Dead Men's Dust jh-1

by Matt Hilton

  Telfer inclined his chin. "You seem to know a lot about the process of making counterfeit notes. Do you also know who's in the printing game? Who'd be prepared to buy the litho plates from you?"

  Nodding his head, Cain said, "Well, I have to admit . . . you've got me there."

  "I've already set up a deal. I'm supposed to meet the buyer tomorrow."

  Cain snorted.

  "It's the truth. Why would I lie to you?"

  "Who are you meeting with?"

  Telfer shook his head. "Christ, man. Give me a little credit, will you? I'm trying to save my life here. You can't expect me to tell you who I intend selling the plates to."

  "I could cut the name out of your throat," Cain pointed out.

  "Yes, you could. But it wouldn't do you any good. My buyer won't deal with anyone but me. He's too afraid that the FBI is onto him to deal with anyone he doesn't know. If I don't show at the meet, he won't show."

  "Touché."

  "So that means that you need to keep me alive, or the deal will be off."

  "How much money are we talking about here?"

  Telfer exhaled. Indicating the pile of money, he said, "About two hundred grand for that." He paused. "Maybe half a million for the plates."

  Cain raised an eyebrow. "Seven hundred thousand?"

  "Three fifty apiece."

  Cain shook his head. "Seven hundred for me. You get to stay alive."

  The corners of Telfer's mouth turned down.

  "That's the deal," Cain told him. "All or nothing."

  "Okay," Telfer said after a beat. For the first time in hours, he appeared to have relaxed into the seat. "You've got yourself a deal."

  Cain smiled as well, restacked the litho plates. "Yes," he said. But his voice held all the promise of a serpent.

  It had been a long night. And he'd done a lot of thinking.

  He wasn't a greedy man. If he wanted something, he just took it as his own. Appropriated the chattels of his victims as if they were the spoils of war. He'd never found it difficult to finance his lifestyle before, but he had to admit that the thought of a cool seven hundred thousand bucks rang sweet even to his ears. Especially when enunciated slowly.

  Seven. Hundred. Thousand. Dollars.

  Undeniably, the subject of the money was a distraction. He'd pondered taking what was already available and making do, but the thought that the bogus money could spell his downfall made him hold back. Why risk blowing his cover by passing a fake note at a goddamn McDonald's when he could have as much of the real thing as he'd ever require?

  Not only that, but the thought of playing Telfer like a pawn appealed to his sense of the grandiose. He'd allow Telfer to touch the money, hold it in his hands, let him sniff the stench of riches beyond his dreams, before finally snatching it away from him. That would be just punishment for the trouble he'd caused.

  Then, of course, it would be a pleasant trip out into the desert for the final reckoning.

  Yes, the subject of the money was a distraction. But so was what he'd just witnessed on the motel's TV set. He wasn't one for watching television. Never had been. The only reason he'd switched it on was to mask their conversation from guests in the adjacent rooms.

  He wasn't averse to seeing his handiwork on the screen. But there

  was a major difference this time. He had a good mind to telephone the freaking FBI and put them right about a thing or two. Particularly regarding Telfer's part in the slaying of the two drifters he'd appropriated the VW from. Why the hell should Telfer get any of the glory from that?

  "Don't you be getting any big ideas," he said. "We both know who killed those two, and before long everyone will know the truth. How anyone could even think you were responsible is beyond belief."

  He turned from the TV to observe the trussed form lying on the recliner. Telfer hadn't the faintest idea what he was referring to. He was asleep, fatigue finally overcoming his fear and discomfort. Cain raised an eyebrow. He listened to Telfer's breathing patterns. Not feigning, then? Definitely asleep.

  Cain made a noise deep in his throat, the call of a quizzical owl. He leaned forward and switched off the TV. Then he walked over to the recliner, lifted his foot, and nudged Telfer awake. It was Telfer's turn to make owl noises, this one startled and ready to take flight.

  "Chill out," Cain told him. "I'm not going to harm you."

  Stiffly, Telfer squirmed up to a sitting position. It wasn't an easy task with both hands and feet bound. "What's going on?"

  "Almost time to go," Cain told him.

  Telfer sucked in a couple of breaths, exhaled long and loud. Then he rocked forward so that he was on the edge of the recliner. He nodded at his bonds. "You planning on carrying me outta here?"

  "No," Cain said, "I'm going to allow you to walk. But remember that I'll be holding a gun. Shout or try to run and I'll kill you. I don't care how many people are around, I'll do it. The truth—as they say— will out."

  Telfer gave him an odd look. He had no idea what Cain was referring to. Cain smiled to himself. Let him wonder. Let him fear.

  Cain indicated Telfer's feet. "I'll cut you loose in a moment. Your hands'll stay tied until it's time to leave."

  "Okay."

  "If you want to use the bathroom I'll let you."

  "That's good of you," Telfer grunted.

  "That's okay. Don't want you thinking I'm a total bastard."

  "The thought never crossed my mind," Telfer said. He watched Cain. The ghost of a smile played across Cain's lips.

  "What've you got in your fridge? Anything cold to drink?" Cain asked.

  "Nothing. Unless you like milk."

  Cain made a face. Then, hopefully, "Chocolate milk?"

  "Cow's milk."

  Again the face.

  "There's always tap water," Telfer offered.

  "I'll pass," Cain said.

  "You know, I think I do need to go to the toilet."

  Cain tsk-tsked. "Better only be a number one. I refuse to wipe your ass for you."

  "You could always loosen my hands," Telfer suggested with a smile.

  "Your hands stay tied till I'm good and ready."

  Telfer shrugged. "Do you want to unzip me?"

  "Forget about it," Cain said deep in his throat. "You can go just before we leave."

  Telfer gave him a wink and a jerk of his head.

  "What are you so goddamn happy about?" Cain demanded.

  "It's good to be alive," Telfer said.

  "Yeah," Cain said. "Just keep that thought in mind and we'll do just fine." He glanced at his wristwatch. "Okay, time to cut these ropes. And no Bruce Lee stuff. You try to kick me and I'll shoot your feet off."

  If Telfer could have raised his palms, he would have. "I thought we'd made a deal. I'm not going to try to escape. I've promised you I'll do the deal for the litho plates. You've promised that you'll let me live. I'm happy with that."

  "I'll only be happy when you're out of my frigging hair," Cain grunted.

  "You could always let me go now," Telfer offered.

  Cain snorted. There was something disarming about John Telfer that appealed to him. Something that made him smile. Maybe killing him was a little extreme? No, it was just. An eye for an eye. Telfer had stolen his Bowie knife and thrown it away. It was fitting that a knife be used to punish him in turn.

  Cain made Telfer push both feet out. Then, in a swift draw that would have shamed a gunslinger, Cain brought out the scaling knife and swiped it down in a shallow arc. The cord from the Venetian blinds that he'd used to tie Telfer's ankles gave with a twang and Telfer's legs sprang apart. Before Telfer could control his wayward feet, the knife was back in Cain's waistband.

  Cain gave him a tight smile. The quick-draw display was for more than the purpose of loosening his prisoner's legs; it was a show of his skill with a blade. Something for Telfer to dwell on while they traveled together.

  "So how're we gonna do this?" Telfer asked.

  "We're going to go out to my car. I'll ha
ve the gun. Simple as that."

  "Do I get to put my shoes back on?"

  "Obviously," Cain said.

  "What about my backpack?"

  "I'll carry it."

  "My spare clothes?"

  "Leave them," Cain said. Again he smiled, but this time there was a cold edge to it. "If you wish, you can always come back for them afterward."

  Telfer sat back, lips pursed. "Do you want to pass me my shoes or can I fetch them myself?"

  "Here," Cain said, slinging his shoes to him. Telfer squeezed his feet in without the benefit of untying the laces. "Ready?"

  Telfer smiled in affirmation.

  Cain came forward. He held the gun in his left hand, and again drew the scaling knife with his right. This time the motion was languid. He pressed the gun to Telfer's forehead. "Easy now," he warned.

  Telfer didn't move except to raise his bound wrists. Cain snicked apart the electrical cord. Telfer dropped his hands but continued to work his wrists in small circles, attempting to get the blood flowing again. Cain backed away.

  "Now," Cain said. "We do this nice and easy. We go out of the room and down the back stairs. You'll lead the way. When you get to the ground floor, go to the right, go around to the parking lot. When we get there, I'll tell you where my car is. Okay?"

  "Got it," Telfer confirmed.

  "And remember: try to alert anyone . . ."

  "And you shoot me."

  "Got it," Cain mimicked.

  Telfer rocked his weight back in the recliner, using the motion to bring himself to his feet. As he came up, his right hand remained behind him, hidden momentarily from Cain's view.

  Cain was ready for Telfer to make a break for freedom, but not at that instant. Not while Cain still held the weapons. He was totally unprepared for Telfer whipping his arm toward him, the blade of his very own Bowie knife slicing the air before him.

  "Whoa!" Cain yelped, taking a step back. Out of reaction his response wasn't to bring up his gun, it was to grab his scaling knife. If Telfer wanted to, he could have sprung in close and gutted him in one motion. But despite Cain's dazed senses, Telfer never followed through. Instead, with a smile on his face, he twirled the knife over and presented the handle to Cain.

  "What the hell?" Cain demanded.

  Telfer said, "This the knife you were so concerned about?"

  Cain gaped at Telfer for a long moment. Telfer returned his stare, watching him steadily. Finally, Cain gave his head a little shake, seemed to come out of his daydream. "So you didn't toss it away? You had it all along?"

  "Down the back of the recliner," Telfer said. "A trick I learned back home. You never knew when you'd get a visitor with less than your best interests at heart. Not that I ever needed to pull a knife before, but I was always prepared. Just in case."

  "You could've killed me. You could've escaped." Cain appeared to be mildly impressed. "Why didn't you?"

  "I'm not a killer," Telfer said.

  Cain stared at him.

  Telfer sniffed. "Just call it an act of faith, okay?"

  Cain's eyebrows shot heavenward.

  "I've given you back your knife." Telfer paused. "All I ask is that you stay true to your word."

  Cain bobbed his head in answer. Slowly he reinserted the scaling knife in his waistband, then tentatively reached for the hilt of the Bowie.

  Taking it, he withdrew it slowly from Telfer's grasp. "I've done you an injustice, after all. Perhaps you're more dangerous than I thought. Maybe I should kill you now and get it over with, huh?"

  In answer, Telfer raised his shoulders. "If that's the way it's gonna be, there's nothing I can do about it. Not now that I've given you back your knife."

  His head tilted to one side, Cain beamed a smile. "You know something? For a thief, I think I'm beginning to like you, John. Maybe I will let you live after all."

  "Just maybe?"

  Cain tapped the flat of the Bowie on John's chest. "Let's not attempt to fool each other. We're both the same in many respects. One thing is obvious; we can both lie. If I told you that I promised not to kill you, would you believe me? Perhaps it's best I simply say 'maybe.' At least then you can't be sure. Does that not give you a modicum of hope?"

  Telfer shook his head in bemusement. "When you put it that way, I suppose it does. Can I ask you one thing before we leave?"

  Cain raised his chin.

  "Can't we do this in a civilized manner? Without the threat of a gun constantly pointed at me?"

  Cain agreed. "As an act of faith?"

  "Precisely."

  "Lead on, then, John. You know the way."

  Telfer turned toward the vestibule. Cain slipped the gun into his trouser pocket and followed on behind. The Bowie he held like a baby cradled in his arms.

  "Where are we going, anyway?" Cain asked.

  "Marina del Rey," Telfer said over his shoulder.

  Cain glanced down at the magazine spread out on the coffee table. All the beautiful yachts. He laughed. "I should have known."

  29

  we walked out of lax into brilliant sunshine tinged with smog. "Welcome to Los Angeles," Rink said. I stifled the urge to cough. Rink laughed to himself. "You get used to it. Just try not to breathe for the next week or so and you'll be fine."

  We hailed a cab and followed Route 405 north. Off to our left was the vastness of the Pacific Ocean. We only got snatches of the blue expanse, but I was constantly aware of it. Something about the sky over the sea, like it hovered over a magnificent precipice. Signposts over the highway indicated Marina del Rey, Venice Beach, Santa Monica, all off toward the sea. All places I'd have loved to visit given the opportunity.

  To our east, Hollywood and Beverly Hills beckoned, but we continued north past the Getty Center until we hit the 101, then joined the flow of traffic heading east. We passed Universal Studios, and like most, I craned my neck hoping to see someone famous. Then we were fast approaching Pasadena, where Rink had set us up a place to stay.

  We had to speak to a house manager, something like a low-rent

  concierge, who had an apartment on the lower floor of the apartment block where we were going to stay. He gave Rink a key card and directed us to our apartment, gesturing with the ham sandwich he held in his hand.

  When we found our apartment, it turned out to be bigger than I'd expected. We both chose a bedroom, then convened in the lounge area. It was clean and roomy, and the air-conditioning was a blessing after the sweltering drive. Still, neither of us wanted to remain cooped up there for long.

  "Want to hit the shower, then go out and get a bite to eat?" Rink offered.

  "Sounds like a plan," I admitted. "But I think the shower can wait. My stomach thinks my throat's cut."

  "What do you want?" Rink asked. "Silver service or burger an' fries?"

  "Burger and fries all the way, big guy," I said.

  "I know just the place," Rink said.

  He took me to a diner with the unlikely sobriquet of Spicy Johnny's—I couldn't stop myself laughing, the name conjured up the kind of ad you see emblazoned across those coin-operated machines in men's restrooms. I have to admit, though, Spicy Johnny flipped a mean burger, and his Caesar salad topped off with breaded onion rings was to die for. A side plate of Cajun-spiced potato wedges and a huge banana shake finished me off.

  Back in our rooms, we fell asleep almost instantly. Even my worry about John was shoved to one side by the more urgent need for quality rest. I slept for the best part of two hours, waking when the sun was at its zenith and its most intense.

  My body was dripping with perspiration and I could put off my shower no longer. Coming out of the stall feeling almost human again, I could hear Rink moving around in his own room. Vacating the bathroom, I went into the living room. I popped a bottle of mineral water I found in the fridge and sat back on a comfy chair in front of the TV. The news was on, so I watched.

  When Rink was finished getting ready, he joined me. We'd already discussed local contacts, and Rink was going t
o set us up with an LAPD officer named Cheryl Barker to see what they knew. Before that could be done, there were still a few things left over from Little Rock that I wanted to lay to rest.

  "I feel a bit of a heel leaving Harvey to pick up the pieces we left behind."

  "Harve'll be fine," Rink assured me. "If we hadn't allowed him to do something for us, it'd have hurt his feelings. He's a sensitive guy, you know."

  I laughed. To look at him, Harvey was unstoppable, as if you would blunt an ax trying to mark his shiny dome. But Rink was right; I'd seen Harvey's vulnerability when he had to take a step back from the assault on Sigmund Petoskey. It wasn't easy for him to sit on his haunches while the rest of us went into the thick of it.