s horn.”
I press the phone hard to my head. For several moments there’s nothing but Charlie Parker’s dizzying run of the changes. Then a click—Gillian’s lighter—and the sound of exhaling.
“What about Greg?” she asks. There’s no playfulness in her tone now. Andie pulls at my arm, signals me to tilt the phone so she can hear.
“I saw the police in San Francisco, Inspector Parello. There was nothing more from them than what he told you.” Gillian is quiet again for a moment. “I thought you might want the horn.”
“Let me guess. We meet someplace crawling with FBI, I’m captured, you’re a hero.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that. I don’t want to be a hero, Gillian. You can call me at the last minute, name the place. There won’t be time for them to get there.”
Andie’s eyes widen. She’s shaking her head no.
“How do I know you’ll do that?”
“You’ll have to trust me.”
Andie is gripping my arm hard, her fingers digging in. The volume comes up again as the strings struggle to keep up with Bird.
“I’ll call you,” Gillian says. “You won’t know when, but be ready.”
She hangs up. I set the phone down, pry Andie’s fingers off my arm, and lean back on the couch. She gets up and begins pacing around the room. Suddenly she stops, looks at me.
“Okay, this is how it can work. One car, maybe two at most, far enough back from you but close enough so we can move in.” I get up and walk back out on to the patio, light a cigarette. Andie follows me. “That’s the way it’s going to have to be, Evan.”
I turn around, lean against the rail. “Whatever you say, but I have to get that horn now. There won’t be time later. You heard her. She could call anytime.”
“Yes, the horn.” The rush comes over her, colors her face. “All right, we’ll go now.”
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“There was another call, in San Francisco.” Andie stands staring at me. “While you were talking to Greg.”
“Yes?”
“I didn’t tell you then. It was mostly about you and me, kind of a playing-with-my-mind call.”
Andie nods. “That’s what the conversation on the plane was about, wasn’t it? All those questions about why I was assigned to you.”
“Yes.”
“She got to you, didn’t she?”
“Does it change anything?”
“No, I would still have had the same answers.”
I turn back toward the pool, feel Andie reaching out. “Are you going to stay tonight?”
“I don’t know. Let’s get the horn. Where is Greg?”
She hesitates just for a second. “Rollins is with him. Not far from here.”
We go in my car to a motel on Santa Monica Boulevard near the Mormon Temple.
“Wait here,” Andie says, getting out of the car. I watch her walk across the parking lot, glance around, then stop in front of one of the first-floor doors.
I can just make out Rollins, standing in the, shaft of light coming from inside. He takes the chain off the door, opens it, and Andie goes inside. She comes out a few minutes later, carrying the horn case. Rollins watches her walk to my car, then shuts the door. Andie gets in, shoves the case in the backseat.
“Let’s go,” she says.
I pull out and head back for her place. “How’s Greg?”
“He was asleep. Rollins is the problem. He wanted to know what’s going on.”
“Did you tell him?”
“I said we’d meet tomorrow.”
I glance at Andie. She’s staring straight ahead. When I pull in her parking lot, I don’t shut off the engine.
“You’re not coming up?”
“Not tonight.”
She nods, then leans across and kisses me lightly on the lips, touches the back of my neck. She gets out of the car and walks toward her apartment. She turns and looks back once, smiles.
I sit for a moment, knowing all I have to do is turn off the engine and go upstairs. I won’t even have to knock. Her door will be unlocked, at least for a while.
I’m halfway home, stopped at a red light, when Gillian calls.
“Where are you?” There’s no music, just Gillian’s voice.
“Wilshire and Lincoln in Santa Monica.”
“Turn on 7th and go down into Santa Monica Canyon. When you get to the beach, park in the lot across the highway and wait.”
The light changes to green. I cross the intersection and pull to the curb. “What then?”
“I’ll call you. It better be just you and me, lover.” Then she hangs up.
I turn north on 7th, cross San Vicente, and wind down into the canyon with one eye on the rearview mirror. At the Pacific Coast Highway, I turn right, pull into a beach lot, and park close to the sand. I turn off the engine, roll down the window, light a cigarette, and wait. The surf seems louder in the darkness
There are two other cars, lots of space between them. Probably high school kids. In the rearview mirror the PCH traffic rushes by, but no cars turn in the lot or even slow at the entrance.
Maybe she’s not coming; maybe this is a test to see if it’s a trap. There’s no figuring Gillian Payne at this point.
I flip my cigarette out the window and jump when the phone rings.
“Santa Monica Pier,” Gillian says. “Walk to the end of the pier and just keep looking out over the water. Don’t turn around.”
“Wait I—”
“Just do it. You have fifteen minutes.” I drop the phone and start the engine and roar out of the lot, turning south on PCH.
Fifteen minutes. No time to get anybody in place, not Andie, the police, just me. I weave in and out of lanes, pushing it all the way. At the California Incline, there’s a long light. I hesitate for a moment, then grab the phone and punch in some numbers. It’s four rings before I hear a voice.
“Coop. Santa Monica Pier right now. She’s coming.” I break th
e connection and shoot up the incline onto Ocean Avenue. I turn onto the pier, nose down the steep hill, past the carousel as far down as I can go, and park.
There’s a couple of restaurants open but few people. I grab the horn case, jump out of the car, and walk to the end of the pier, studying faces. At the end I look around once more, set the case down beside me on its end, and lean on the railing.
I can hear the water lapping against the pilings and smell the ocean, and I wonder if Coop can get here fast enough. Cupping my hands around the flame, I light a cigarette and wait, straining to hear footsteps behind me, but there’s nothing but the distant hum of traffic.
“Don’t turn around; I don’t want to hurt you, Evan.” Her voice is even lower than on the phone and right on time.
“Gillian?” My voice is lost in the air.
“Slide down the railing to your left.”
I move over several feet, sense her behind me. I grip the railing with both hands. If I have to, I’m going over, into that cold black water.
Gillian drags the case back. One hand busy. What’s in her other one? A gun? The knife she used to kill four people? Where is Coop?
I hear the snap of the case pop as she opens it. I picture her kneeling, looking inside. Then the case slams shut, the catches going home, the case being dragged away. Come on, Coop, where are you? Have to keep her here.
“Thank you, Evan.”
“Wait. There’s more, Gillian.”
“More? What do you mean?”
I want to turn around, see her face. “Your brother is alive. I’ve talked to him, seen him.”
Gillian laughs, like she did on the phone. “I expected more of you, Evan. Please don’t tell me I’m surrounded, or the police are on the way.”
“It’s true. I’ve talked to Greg. We brought him to L.A.”
“You’re lying. Did they tell you to say that?”
“No, it’s true. He told me everything, about your father, the record collection.” I wait a moment but there’s no reaction. “He faked his suicide, Gillian. To get away from you.”
“No, that’s not possible.” Her voice breaks slightly.
“You pushed him too far, Gillian. He had to get away from you. He can’t play that horn now. I heard him.”
“You bastard.” She spits out the words. I can feel her coming closer. I grip the railing tighter, brace myself to spring over.
“Hold it right there.” Another voice, quiet, hard. Coop, somewhere behind Gillian. “Don’t move.”
I spin around then, but too quickly. Just a glimpse of Gillian from behind, a blur in a light raincoat, long, dark hair. She swings at Coop, crouched behind her, his gun in both hands. Something gleams and flashes in the light as she slashes at Coop’s arm. He falls back, trips over the horn case.
Gillian turns, briefly glances at me, then she’s running up the pier. I go over to Coop. He’s up on one knee, holding his arm, the blood seeping through his fingers, dripping on the pavement.
“Fucking bitch cut me,” he says. He tries to stand up but doesn’t make it. “They’ll get her.”
I look up toward the other end of the pier, see two black—and—whites, red lights flashing, blocking the street at the top of the steep incline at the pier’s entrance.
I kneel down beside Coop. Blood pumping out of his shoulder. I rip off my jacket, wrap it around his arm, near the shoulder. Even in the dim light I can see his face drain of color as he slips into shock I dig my phone out and press 911.
“The end of Santa Monica Pier,” I shout into the phone. “I need an ambulance, tell the cars at the top of the pier. Hurry.”
My coat is soaked with Coop’s blood. I sit with him, talking, cradling him. “C’mon, man, hang on.” It’s only minutes, but it seems like forever before I hear sirens, see the ambulance. Two paramedics pry me away from Coop and get him on a stretcher.
Before I jump in the ambulance, one of the uniform cops sees the blood on me, asks if I’m okay.
“What about the woman?”
“What woman? We didn’t see anybody.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Bad things happen at hospitals. They’ve always made me uncomfortable, even as a visitor. With my accident and therapy, I’ve had my fill of the cloying smell of antiseptic, the casual attitude of the nurses and doctors, the haunted eyes of patients awaiting their fate, and the grim faces of friends and relatives waiting for news.
Now I’m one of those grim faces, sweating it out for Coop, jumping up every time the ER door opens, wondering if there’s time to go outside for a smoke, waiting for the first news. When the doctor finally comes out, I study his expression for some sign that this time it’s okay.
Despite the deep slash and loss of blood, he assures me that Coop will be okay. My jacket stopped more blood loss.
“What was that, a scalpel?” he wants to know. “Jesus, that was deep.” He stands, looking over my shoulder as someone is rolled by, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, impatient to go on to the next disaster, and looking far too young to be a doctor. His greens, the stethoscope around his neck, and his tired eyes are his credentials.
“I don’t know what it was. You’re sure he’s okay?”
“Sliced a bit of the muscle. He’s weak, but okay,” he says, in that maddening matter-of-fact tone. “I’ve seen worse. Give us a few minutes to get him in a room, and you can see him.”
“Thanks, thanks a lot.”
“Sure,” he calls over his shoulder.
I dial Andie from a pay phone, but before it rings twice, she, Ted Rollins, and Wendell Cook spill out of the elevator. Rollins is in the lead, flashing his badge at the two uniformed cops, demanding an explanation. He glances at me, doesn’t even ask about the blood on my clothes.
“Shouldn’t you be with Sims?” I ask.
“Don’t worry about the fruitcake’s brother. I’ve been relieved. You’ve got some talking to do, pal.”
Andie puts her hand to her mouth when she sees the blood on my shirt but manages not to grab me. Wendell just glares and goes off to check with the doctor on Coop’s condition.
Andie and I walk down the hall a ways to get away from Rollins.
“What happened?”
“Gillian called right after I left you.” I fill her in on everything. “Coop was the only one I could think to call.” I see anger flicker in her eyes for an instant, then quickly fade. “How did they miss her? The pier was blocked.” I still can’t believe she got away.
Andie shakes her head and shrugs. “There are some stairs on the side of the pier. Apparently she came by boat, escaped the same way,” Andie stops, touches my arm. “Listen, we’re going to get a lot of static for this. Wendell wants a full report. It’s up to you how much you want to tell him.”
I nod, knowing what she means. We turn back toward the waiting room where Wendell and Rollins are waiting.
“Doctor says you can see him now,” Wendell Cook says to me. “Room 360.”
I start to walk away, but he stops me, grabs my arm. “I want to talk to him too, if he’s up to it. Then I’ll start on you.”
I nod and pull away. Coop’s room is dimly lit, the bed slightly inclined. His left arm and shoulder are encased in bandages. I walk over to the bed. He blinks, looks at me.
“Hey, sport. How you doing? I’m flying. Gave me some good drugs. You okay?” He looks at my shirt.
“This is your blood. You owe me a jacket.”
He manages a slight smile. “Soon as I get out of here. Something from Abercrombie & Fitch? Hey, thanks, man.”
I look at Coop lying there, think how close this was, and bite my lip. “No, Coop, I fucked up.”
Coop shakes his head. “There was nothing you could do. I should have blown her away, this would all be over. Didn’t want to hit you.” He closes his eyes for a moment. “Wendell out there? I need to talk to him.”
“Yeah, get him. Take it easy, okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Don’t plan
on going anywhere.”
I go out, find Wendell waiting in the hall just outside the door. “Go ahead, the drugs are kicking in.”
“You wait here,” Wendell says before he goes inside.
I wait, lean against the wall, and breathe a huge sigh of relief for Coop. In the reception area, I can see Andie and Rollins in a heated discussion. I can imagine what that’s about, how much Rollins is getting off on my mistake.
Andie glances my way, waves, and disappears in the elevator. Wendell Cook comes out. “Okay, let me get rid of Rollins, and I’ll take you back to your car.”
I ignore Rollins’s hard looks and follow Wendell out to the parking lot. He doesn’t say anything till we’re in his car.
“I don’t know if Coop’s covering for you or not, but he says there was nothing he or you could have done different.” Wendell sighs and starts the car. “At least we have a partial description.”
“I could have not met her, but there wasn’t time to do anything else.”
When we stop at a light, Cook slams his hand against the steering wheel. “A goddamn boat. Who would have thought of that?”
I remember now. I spent enough time on the pier as a kid. There were creaky wooden stairs, landings for small boats, on both sides of the pier. I just never thought about it until now.
Cook eases down the steep incline to the pier and pulls up next to my car. He looks at me. “You know, Horne, this is really out of hand. Coop gets cut, Gillian gets away, and all we’ve got is you and that stupid saxophone.”
“Yeah,” I say, “but she wanted it. She’ll be back.”
At home, I strip off my clothes and toss them in the trash. I take a long shower, fix a drink, and wait for the phone to ring. Gillian will call, I know it. I put on some music, picking a Keith Jarrett recording that includes “Moon and Sand.” I’m ready for her; I can play her game. When the phone rings, I turn up the volume, press the record button on the phone machine. I let her listen for a moment before I say anything.
“You lied to me, Evan. You broke our bargain.” There’s nothing languid about her voice now. It’s full of bitterness and betrayal. This is the manic side Andie talked about.
