by Matt Hilton
He strolled on the promenade beneath the bluffs, sunlight reflecting from the windows of the houses built there back in Victorian times. Where the afternoon sun caressed his face beneath the peak of his cap, it was molten honey. A couple of girls Rollerbladed by, thong bikinis barely concealing their cute little assets. It was all for show, but so was his reaction. He smiled and nodded, adjusted his cap as if in amazement. Just like any other first-time visitor who was male and red-blooded would do. "Rule three, thief: it's an easy one to remember." To avoid funny looks, he kept his words to himself now. "When in Rome, do as the Romans do."
Good advice.
To Cain's delight, a woman rode by on a bike, towing a Jack Russell terrier on a skateboard. Screwball madness, insanity, and he loved it all.
He paused at a vendor to buy some food, then continued strolling to the pier, eating directly from the carton with his fingers. Man, but this really was the life!
The day and the sights were glorious. The sun was beginning its roll toward the Pacific Ocean, the sky and sea a holiday-brochure cerulean blue. The beach was packed with beautiful people glisten ing with the sheen of tanning oil. All that was missing was Pamela Anderson in a red swimsuit.
Cain felt good. Only one thing could make the day better. But that would blow his cover as a tourist. He dumped his greasy food tray in an overflowing trash can, felt for the scaling knife in his jacket pocket. A little bone harvesting was out of the question, but he had ample opportunity for a little game, he decided. With most people skimpily attired it might be a challenge, but that only made things more interesting. And as always, a challenge conquered produced more satisfaction.
His first target was apparent immediately, a statuesque woman in khaki shorts and a vest top. She was standing at the end of a line waiting to purchase ice cream. Cain didn't pause. He moved directly in, pretended to accidentally jostle the woman.
"Sorry, ma'am," he said. "I do apologize."
The woman, forty-something but looking every bit of ten years older under her makeup, gave him a frown. Not used to the concept of strangers copping a feel from the likes of her, she wasn't concerned by the unsolicited contact. She flung back her hair and turned back to the more pressing engagement of securing her place in the ice cream line. Cain walked away, clutching a belt loop from her shorts in his left hand.
"One–nil," he whispered.
He secreted the trophy in a pocket of his windbreaker, pushing it alongside the film-wrapped fingers and thumbs of his collection. Light of spirit, he climbed a series of plank steps to a ramp leading onto the pier. From this high vantage point, he spied the woman at the kiosk. She'd already forgotten him in her desire for raspberry whip delight. Standing behind her in the ice cream line was a man in taupe shirt and chinos. He didn't appear to be checking out the ice cream menu. He seemed more interested in Cain. Only a brief glance at first, but their eyes met and locked. Then the man looked away. Hmmm, interesting. "Rule four, thief: Semper vigilo. Remain vigilant at all times."
On the pier, the pickings were even sweeter. The crowds were hemmed in, and accidental collisions were the order of the day. Within a minute, he had a button from an elderly gent's blazer and the tassel from a woman's parasol. Neither were what he considered too great a challenge, but they joined his collection just the same.
Cain wasn't finished yet.
"The catch of the day!"
She was stunning in a pale lilac swimsuit and matching sarong. Looked Hawaiian. A dark-eyed beauty with dusky skin and full red lips. Cutting her out of her bikini would make anyone a happy man.
She moved through the crowd with the fluid confidence that the masses would open a path before her. Sure, she was beautiful, but she had an innate disdain for the lesser mortals around her. Cain wouldn't hold that against her; she was a person after his own heart. He would have loved to teach her that there was at least one among the crowd who would not give way so easily. Trouble was, she was too prominent. More than one man gave her a lingering glance. Some women looked, too. But their stares were of the green-eyed variety.
The attention she commanded meant it wasn't a good idea to approach her. Someone would notice and remember. Guaranteed.
An older woman sitting on a deck chair was much more viable. He took two steps toward her and stopped. Something registered. A flash of taupe passing by. He blinked slowly. The color taupe wasn't something that would generally cause concern. Not unless you were as cautious as Tubal Cain.
He entered an arcade. Families fed coins into machines as though they were going out of fashion. A grandiose show of holiday overexuberance. Sweaty faces and the smell of popcorn. Cain absorbed and then discarded it all. He was in the Zone. He took five paces, then rounded on his heel. Walked back the way he'd come.
The man entering the arcade had no option but to continue inside. The flicker in his eyes, the almost imperceptible pause in his step, was the giveaway. Cain was more adept at this game. No one would guess that he was suspicious of the man.
Immediately outside, Cain turned toward the deck-chair woman. Spun on his heel again. Just in time to see the man in taupe shirt and chinos come out of the arcade. Pushing his hand through his dark hair, he scanned the crowd as though looking for someone else. It was good cover. Not convincing to Cain, though. Should have stuck to buying ice cream, Cain concluded.
No doubt about it, now: the man was following him. Only thing was, Cain couldn't quite guess his motive. Slowly, Cain turned around and began the walk along the pier.
He affected the look of one thrilled to be there, ogling the attractions like a country boy in the big city for the first time. But the storefronts and carousels held no real interest for him. They were cover for his own surveillance. In the reflective surfaces, he checked behind him. Taupe shirt was still there. Plus, another in a flamboyant yellow and blue striped number. He was being hunted down by at least two men.
"What have we got here, then? Muggers or cops?" Neither assumption boded well. "Time to go, I think."
Escape beckoned. The steps leading back to the promenade were in front of him. But a huge man blocked the way. He glowered like a bullmastiff as he whispered into his fist. Not muggers, then. Definitely police.
Feign indifference. Just walk on past him. Good plan, but the man stepped in front of him, held up a hand, and pushed it against Cain's chest. He was like a stuccoed wall, wide, pale as whitewash, and a little rough up close. Not too polite, either. Didn't even have the good grace to introduce himself. All he was capable of was a nod over Cain's shoulder. Ergo, his intention was to distract rather than contain. Taupe shirt or the other in candy stripes must be moving in on him.
Cain blinked up at the man. The innocent look. "Can I help you?" he asked.
"You can wait there a moment, sir." He did the over-the-shoulder nod thing again. The slight urgency told Cain that the man's friends weren't as close as they should have been.
"What's this about?" Cain asked as he pushed his hands into his pockets.
"Security," said the man. "We'd like a word with you."
"Security?" Cain's nervous laugh was real. But for a wholly different reason than he'd admit. "That's a relief, friend. For a moment there I thought you were about to rob me or something."
"We just want to ask you a couple of questions," said the man. "If you wouldn't mind waiting a minute or two?"
"Wait for what? What am I supposed to have done?"
"We've been having problems with pickpockets. Been watching you, and we'd just like to ask you to turn out your pockets." The man, large and impressive-looking, had a nervous cast to his eyes. Not been on the job long, Cain decided.
"I don't think you're at liberty to do that," Cain told him.
"If you'd just wait for my supervisor, he'll explain everything to you," said the security man. His hand was as big and hot as a Sunday roast on Cain's shoulder.
"Hey!" Cain shrugged him off. Amiable enough. A lack of aggression ensured that he didn't encourage a tighter hold.
&
nbsp; Yes, the big guy was new to the job, obviously unsure of his level of authority here. His hand wavered in the air as though plucking at floating threads of lint.
Cain exhaled. Rule five: If you're accosted, keep them thinking. While engaged in thought, the fools aren't acting. Gives you the opportunity to act first. Rule six: If you are going to act, do so immediately and without prejudice.
"So where is your supervisor?" he demanded.
"Coming."
Cain glanced around, saw that the man in candy stripes was about twenty feet away, attempting to skirt a group of kids on an outing. He couldn't see the one in taupe. Good, that gave him a few seconds to spare.
"I can't wait here all day." Cain engaged the man by locking eyes with him. Simple but effective. It was all Cain required. His hand moved below their plane of vision. Motion that was barely a flicker. A quick jabbing action between the man's legs. Very little contact. Hardly noticeable. Then he was past the man and taking his first couple of steps down the stairs. The security man was motionless, looking down between his thighs at the lake of blood pooling between his feet.
Cain counted the steps, one, two, three, four; then the caterwauling began. A horror-movie scream as the truth became apparent. Cain's feet gave a backbeat to the howl, clattering down the remaining steps to the promenade. On the pier, heads were swiveling toward the commotion, but Cain simply ran. He needn't look back to witness the result of that one simple knife jab. A punctured femoral artery came with a guarantee; without immediate medical help, the security man would bleed to death in minutes. Confusion would erupt and allow him to escape. Also, attempting to staunch the flowing blood of their downed fellow meant the man's companions couldn't possibly pursue him, too.
Of course, Cain was also a firm believer in not trusting people to react the way you expected them to. A shout broke through the murmur of consternation rising behind him. He heard the slap of determined footsteps in pursuit down the stairs. He did glance back, a natural instinct that would not be denied. The man in taupe rushed after him. Cain swore and increased his speed.
As they had for the Hawaiian beauty, the crowds parted before him. Only the looks he received were anything but admiring. They were fearful. It was apparent to all that Cain was a fugitive. A dangerous fugitive, judging by the screaming overhead. There were no gung-ho heroes among the tourists, no one trying to snag his clothing or bring him down. But neither did they impede the man in taupe. Younger than Cain, and in reasonable shape, he was gaining fast. All the while, he shouted into a radio and—more worrying—clenched a revolver in his other hand.
Cain cut to the right, charged up some more steps and onto the ramp arching over the highway, then raced head down for the anonymity offered by the stores a couple of blocks over. The man in taupe didn't stop, matching him step for step all the way.
At the shopping strip, Cain ducked down a service alley and into the twilit underbelly of Santa Monica that was immeasurably different from the beachfront. The sights, the sounds, the smells, everything was tainted with neglect. He grabbed at a wheeled Dumpster crammed with the ghosts of pizzas past, tugged it out to block his pursuer's path. Didn't stop running. He heard the man heaving the Dumpster aside and realized that barely ten paces separated them. Sprightly son of a bitch, that one, not your usual run-of-the-mill rent-a-cop.
Fortunately, Cain gained the corner of the buildings first. He spun to his left into deeper shadows and rushed headlong through a narrow alley, trusting to luck that he didn't smash headlong into an obstruction. Thankfully, he saw the turn and ducked left again.
Cain hoped that the security man would act with caution. He'd witnessed what Cain was capable of with his knife. Only a fool would relish the possibility of bleeding out in a deserted alleyway with only the smell of garbage for the final journey to the afterlife. Fearing ambush, he would slow at the corner. Cain sprinted on, gaining precious distance on his pursuer.
On a main shopping strip parallel to the beach, Cain slowed down. It was surprising how much anonymity a single block's dash had given him. All around him the vacationers' lunacy continued unabated. Not as much as a glance or a "How are you doing?" came his way.
A mini-mall enticed passersby with the promise of major discounts on all purchases. From within the entrance Cain watched the man in taupe rush by. Problem solved, almost.
Ducking through a service door, Cain took off his cap and jacket and dumped them in a waste bin. He freed his jeans from his socks. His shirt hung loose over his waistband, concealing the scaling knife tucked in the small of his back, as well as the large bulges his trophies now made in his jeans pockets.
Back out in the mall, he ambled in shopper mode. Shoplifting wasn't a skill he'd engaged in since his school days, but the appropriation of a pair of sunglasses was as dexterous as any swish he'd ever made with a blade. Suitably disguised, he backtracked toward the pier.
Back at the promenade by the beach again, he looked toward the pier. A swarm of buzzing hornets, the paramedics and police had arrived. The wounded security man was the sheeted-up load going into an ambulance. The man in candy stripes hung his head by the open doors. Two accounted for, one to go. Behind his newly acquired sunglasses, Cain squinted left and right. No more than ten yards away, the taupe security man walked toward him. Cain wasn't concerned; he stood looking out to sea, hands bunched around the trophies in his pockets. The man made the slow walk of dejection back toward the pier, totally oblivious that he was in stabbing range of the person he sought.
Cain turned away. He'd lost interest in this pointless game. Better he return to the VW to see if he still had the chore of getting rid of it.
Then the more pressing matter of finding the thief.
12
"so this is your hometown, rink? i have to take back what I said about pickup trucks, huh?" "Damn right!" I don't mind admitting when I'm wrong. I thought I'd be flying into a sleepy town full of wooden shacks. Instead, I found a vibrant city to equal any in the midwestern U.S. I was knocked back by the sprawl of beautiful high-rise buildings, fine museums, and scenic parks along the banks of the Arkansas River.
Not that Rink was gloating. His smile was all pleasure while pointing out the major landmarks, reminding me that Little Rock was the capital of the Natural State, and not some piss-pot backwater as I'd thought.
"Pity we couldn't take the scenic route so I could see even more of your fine town."
We were in a rental car we'd picked up at Adams Field, otherwise known as Little Rock National Airport, following a four-hour flight from Tampa. The car was a regular sedan, nowhere near as flashy as Rink's Porsche, but clean and comfortable nonetheless. More trunk space, too. Rink drove. It was easier that way. This was his old stomping ground, and he could get us to our destination much quicker.
That had been the plan. Yet it seemed to me that Rink must've been a cabdriver in a past life, judging by the winding way we took through town.
"Yeah, Le Petit Roche sure has come a long way," Rink said as he pushed the sedan through a downtown convention and entertainment district. I think Rink himself was impressed. "I think you're forgettin' that this was Bill Clinton's first capital city, Hunter."
"I'm not forgetting, Rink. I didn't know. Full stop."
"Man, you're just too ignorant for your own good. Admit it, you weren't expecting anything like this, were you? We've even got the brand-new, one-of-a-kind William J. Clinton Presidential Center and Park right here in Little Rock," Rink said, indicating off to his right with a wave of his hand. "It's sure a sight to behold."
"Like Disney World?" I asked.
Rink frowned. I smiled unabashedly.
"We far from Louise's place?" I asked.
"Not too far. Another five minutes or so."
"You said that five minutes ago."
"I did. Now ain't that strange?"
"Harvey going to be there?"
"Said he'd meet us at a diner where we can speak to Louise on neutral ground. Doesn't want to be se
en around her house in case anything comes back on him." Rink gave a shrug. "I don't know what he's gettin' all bowed up about. It's not as if Petoskey's the goddamn Godfather or nothin'."
"Like you said, though, he's got connections," I said. "I'm starting to worry that we're underestimating his outfit. City this big and important, he must be a key player if he's controlling the politicians."
Rink shook his head.
"Petoskey's a two-bit asshole playing at the big time, just like I told you. It's not as if he's got the governor in his pocket, just some minor politicians and low-ranking cops who're taking bribes for favors."
I grimaced, but nodded.
Rink shot me a look. "I'm telling you, man. There ain't nothin' to get riled up about. I know his type. Thirty years ago, he was froggiggin' for meat to put in his momma's stew, now he's eatin' the best cuisine and drivin' around in flashy cars. He's poor white trash actin' like a big important hotshot. On the grand scale of things, he's nobody. An' he knows it."
