Private Eye 1: Private Eye

by T. N. Robb

  Cleary smiled. "Sounds good." The thought of the two of them out on the town again gave him something to look forward to beyond tonight. At the moment, it was the only thing in his future that seemed worthwhile.

  His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of a beer bottle crashing and a low curse from the biker, who just missed a shot. He moved back from the table as Nick glanced at his watch and frowned.

  "You working tonight, Nick?"

  "Every night. Working enough for a partnership of two." He gave Cleary a sidelong glance. "In fact, if anyone was interested..."

  It was an offer that came from the heart, and one that had been extended more than once. Cleary nodded, a distracted look on his face, as if he were forgetting something. The biker strutted over, cue stick in hand.

  "C'mon, send him a candy gram, blue eyes. There's a game in progress here, damn it."

  Cleary shot Nick a look that said, What an ass, polished off the rest of his drink, and was about to turn back to the game when Nick grabbed him by the arm. His look now was deadly serious. "Jack, you've got to put it behind you. Don't let it eat at you like this."

  He nodded solemnly, then smiled, flipped his lighter into the air and caught it. "Thanks again, Nick. Tomorrow night, it is."

  As Nick left, Cleary strolled over to the table, studying the layout of the balls. He relieved the biker of his chalk, then slowly and deliberately, he blued his cue tip. All the while, he was stringing his opponent a look the man could chin himself on.

  "You should have told me you were in such a goddamn hurry, sport. Twelve ball all the way down."

  On impulse, he snared the chalk and marked a spot near the center of the table. Then leaning over, he lined up the ball, and stroked it. The twelve hugged the cushion, and dropped into the corner pocket while the english on the cue sent it banking off three cushions. Finally it rolled to a stop within half a hair of the chalk mark.

  In front of him was an easy side pocket shot. There were four balls left, and he had no doubt the game was over. He called off the balls and pockets swiftly and impassively. With the efficiency of a battlefield surgeon, he ran the table in a matter of seconds. He glanced at the biker, smiled. "That fast enough for you? Maybe next time, buddy."

  He picked up his winnings from the table, grabbed his coat, and was about to replace his cue in the rack when a greasy, size fifteen paw gripped his right shoulder.

  "You actually think you're getting out of here with four hundred bucks of mine?" the biker hissed.

  Cleary turned, cue in hand, to face his wide-stanced opponent, who stood between him and the door. He considered the question a moment. The biker was suddenly no different from the jerks who stole his job, and destroyed his life. "A guy can dream, can't he?" Cleary suddenly jerked the butt of the cue straight up between the biker's legs, square into the family jewels. Every ounce of breath exploded from the man's body and he doubled over in a soundless, ashen-faced paroxysm of pain. Cleary took the opportunity to slide, cue in hand, out the door.

  Outside, he deftly fixed the cue stick through the handles of the double doors. He looked around, trying to remember where he left his car. In the unpaved parking lot were a good forty tons of bored-out Chevy step-side pickups, full-dress Harleys. But where was the Eldorado? For a moment he imagined the biker's buddies stealing it as he whiled away the hours inside. Anger drummed at his temples. Then he spotted it, over in a dark corner, top down and looking shabby and dull in the dirty neon.

  Cleary sprinted across the lot just as he heard crashing sounds against the door, followed by muted curses. The bulls inside were raging. He smiled as he settled into the driver's seat and started the engine. Just as he was about to pull the Eldorado into gear and lay fifty feet of rubber across the dusty lot, the door crashed open. The biker and two lethal-looking gang members decked out in black leather piled out.

  Cursing across the distance that separated them, and knowing that Cleary was as good as gone, one of them flung a beer bottle that crashed against the Eldorado's hood. "Next time is right. You son of a bitch!" his opponent yelled.

  Cleary fingered the lighter in his pocket. A coward didn't deserve a gold lighter. He stared at the negligible damage for a moment. Then, with the grim amusement of a man plumbing his own personal depths, he stepped out of the car, and slammed the door shut.

  "What's wrong with right now? I've got nothing better to do tonight."

  The bikers traded incredulous looks as the half-mad Irishman rolled up his sleeves in the middle of a juke joint parking lot, then stepped cautiously away from the Eldorado. The man he had kicked laughed, a hard, ugly sound, and turned to his buddies. "I want this fool all to myself." He met Cleary halfway, then without hesitating unleashed a haymaker. Cleary ducked and the blow only nicked his cheek.

  He struck back with a jab to the man's gut, but his fist hit a steel belt buckle with jagged ridges. The biker bellowed with laughter as Cleary stepped back and sucked on his bruised knuckles. Then a jackboot exploded into his side, and a fist crashed down on the back of his neck. He crumpled to his knees, black dots exploding inside his eyes.

  Bending his head like a bull in heat, he hurtled himself toward the biker and slammed into the man's solar plexus. The biker let out a gasp as he staggered back into the side of a pickup, striking his head on the outside mirror. He slid to the ground, unconscious. But there were two more coming at him from both sides, two too many for Cleary in his bleary-eyed exhaustion.

  A fist sank into his ribs. A boot caught him in the thigh. Another fist, thicker and harder than a baseball bat, flew into his chest. The bikers pummeled him just as the review board had done, cursed him as his wife had on the day she left. They brought him to his knees. Shoved his face into the dirt. He spit out blood and chips of his teeth and tried to push himself to his feet, but now one of the bastards had him by the throat, and was squeezing.

  He brought his arms up hard, breaking the man's hold, but it was too late. They had gotten his money. They were laughing. A boot slammed into his shoulder, and he toppled sideways again into the dirt. He stared up at the neon lights, at the signs with letters missing: E.W. HA-PER'S, BILL--RDS, B-A-K LABEL. This time he couldn't get up and it didn't matter.

  Nothing mattered.

  Jack Cleary just laid there, closed his eyes, and willed the pain to go away.

  THREE

  The Shooters

  Nick leaned against the inside of the phone booth on the quiet corner, waiting for a call. Insects, drawn by the dim light inside, dive-bombed the glass, their collective buzzes like that of a saw. The day's heat had lingered inside the booth and when Nick finally opened the door, the light went out and the warm air rushed in, licking at his face and hands like a hungry dog.

  His plans with Jack were shot so he had decided not to waste his evening. Jack was probably better off in bed, anyhow. Maybe a good beating was what he had needed. Hell, he needed something to screw his head back on right. Sure, he had had some tough breaks, but caving in to self-pity and trying to douse the pains day after day with bourbon wasn't the answer. It wasn't like the Jack he knew.

  His head jerked as the phone rang in his ear. He closed the door of the booth and snapped the receiver from the hook. "Yeah."

  "Okay. Here's how we do it. I want to keep this thing real low key. You hear?"

  "How low key?"

  "I'm thinking about you, man. The Williams murder had organized crime written all over it. You mess with these guys, and you'll be catching some lead yourself. It'll boomerang right back in your face."

  "Okay, I got the picture. When do we do it?"

  "I'm sending a car to make the pickup. No uniforms."

  "Where?"

  "Let's make it in two hours up on the lookout on Mulholland Drive. You know where I mean?"

  "Yeah. I know the place. You can't show up yourself?"

  "Nick, I've been working my ass off day and night."

  "Okay, relax. I'm just asking."

  "I wi
sh I could relax. I've got another case I'm working on. I'd love to tell you all about it, but I gotta go, man."

  "Right."

  Nick dropped the phone back in the cradle, and stood there staring out at the traffic until his thoughts were interrupted by an old man pounding on the door. "Come on, mister. I've got to call my nephew in Fresno before he goes—"

  "Just hang on, mac. I've got another call to make myself." He dropped a nickel in the slot and dialed.

  The hood ornament on the jet black customized '49 Mercury coupe was a chrome falcon in midflight. Even in the shadowy alley, the Merc was a beauty with its V-D windshield, Frenched headlights with cat's eyes, a dark wicked flank, and a chopped roof-line. From its shark-toothed '55 De Soto grille to its full rear skirts, it was a machine that demanded attention.

  Between its '50s Ford blue-dot taillights was a Tennessee license plate and a few feet behind it were a pair of blue suede shoes, which at the moment were duck walking, toe sliding, and heel dragging to the rockabilly beat of Jerry Lee Lewis's "High School Confidential" blasting from the car radio.

  Johnny Betts continued practicing his dance maneuvers in the back-alley moonlight as a baby-blue '55 Lincoln Capri pulled quietly up alongside the Merc. Twenty-two years old, with the steamy, dark good looks of a young Presley, he might have been a cross between a teen idol and a knife-wielding greaser. He wore a pair of tight rogue trousers, a blade-thin alligator belt, and a black sleeveless T-shirt. He was a pure product of American street savvy by way of South Memphis.

  In no particular hurry, Johnny killed the car radio, grabbed a heavy coat from the front seat, and locked up the Merc before sliding into the passenger seat of the Capri. He exchanged a wry look with the driver, Nick Cleary, who glanced down at the coat in Johnny's lap, instantly hip to the firepower beneath it. "Don't think it's going to be that kind of weather, kid," Nick said as the Capri slipped smoothly out of the alley and up a canyon off Sunset.

  Johnny eyed him. "I left a girl back in Glendale in her garter belt 'cause you wanted a sing-along partner?"

  Nick grinned. He appreciated the kid's loyalty. He knew he filled a void in the kid's life—as either big brother or father, neither of which he had back home in Memphis. "Got a meet up on Mulholland, strictly public relations with the LAPD. Getting rid of some tapes I'm not too comfortable with."

  "The McGuire Sisters perchance?"

  Nick shook his head. "Try the late great Buddy Williams."

  Though he was impressed, Johnny simply nodded, ready for any eventuality. He tossed his coat in the back, revealing a nasty sawed-off double-barrel twelve gauge. He smiled and settled back to enjoy the ride.

  As they climbed out of the valley, en route to the meet, Nick's thoughts turned to his brother. Jack had spent sixteen years on the force, and then one day he had been fingered as the target of a bribery investigation. The blows had come so hard and so fast, Nick had barely realized what had happened until the review board hearing.

  One thing he knew: Jack had been set up. Nick was sure of it. He knew Jack too well to believe he was dirty.

  Damn. He should have been here now, teaming with him, instead of... He glanced over at Johnny, who gazed ahead with an expression that vacillated between rapture and nonchalance. He didn't mind helping Johnny out. Hey, the kid was good. But Jack was family, his first priority, and it burned him that he couldn't do something to pull him out of it.

  If only there was some lead to follow to prove Jack's innocence. But the case had been seamless. Too seamless. Something would break, if Jack didn't first.

  The roadside overlook off Mulholland Drive was dark, except for the bright lights of the feverish city far below; silent, but for the dry, nerve-frayed rustle of the Santa Anas; and deserted with the exception of Nick, who smoked a Chesterfield by the rear of his Lincoln as he gazed down at the valley spread out like a feast below. Johnny was nowhere in sight.

  Just as Nick took the last drag from his cigarette and ground it out with his heel, the lights of a vehicle flooded the overlook. A metallic-gray '56 Packard 400 pulled quietly to the shoulder thirty yards behind the Capri. Nick watched as a man in a dark, tailored suit stepped out and approached him, a silhouette against the high beams of his car.

  As he stopped a few feet from him, Nick stared into the cold, blank eyes of the man he had seen at the Crescendo on Buddy Williams's two nights ago. Jesus. The undercover guys are looking more like bad guys than the bad guys. The two men stared at each other a moment. "You Nick Cleary?"

  Nick nodded. "Who're you?"

  "Lieutenant Battista."

  Never heard of ya. Instead of saying it, he tilted his head toward a soft, distant siren and an angry glow to the west. "Looks like a fire out toward Topanga." Battista ignored the comment. His blank eyes fastened on the small suitcase at Nick's feet. "You're buying yourself a lotta goodwill with the department, Cleary, turning these over."

  Nick scooted the suitcase through the dirt with the toe of his shoe and managed an ironic smile. "Just being a good citizen."

  Battista raised the suitcase. "They're all in here?"

  "You got it."

  "From what I understand is on these tapes, you could've bought a nice piece of change from the other side."

  There was something about the way Battista said it that made Nick uneasy. "I could've also bought some lead."

  Battista nodded, a smile turning on his lips as he calmly pulled a short-barrel Colt .38 and held it at waist level. "You can get that any place."

  Nick glanced from the revolver to Battista's eyes, trying to keep his head. "If it means anything to you, whoever you are, I stashed the originals for safekeeping."

  Battista scowled, cocked the trigger, and jerked the gun, ready to fire. "Where?"

  "Hey, dipstick!" Johnny's voice leaped from the dark, startling Battista into a spin. He squinted into the night. Ten yards away, braced against a roadside eucalyptus, the kid was aiming his sawed-off twelve gauge at Battista's face.

  "Are you as stupid as you look, or are you going to drop it?"

  Battista let his weapon slip from his fingers, then raised his hands. "Easy now," he yelled.

  Nick scooped up the .38, just as Battista threw a glance toward his car. Suddenly three shooters rolled out of the Packard, machine guns blazing. Sprays of lead licked the hot night air. The eucalyptus splintered near Johnny's face as he returned the fire, emptying the shotgun. One of the shooters flipped back onto the hood of the Packard, leaving a shoe behind.

  Nick leveled the .38 and pumped two rounds toward Battista, who flung the suitcase in front of his face for protection. The slugs tore into the case and knocked him back six feet, but they didn't kill him, didn't even wound the bastard. Nick spun, and dropped to the ground just as another volley of gunfire erupted from the Packard.

  "Johnny, come on," he yelled, and raced toward the Capri. He threw open the door, hurtled himself inside, and a moment later, Johnny bolted from his cover and torpedoed headlong through the open window. Bullets pinged off the fender and trunk as Nick peeled away, his foot pressed to the accelerator.

  His eyes darted to the rearview mirror. The Packard screeched away from the cliff and bore down on them, its headlights brighter than the sun at noon.

  "Son of a bitches are on our ass," Johnny yelled, twisting around.

  The Packard was two hundred yards back and gaining.

  Hitting fifty on the serpentine mountaintop, Nick leaned over and grabbed a six-inch Army-issue .45 automatic out of the glove compartment and tossed it to Johnny. Nick's eyes locked on the curves as the needle passed sixty. As he hit a straightaway, Johnny opened fire on the Packard.

  "Hope you were getting a nice chunk of bread for this," he shouted.

  "How about nothing." Nick cranked a turn and the back window suddenly exploded. Glass showered through the back of the Capri.

  "Just for fun, right?" Johnny yelled, and rolled into the backseat, firing through the rear window.

  Nick negotiat
ed the road like a seasoned pro. The tires shrieked. The Capri hit 80, 83, 85, but it was no match for the 374-advanced V-8 of the Packard, which squealed alongside.

  Suddenly the shooter on the right front side of the Packard filled the air with fire and lead, and the Packard crashed hard against the driver's side. Nick reeled the steering wheel back and forth, trying to maintain control.

  The Packard struck the side again and again, and each time Nick desperately fought the wheel to keep the Capri on the road. "Better get ready... to ditch it, kid," he yelled.

  The Packard slammed into the Capri again. The road blurred as Nick swung the wheel, realizing too late that they were in an S-turn.

  "Now," he yelled.

  Johnny glanced once at Nick, then rolled out the back window just as Nick slammed his shoulder against his door. The goddamned thing was jammed from the body damage. He was trapped.

  The lights of Encino shimmered impassively through the spider-webbed windshield as the road vanished under his wheels. The Capri was airborne. Nick, still gripping the steering wheel, could hear the soft whisper of air as the car sliced through the heat like a knife through butter. Below, the lights blurred, an incandescent carnival of color—blues and reds and golds, and there, farther out, pearl whites like puffs of clouds. Above it all loomed the velvet blackness of an indifferent sky. He'd blown it good.

  His last cogent thought before the Capri's nose began to dip toward the ground was of Jack.

  Then the car struck the gully, bounced and exploded, spewing glass and metal and hurling a fireball fifty feet into the September night.

  Above the gully, the Packard screeched to a stop. Battista climbed out of the car and paused at the lip of the precipice, watching the flames light up the dark like an exploding moon. "Looks like a fire down the valley," he said to himself with a laugh, then he turned and walked back to the idling Packard. A moment later, it sped down Mulholland Drive, and melted into the night.

  FOUR