by T. N. Robb
Cleary hadn't realized he had been holding his breath until he expelled it. He nodded his thanks, and willed the cops to go away as he stood. But the cop who'd spoken wasn't finished.
"Got some other news for you, too. The captain wants a word with you down at the station." A hint of a smile touched his Ups. "Something about your old job."
"Okay, thanks."
His old job: sure. Just what he wanted.
He was already on his way out of the emergency room, hurrying to the Eldorado. He still had some unfinished business. The day wasn't over yet, and he didn't intend to wait for the cops to puzzle through the reports and decide what to do about Rosen. By tomorrow the little creep would have a pack of lawyers at his side, and plenty of money ready to throw around in the right direction.
Cleary wasn't going to wait for that. He knew what had to be done.
He drove fast, with determination, the hot afternoon blurring around him. He left his car in the alley behind Rosen's house, approached the rear gate, and stared inside. A walkway led up to the patio and swimming pool, and that was as far as Cleary needed to look.
Rosen was hosting a modest pool party. Cleary pegged the party goers as West Coast hustlers and call girls. A Sinatra song was playing on a poolside phonograph, and nearby a massive bodyguard sweltered in his dark suit and Florsheims as he monitored a barbecue.
Either Rosen didn't give a damn that his men had been killed—or he didn't know about it yet. Either way, it didn't make much difference to Cleary.
He backed away from the gate before he was seen, then slipped through the backyard of the place next door, relieved to find no one in sight. A step ladder had been abandoned near the hedges that ran along the wall separating the properties, and on the ground were a pair of trimmers. Cleary moved the ladder opposite the patio, then climbed up a couple of steps and listened to Rosen. The mobster's voice traveled through the heat with the clarity of a sound through water.
"Yeah, call Monty at the Trop. Tell him fourteen point five or no deal."
Cleary took two more steps on the ladder, peered over the wall. He saw Rosen gesturing toward a young woman in a bathing suit. "Get me a fresh one, will ya honey?"
Rosen was decked out in loud Bermuda shorts and an open-collar shirt. A phone pressed to his ear, he was wrapping up a poolside conversation. "Yeah, yeah, then track down Battista. I was s'posed to hear from him two hours ago."
So he didn't know yet, Cleary thought.
Rosen hung up, and turned to one of the hustlers relaxing in a bathing suit on a nearby chaise lounge. "I told you six months ago, we shoulda got into shopping plazas."
Cleary ducked his head again, debating about how to make his entrance. If he tried entering the front, he would have to deal with a bodyguard or two before even getting close to the pool. The back way was better, but he would have to cross fifty yards of open lawn in plain sight of everyone before he got to the pool.
The other option was going over the wall right here. The problem with that was he would be slowed down by his bad arm. He would have a hard time crawling over the wall if he had his gun in his good hand.
He wasn't sure what prompted him to look back, but when he did, he saw a woman in a uniform—a maid?—standing on the porch of the neighbor's house, watching him. Their eyes, even at this distance, seemed to lock for a moment. Then she spun on her heel and rushed back inside.
Time for decisions, buddy.
Up and over. This was it.
As he looked over the wall, he saw a young woman in a bathing suit holding a pitcher of martinis. She was about to fill Rosen's glass when Cleary placed his hand on the top of the wall and slid a leg over the side. The woman looked up and saw him. The pitcher slipped from her hand, shattering against the concrete.
"For chrissake, Sherri," snapped Rosen.
A split second later, Cleary dropped to the patio, and pulled his .38. He stuck the weapon in the back of the spatula-wielding bodyguard, and shoved him toward the pool and Rosen.
A second bodyguard approaching the pool from the house saw Cleary and stopped. In the moment it took him to figure out what was going on and start to reach for his piece, Cleary fired over his head. "Hold it, right there. Toss it. In the pool."
The bodyguard complied, lobbing his weapon into the middle of the pool, as everyone stared in silence at Cleary. "Now take a swim." He stepped forward, closer to Rosen, pushing the beefy bodyguard ahead of him. "You, too." He pushed the bodyguard, and motioned to the hustlers.
The men dove in, with the exception of the bodyguard in front of Cleary, who held his ground. "Well, what's with you? Get in."
"I don't know how."
"Time to learn."
Cleary jabbed the .38 into his back and the man reconsidered, jumping fully clothed into the deep end. He sunk, rose, sunk again. "Give him a hand, dumbos," he bellowed to the hustlers and the other bodyguard.
Cleary swung his .38 toward the call girls. "Get lost, ladies. Now."
They scurried in terror across the lawn.
"What ya going to do, tough guy, shoot me?" Rosen asked, and grinned.
Cleary didn't respond. He just studied the man, intrigued, and yet a little disappointed at having the object of his quest so firmly in his grasp.
"What is this, Cleary, a domestic spat? You upset that Lana was on my side? Kinda rough, I suppose, after losing your job, wife, and brother. Yeah, I know all about you. You're a drunk and a loser."
He smiled when Cleary didn't answer. "That little lady is awful sweet, isn't she? I should have figured you were with her last night. I guess, for Lana's sake, we got there a little late. She called, by the way, just a couple hours ago to tell me she was all through playing Mrs. Williams or any other roles for me. Kinda rude after all I've done for her."
"Your problems run a little deeper than that, Rosen. I think you're avoiding the obvious."
"Whatever you got on me, Cleary, it's not going to be enough. Battista and the others must be history or you wouldn't be here right now, am I right? So they're not gonna be doing any talking, and as far as those tapes go, whatta we talking about? Buying a few cops, influencing a couple of politicians, juggling some books. Hell, you'll never pin Williams on me without corroboration."
His lip curled in a contemptuous sneer. "Stand-up fifty-buck-a-week grunts like you went out of style with the Korean War, Cleary." He made a panoramic gesture to the city. "This town runs on circuits of money and power you'll never be able to shut down."
Rosen broke off as Cleary suddenly leveled the .38 in his face, and pulled back the hammer. Rosen went pale. Then, still holding his glass, he spread out his hands and forced a smile. "You're not gonna shoot me, Cleary." He smiled. "You're not made that way."
Rosen's confidence died as Cleary pulled the trigger, and the glass exploded in his hand. Glass tinkled against the concrete. Rosen's pallor had turned ashen. Cleary lowered the .38 point-blank to his forehead. "How am I not made, Rosen? C'mon, tell me. I'd like to hear that again."
"You're—you're not that crazy, man."
Cleary's eyes were locked on his kill. He slowly pulled back the hammer.
"Don't do it!"
A woman's voice struck the side of his head, a voice like Lana's. Or like Sarah's—the two names were still inextricably linked in his mind. When he glanced in the direction of the voice, he saw it was the woman who had dropped the pitcher. She stood with her back to the house, clutching a gun in both hands. It was trained on him. "Don't!" she said again.
Rosen smiled, turned a hand palm up. "Good work, Sherri. Just lay it right here, Cleary."
"What good is it going to do to kill me, Sherri?" Cleary said, trying to talk her out of it. "You and Rosen won't be in the same jail."
"Don't listen to him," Rosen barked, his words hot and angry.
"Drop the gun," the woman commanded. "I swear I'll pull the trigger."
Cleary knew that if Rosen got the gun, he was dead. If he fired, he didn't doubt the woman would pull
the trigger. But he would get the first round off into Rosen's brain. That's all that mattered. That was all, really, that had mattered since Nick's death.
So what're you waiting for?
Sweat poured from his forehead, his hands.
C'mon, do it. Kill the bastard.
He started to squeeze.
"Hold it," another voice shouted.
He looked up and saw a cop, his weapon ready, and backed by more blue uniforms. The scene froze. Then Cleary did it. Followed through, pulled the trigger.
The gun clicked on an empty chamber, and the sound seemed to reverberate for miles as Rosen collapsed to his knees and gasped for air.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherri drop her gun. He stared at the empty .38, wondering whether to credit the deferred execution to fate or something else. Then he turned, and walked away. He swept past the woman who had been ready to kill him without a glance, or a word.
Behind him, Rosen called, "Easy time, you crazy bastard. Two years max!"
As a phalanx of cops moved in, the lieutenant in charge stopped Cleary. "We got a call from the neighbor about a trespasser with one good wing, climbing over the fence to the Rosen residence."
He smiled. "It didn't take much to figure out who it was."
Cleary glanced back at the uniforms. "Quite a turnout for a trespasser."
TWENTY-FOUR
Last Boarding Call
Cleary stood on a luggage cart gazing at the faces in the mid-evening crowd at Union Station. He had been here ten minutes, and hadn't found her yet. He didn't even know which train she would be boarding. For that matter, he wasn't sure what he would say to her if and when he found her. He just knew that he had to see her. Once, that was all.
Over the public address system a voice announced: "Denver, Kansas City, St. Louis, Chicago, New York. Last boarding call on track number five." Then he spotted Sarah walking under a Spanish colonial archway and passing a pre-war mural. She wore a dress that moved as she moved, accentuating the soft curves of her body. Her hair was loose, silky. It shone. He remembered how it had felt against his fingers.
From a distance, her face looked devoid of expression. She clutched a carry-on bag, her only luggage. She moved with the determination of someone who had made a decision, and he suspected that hers involved leaving the past behind, abandoning it.
A porter pushing a cart stacked with luggage crossed in front of Cleary, blocking his view. When the cart had passed, he didn't see her anymore. He pushed his way through the crowd, looked up and down the gleaming stainless-steel streamliner. He considered climbing aboard, searching the cars.
No. He wouldn't do it.
He turned to leave, and there she was, standing several feet away, staring at him. Cleary took a drag from his Lucky, and watched her. Then, dropping the butt to the ground, he walked over to her.
"Hi," she said.
He nodded. In a voice that strived for a casualness that betrayed the haste he had taken to get here in time, he said, "I talked to the maid at the beachhouse. She said you were leaving town."
She smiled, but it didn't touch her eyes. The bruises had been covered with makeup, and he only noticed a trace of swelling on her jaw.
"Where you headed?"
"Out of town." Her voice was cool, emotionless.
"I came to say good-bye."
Sarah nodded. She lowered her eyes. Her lip trembled. It reminded him of how her lip had trembled that night at the beachhouse. He wondered dimly if desire and sorrow rose from the same place in the heart.
"Bye, Jack." She spoke softly, then turned and walked toward the train. She had taken several steps, when she stopped and turned back to him. "Kind of a shame when you think about it. I mean about us."
A knot of regret swelled in his chest. Regret, hunger, love, betrayal. Their eyes locked again, then she turned away and boarded the train. He stared after her a moment, then walked away and didn't look back. He was finished looking back.
The top was down on the Eldorado as Cleary and Betts headed north on Alameda, breezing through the night's heat and humidity. On the radio, the Gator was speed-rapping. "... One-oh-dos in Montrose, oh-three in Cuda-Hee and an egg-frying dog-dying one-oh-eight in South Gate on this the seventh day of a record-stompin' South Bay heat wave..."
Oblivious to the manic static on the Gator, Cleary watched a train running parallel to them on the east side of Alameda. Then he shifted his gaze back to the road.
"S'pose you'll be heading downtown Monday morning to get your badge out of storage," Betts said.
Cleary glanced out again at the train and, for a second, wondered what might have been if he had stopped Sarah from boarding the train. It was arcing east for its long night's journey. Maybe it wasn't even Sarah's train. But if it was, which window was hers?
I'm sorry, he thought. I'm sorry it didn't turn out like it should have.
But on the other hand, maybe things did turn out as they were meant to.
"Too much has changed, Johnny. I don't know if I can play by their rules anymore." He tapped a finger against the steering wheel. "I was thinking about picking up where Nick left off."
Betts smiled to himself. It was exactly what he was hoping to hear.
On the radio, the Gator yammered on. "... so if you're looking for relief and some dancin' feet check out the cool sounds tomorrow night at the KGFJ Gator-guaranteed El Monte Stadium hop... no Levis or capris please and featuring the way-gone sounds of... the Penguins, Platters, Drifters and, for you rock cats, the stompin' sounds of Eddie Burnett and his hot new hit, let's check it out... 'Sunset Strip."'
"I know this song," Betts said as the first few bars charged out of the radio. Cleary reached for the volume knob and, to Johnny's surprise, turned it up, rather than down.
He looked over at Cleary. "Hey, I thought you were the cat who said rock and roll'd be a memory by the end of the month."
Cleary shrugged. "I can wait."
The comment was punctuated by a massive sheet of lightning strobing the entire low-ceilinged, purple-hued basin of L.A. A crashing peal of thunder followed, inspiring in Johnny a sudden laugh at the sheer joy of living.
"Well, all right." He reached up for the first few drops of rain as Cleary glanced up at the dark, impassioned sky. Then he looked over at his partner.
"We may get a little wet here, Betts."
Betts looked back at him with a look that redefined cool. "Not if you drive fast enough, Jack."
Cleary considered the aerodynamic validity of this claim, a light kindling in his eye. Then, suddenly, he punched the accelerator. The Eldorado rocketed west on Sunset Boulevard, outracing the lightning, the thunder, and the long-awaited rain.
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
