Last Call lf-4

by Baxter Clare

  "I know, I know," Noah whined, veering toward the hallway.

  "Noah!"

  He stopped.

  "Don't move," Frank ordered. She crabbed up next to him, blocking the hallway. "Go back to the car and get demo and homicide in here. I'll get the baby."

  "No way."

  Noah surprised Frank by making a rush past her. He almost got by until she threw her shoulder into his ribs, shouting, "Damn it, No, don't make me kick your rucking ass in here!"

  She could, too. Noah knew that and paused to consider this latest threat. They stared at each other for seconds that seemed like minutes, Frank loving Noah, marveling that he'd take the risk even as she was infuriated that he assumed the right to.

  "Think it over, dumb fuck. Who's got a wife? Who's got kids? Come on. Move over. Let me do it. I'll be okay if I keep low. Besides, Tracey'd kill me if I let anything happen to you."

  Noah reluctantly crawled back a few paces.

  "Shit," he called after her scuttling butt. "Don't make me have to call Maggie."

  Frank heard him but didn't hear. She'd seen the almost invisible line tied around a closed doorknob. She traced the line to where it retreated into the doorjamb. She didn't see a connection across the hallway and continued. Sweat tickled the underside of her arms, incongruously erotic, given her state of terror. She eyed the walls. They were lined with snapshots in cheap frames and shelves crowded with knickknacks. Anything could be rigged up there. With amazing recall she remembered every war story she'd ever heard in the Academy or patrol room about walking into booby traps.

  Continuing to creep along the carpeted floor, she realized the baby had stopped crying.

  Shit, she thought. Hang in there, little guy.

  She paused at the open door to an unlit room. Reasoning that the door would likely be primed only when it was closed, she hustled past, glancing into a darkened bedroom. She was bone-jellying grateful as Noah encouraged helplessly, "You're doing great."

  "Yeah," she tried to joke. "Think I'll make the back of the Law Enforcement Bulletin?"

  "Only if you die."

  "You sure know how to make a girl feel good."

  She approached a third door. It was open. Frank searched for a telltale line, saw none, and proceeded beyond a brightly lit bathroom. In addition to fingering her way through the dirty brown carpeting, she remembered to check above her head. There she saw an axe head peeking from behind a high framed mirror. She had visions of it flying down at her, as if swung by demons in a horror movie.

  "Jesus T. H. Christ," she mumbled, pausing on her elbows, ass low.

  "What? What is it?" Noah called.

  "He's got a fucking axe up there. Doesn't look like it's wired to anything, though. What a fucking nut."

  "Be careful," Noah answered.

  "Ain't gonna get up and tango with you, if that's what you're thinking."

  "Damn," was the game reply. "One of these days."

  "Don't hold your breath, buddy."

  The ribbing calmed Frank as she faced two more doors. The one on the right was closed and she easily spotted the rigging on the knob. The door opposite was open. She sidled along the carpet, approaching the darkened doorway until she made out a crib against the curtained windows.

  "Hey, little guy," she called to the baby, more to comfort herself than the baby, who was still disquietingly silent.

  Using her prior logic, that an open door wouldn't be rigged, she started crawling into the dim room. Rustling, then a gurgle came from the crib, and Frank saw a lump that looked like a baby.

  She stopped four feet from the crib, shouting, "Why's this guy booby-trapping his house, Noah?"

  The quick answer was, "To keep his wife from stealing the baby?"

  "That's what I'm thinking. So what would be the first tiling you'd rig?"

  "The baby's room."

  "Bingo."

  The lump in the crib moved, and large brown eyes looked at Frank.

  "Hey," she said to the baby. "If I didn't want anybody to take you the first thing I'd rig would be your crib."

  The baby stirred listlessly and Noah asked, "See anything?"

  "Uh-uh. That's what's scaring me."

  "Is the baby okay?"

  "Looks like it."

  "Frank, get out of there. If the baby's not bleeding to death or unconscious, let's just wait for demo to get him out. He'll be all right a little longer."

  The anxiety in his voice belied the rationality of Noah's suggestion. It sounded like a good idea and Frank weighed it seriously. She asked, "Shouldn't the baby be crying if there's nothing wrong with it?"

  "He's probably exhausted. Been crying since yesterday. A few more hours won't kill him."

  Christ, Frank thought. What am I doing here? Why didn’t I just leave this for demo?

  Then she said to Noah, "In for a penny, in for a pound. Besides, I gotta get on the cover of the Bulletin."

  "Next year," Noah whined. "Come on."

  Hearing his concern, she was tempted to turn around and crawl back the way she came, but she advanced toward the crib. Stretching gently onto her belly, she swept her fingertips around the bed's legs. Then she raised an arm and fingered the railings for line. She almost pissed her pants when she touched a sprung mattress thread.

  The bottom of the crib seemed safe enough, but Frank wondered how to get the baby out without standing.

  "Where are you?" Noah asked.

  "Right by the crib."

  "Shit. Come on, Frank. Let the demo birds do this."

  Frank tugged at a blanket on the floor, waited, then pulled it toward her. Waving it above her head, she prepared for a blast. None came. She waved the blanket over the crib with similar results. Still waiting for a gun to go off, Frank slowly raised herself to a kneeling position, a crouch, and then tentatively stood. She reached for the baby.

  "I got him!" she yelled to Noah.

  She turned with the baby against her chest just as she heard the KABOOM and felt the concussion of the blast pass her head. The blast deafened her but she felt the baby renew its crying and she lifted her head just enough to yell, "I'm okay, No! I'm okay! I got the baby!"

  Not sure how she'd tripped the blast, she froze where she was. Remaining face down in the rancid, crumby carpet seemed the best option. Just sit tight and wait for the bomb boys to come. At least wait for her ears to clear, but Frank wanted desperately to be out of this room and out of this house. Her body insisted she move, but her mind demanded she stay. Paralyzed, she'd listened to the warring inside her. Eventually an overpowering need to pee had forced her to scuttle back to Noah.

  Tonight, bedeviled by dead friends and lovers, haunted by busted relationships, a precariously maintained job and an incomprehensible craving for alcohol, Frank feels exactly like she did on the floor of that filthy bedroom fourteen years ago. She is terrified to move forward and can't go backward. Stasis seems the only alternative. It's enough just to keep breathing.

  Frank imagines calling in sick tomorrow and staying on the couch until she runs out of Scotch. She can call a liquor store and have them deliver more. She'll write checks until she's out of money, and that'll be a long time. She has months' worth of vacation and sick time. She could just sit here until she dies or the bank forecloses and sends her to an institution. Neither ending seems unpleasant, nor implausible.

  With marvelous effort she pulls herself upright. Leaning over the guns on the table, she fingers each one.

  "You been with me the longest," she addresses the .38. "Outlasted everyone."

  She cradles the wheel gun in her left hand.

  "Remember that duster that came at me? You saved my ass that time. And that Piru that wanted to eat me for lunch? Saved me then, too. Hell, you had my back first day on the job, with that pig FTO Roper. Don't think I didn't know you were there." Trading the .38 for the .357, she tells it, "He's my boy, but you're my girl."

  The barrel is long and blue, as finely turned as a beautiful leg, and Frank easily pulls
Gail from her memory drawer.

  "Aw, Doc. Best legs in the world. Miss Universe legs. Betty Grable got nothin' on you." Frank draws the satiny barrel across her lips, mumbling, "God, I fucked that up. Righteously and completely fucked it up."

  Eyes shut, she slides the steel against her mouth. The metal warms to her touch and Frank dreams the gun is Gail. She kisses it, lightly teases her tongue around the tip of the barrel. Her aching is monstrous. She lowers the gun to her lap. It nestles like a puppy with the .38. After a long pull on the bottle she picks up the 9mm.

  "And you, my friend, are just a killing machine. About as sexy as the mess you made outta Timothy Johnston's brains."

  A couple years have passed since she killed the dealer in a bust gone bad, but she can still see his do-ragged skull flying up into the air. In slow motion. Some things you never forget. The Beretta joins the other guns in her lap.

  She's been drinking for effect, going hard on twelve hours now, but her head and heart are sickeningly clear. Rolling the bottle against her forehead, she whispers, "Where's the click?"

  She opens her eyes to the trio of weapons in her lap. Talking large gulps from the bottle, she reevaluates each weapon. The .38 is short, stout and effective. The little engine that could. Reliable, solid and friendly. She could never betray it like that. It wouldn't be fair to the gun.

  But the .357. Now that's a sexy gun. Just suck and squeeze. What a fucking mess she'd make. And who'd find her? The cleaning lady? That'd be cruel. Frank would have to leave an extra big check. Probably someone from the squad would come over. Maybe Fubar would send a unit. They could handle it. Probably get some good jokes out of it, too. But as much as she loves the .357, she doesn't have a history with it. It'd be like fucking a gorgeous stranger.

  The Beretta's the way to go. The 9mm is a working gun. Quick, blunt, to the point. All square edges and efficiency. Nothing personal, just business. It would understand why she chose it and be glad to do its job.

  Frank puts the other two guns on the table. She leans her head back. Closing her eyes, she caresses the Beretta. She shakes the towel off, holding the gun in her right hand, the bottle in her left.

  It'd be so simple. One squeeze, and pow.

  Done.

  Over.

  Frank puts the barrel in her mouth. Savors the tang of metal and oil.

  Her thumb slides over the safety, clicking it off. Her finger wraps around the trigger. Home.

  The clip is full.

  One squeeze.

  Less than a second and five pounds of pressure.

  Kaboom. Bye-bye baby. Hasta la vista.

  Frank's heart is thudding. She can feel it in her chest like a tiger in a trap. She has the power to stop it. Forever. Like Noah's heart.

  Boom. One squeeze. Game over.

  Frank's hand shakes. She swallows. Her mouth is dry.

  She recalls George Thorogood's line, You know when your mouth be getting dry, you 're plenty high.

  She wants to laugh. Sweat runs into her eyes and she loves the sting. She's really shaking now, her finger still curled around the trigger.

  Jesus Christ. One squeeze. That's all.

  Just do it.

  Do it.

  The barrel chatters against Frank's teeth. Sweat and blood make the grip slippery.

  Pull, just pull. Quick!—and pow. Game over. Lights out.

  Dandy Don singing, Turn out the lights, the party's over.

  Frank's finger curls tighter. She considers her backdrop. All clear.

  Go ahead.

  Pull!

  Pull!

  A delay in programming causes the TV screen to go black. For just a second. And in that second Frank catches her reflection, hand jumping, gun in mouth, and she is throwing up. She sweeps the guns onto the floor and pukes until she's dry-heaving, coughing up blood. She can't stop the shaking. She staggers into her room and wraps herself in the bedspread. She slumps on the floor, almost convulsing. All she can think is, seconds and inches. Seconds and inches.

  In time her shuddering subsides and with it the terror. She feels as scoured as a beach at low tide. Dropping head to knees, she looses hot, clean tears. When they dry, she pulls the phone off the night-stand. It takes her a couple tries to hit the right numbers, but eventually the phone connects. Listening to it ring, she pleads, "Be there. Christ All-fucking-Mighty, please be there."

  A sleepy voice answers.

  "Hey. It's Frank."

  "Goddamn. What time is it? You forget I'm not your LT anymore?"

  "I didn't know who else to call."

  He may be retired, but Joe barks back, "What is it? What's wrong?"

  He stays on the line while Frank searches for enough guts to answer.

  Joe encourages, "What's the matter? Tell me what it is."

  "I can't do it, Joe. I know you did. Maybe you can tell me how."

  "What can't you do?"

  Frank squeezes her eyes shut. She forces the answer. "I can't stop drinking, Joe. And I'm afraid something bad's gonna happen if I don't. Something real bad."

  The silence is as long as the distance between L.A. and Minnesota. When it's broken by a war whoop, Frank despairs that her connection's been severed. But then Joe's laugh is in her ear, and it sounds like he's crying when he says, "Girlie-girl! You don't know how long I've been waiting for this call!"

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Baxter Clare lives in Central California with her spouse, artist Anno O'Connor. In addition to writing novels, she holds a Master's Degree in Biology and works as a wildlife biologist. She is the author of a non-fiction work, Spirit of the Valley (written as Baxter Trautman), and three previous L.A. Franco mysteries. She is at work on her fifth novel.

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