Shooting stars and comets filled my head. Another powerful blow struck me in the stomach. I doubled over, gasping for breath. He hit me again. The mirrored door broke and I went backward through the glass and fiberboard into the closet. I lay on the carpet, naked and bleeding, unable to breathe. Voices filtered through red haze at the edge of consciousness.
Somebody kicked me in the ribs. I didn’t respond.
“He’s done,” said the same voice.
He was right. After getting hit by a bunch of fists and a door, I was done.
“Where’s the money?”
“He can’t help you. Get his wallet!” Someone closed the door to the corridor.
I was aware of two young men, hinky and nervous, yelling at each other. It upset me that they were yelling, offending my sense of professionalism.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, somewhere deep inside where I keep the rational side of my thought processes, I was reminded that I wasn’t supposed to root for these guys. I wasn’t on their side.
I opened my eyes, careful not to attract attention.
The two young thieves, opening drawers and dumping my clothing on the carpet, were a nightmare Laurel and Hardy. One was tall and thin, emaciated like a junkie, the other short and powerfully built. Both were totally bald, shaved heads glistening like oiled bowling balls.
The taller one picked up Paul Peters’s leather jacket and pulled out my wallet, fanned through it to verify its contents, and stuck it in his hip pocket. The short, thickly muscled Hardy, who reminded me of a fireplug, took the wallet away from the junkie.
“I’ll keep it,” he said. There was no objection from the tall bandit. Fireplug retrieved my Rolex from the cabinet top, then got down on his hands and knees and looked under the bed.
“What’s this?” He pulled my Halliburton briefcase into the light.
Most of the five thousand dollars Stevenson had given me for expenses was in the wallet along with my credit cards and other identification. That was an acceptable loss. The briefcase containing the quarter million to purchase Olympia was not.
I watched them try to open the combination lock. And I waited. The longer I lay there, the better I felt. The haziness began fading and my thinking became less fuzzy, slowly coalescing as the situation focused. I ignored the pain. It was insignificant. My body was tight. My heartbeat slowed to its normal sixty beats per minute, a steady pumping of the fluids. I became calm.
I was a carnivore, lying in wait for prey.
And they had to pass me to get to the door.
“What the fuck?” Fireplug was on his knees, my briefcase in front of him, the combination lock giving him trouble.
“What’s that?” The junkie reacted to a noise, a door slamming somewhere down the corridor. His eyes were wide and white around the pupils. His hands shook.
“It’s nothin’,” said Fireplug.
“I’m outta here!” The skinny junkie took two steps toward me and I came up off the floor and grabbed him by the throat and the testicles, using his momentum to pick him up over my head and swing him around in a full circle like kids playing airplanes. Fireplug turned just as I unloaded his partner on top of him, swinging him down in an arc that brought both men together with as much force as I could muster.
The tall one’s body covered the little guy and didn’t move. Fireplug squirmed out from under and produced a butterfly knife, which he held in front of him, aimed at my navel. I spread my arms wide, anticipating the quick stab. If he was trained, I’d have some problems. If he handled a knife like O. J., I’d be all right. I had about eight inches in height and probably a foot of reach on him. No matter what, he wasn’t leaving with that briefcase.
“Get out of my way!” The fireplug’s voice cracked. It wasn’t so much a command as a plea.
I shook my head, grinning. It must have given him pause. A big old white dude, naked and bleeding but still standing, still blocking his way to freedom, still challenging his authority even though he had the knife, and grinning like this was going to be fun.
“I’ll cut your little white dick off, you don’t move, mutha-fucka.”
“Your move, asshole,” I said quietly. “You came in here, you bought the whole thing.”
Confusion crossed his face. He had the weapon. I was the one who was supposed to be afraid. I was just some old tourist, easy pickings. Things weren’t going according to plan.
He made a feint toward my face. I went in under it, got his elbow in my right hand, his wrist in my left, and yanked backward with everything I had.
He screamed as the tendons separated.
He dropped the knife.
I kicked his leading shin, connecting with the ball of my foot, and he went down.
He lay where he fell, curled in a fetal position against the bed. I picked up the knife, found my soggy sweatpants where I’d dropped them and pulled them on, chancing a quick glance in the mirror. My face and back were covered with blood. I traced a finger over my forehead and found a deep cut between my eyebrows, souvenir of the edge of the door. Something stuck me in my back, causing sharp pain whenever I moved.
The two on the floor lay still. I poked their buttocks with my toe. I was not gentle.
“Hey!” Fireplug was conscious, still curled into a ball, holding his maimed right arm.
“Give me my stuff and get out of here,” I said.
“Fuck you,” said Fireplug, sniffing, his breath coming in quick pants. “You fucked me up.”
“Probably,” I said. “You’ll probably lose most of the use of that arm.” That was exactly what I’d intended.
“Fuck you!”
“Suit yourself. Give me my watch and my wallet and get up and walk out of here. I won’t call the cops. I won’t call Security. You get a free ride. Continue to argue with me and the fight hasn’t ended yet. You’ll leave through the window over there. Your choice.”
For the first time, the little guy really looked at me. He knew I wasn’t lying. “What about him?”
“If you can take him with you, he can go, too. Just make sure you’re only taking what you brought with you. I’ll keep the knife.”
He shook his head as if none of this were real, then rolled to the side, nearly made it to his knees, found himself off balance, and fell heavily onto his injured arm. He whimpered when he hit the floor, but he didn’t cry out. He was almost as tough as he thought he was.
“Help me,” he said.
“Nope. You’re on your own. My watch, please, and my wallet.”
“In my pocket.”
“Take them out and hand them to me.”
He struggled with his left hand, but managed to pull out my old stainless-steel Rolex Submariner and my wallet. He handed them over. I expected him to do something stupid, but he’d learned something in this room, and he wasn’t about to go over the line again.
I checked my watch and slipped it on my wrist. I’d bought it in Hong Kong on an R and R during the Great Southeast Asian War Games and had worn it without pause ever since. It kept passable time and because of its history, was one of the few possessions I really cared about. This young man was not the first to try to take it away from me.
“Get your buddy,” I said.
He looked down at the limp form at his feet. “I can’t. He’s too heavy.”
“Oh, come on,” I said. My voice had taken on a friendly tone, almost like the chiding of a favorite uncle. “You’re a big boy. You work on those muscles. Lift weights. You can do it.”
“He’s dead.”
I reached down and felt the carotid along the neck. The pulse was strong, his breathing regular. “No he’s not. He’s just resting. Now pick him up!” The last I shouted in a parade-ground bark.
Fireplug grabbed his partner and pulled him to his feet. The junkie’s eyes fluttered open. He looked around, not comprehending where he was. “Wha’s happening?” he asked.
“You’re going home, son,” I said. “You’ve had a bad day.”
; “Yes,” he said. He spoke as if he had seriously considered the word and found it profound. “I believe I have.”
“You gonna open the door?” Fireplug had his hand full trying to stand and support his partner at the same time. Another obstacle, like the door, seemed more than difficult. Well, that was the idea.
“Nope. No help. That’s the deal. You can do it.”
Fireplug struggled with his partner, finally getting him to stand on his own. The junkie didn’t actually stand. Fireplug just leaned him against the wall, pinning him there with his body. It was the only way he could get the door open. They shuffled into the corridor.
Before he closed the door behind him, Fireplug turned and glared at me, his anger coming back, bringing some courage with it.
“I sure hope I see you somewhere,” he said.
“You better hope you don’t,” I said. “That’s the other part of the deal.”
“What’s that?”
“I see you anywhere near this hotel again, you’re going off the roof.”
16
It took me longer to get dressed and out of the hotel than I anticipated and I arrived at Claire’s house long after my appointment with Ed Thomas.
Most of my injuries were superficial, but I had a sliver of glass wedged between my shoulder blades that I could not reach no matter how I tried. I didn’t want to involve the hotel. Security was already in a snit.
In order to explain the mess in the room, I reported that I’d lost my balance and had fallen through the mirrored door. That was the truth, but it wasn’t the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and the woman in the blue blazer didn’t believe it for a minute. In the end it didn’t take much to convince her. I was a guest, after all, and if a guest said he just lost his balance and fell over, then okay, it happens all the time. Sorry about that.
There was nothing she could do. She was too bright not to notice the cut on my forehead but she didn’t mention it. I’d refused medical treatment, signed a release that the hotel was not at fault in any way, refused a voucher for a free meal in the hotel’s restaurant. I even offered to pay for the damage.
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Caine,” she said. “You’re certain there’s nothing we can do for you?” She had to ask that question. Her report would go to the general manager.
“Nothing. I’m sorry about the door. It was my fault.”
“You didn’t have a fight in here, did you?”
“Why?”
“We spoke with two men in the lobby about ten minutes before you called. They had both been injured. One severely. Their injuries looked as if they’d been fighting.”
“Two men?”
She nodded. “Said they’d fallen on the quay wall and got lost and were cutting through the hotel grounds to get back to Harbor Drive. My boss recognized one of them from a previous incident. They’re strong-arm robbery types. The guest opens the door and they push their way in, beat the hell out of the guest, rob him, and leave. We called the police but we couldn’t detain them. No reason to. No guest had complained.” She looked me directly in the eye when she said that, almost a sneer on her face.
“Did they knock on your door?”
I shook my head. “Do I look that stupid? Open a door in a big-city hotel without knowing who was out there?”
“People do that When they’re on vacation, Mr. Caine. People get relaxed. They make mistakes.”
“Sorry. Didn’t happen.”
She frowned. “Well, I can’t make you say something you don’t want to say. You look like you’ve been in a fight. They look like they’ve been in a fight. You can’t get into trouble. You were the victim. If you were robbed, you should report it.”
I pulled out my wallet, showed her my watch. “See. Everything’s all here.”
She sighed. “Okay. You fell through the door. That’s what you want, that’s what I’ll write in my report. I sure wish you’d change your mind.”
“You really think they tried to rob me?”
“Do I look stupid?” She smiled. It was a conspiratorial smile, just between the two of us, letting me know she knew but didn’t really care. The guest wasn’t going to sue.
I smiled back. “No, ma’am. You do not.”
She took my signed release, started to say something else, but pursed her lips together as if she’d decided not to waste more time or breath. We both knew she’d tried her best, and we both knew I wouldn’t cooperate. I’d made a deal with those two, and I would stick with it, regardless of the circumstances. I didn’t think they’d be too active for a while, and my civic conscience was clear. They’d probably had more punishment this afternoon than the court system would give them in a year, and it didn’t cost the taxpayers anything at all.
As I showed her out, she turned and looked at the room once more, at the broken glass in the closet and its proximity to the door, at my forehead and its vertical gash. She took it all in, shook her head, and left.
The sliver of glass was biting into my flesh and still bled freely. I’d wrapped one of the hotel towels under my shirt and could feel that it was already saturated. I went into the bathroom, stripped off my jacket and shirt and the bloody towel, wrapped the remaining clean towel around me, and pulled my clothes back on. I rinsed out the bloody towel and hung it over the tub.
Before I left the room I reached under the bed and pulled out my briefcase. After the incident I no longer felt safe keeping it in the hotel. It was secure only when it was with me. I took it along, thinking to have Juanita stash it at the house. I knew I could trust her.
I had to hunch over the steering wheel on the drive to Point Loma to keep the glass shard from moving around. The rain kept coming down in sheets, decreasing visibility and giving me an excuse to drive slowly. By the time I arrived at Claire’s house, I was over an hour late.
An elderly pickup truck sat in the driveway, looking out of place. I parked behind it and made a dash for the house. Juanita opened the big oak door before I got to the porch, almost as if she had extrasensory perception. She grimaced when she saw my face, but said nothing. My forehead felt hot and swollen around the injury.
“It is raining,” she said. “And you are all wet again. Let me take your coat.”
I nodded, shrugging out of the sodden leather jacket. When I did, I heard her gasp.
“You are bleeding here, too!”
“Had an accident,” I said.
“What happened?” Ed Thomas came into the entry from the kitchen, trailed by another man.
“Tell you later. Can you get a piece of glass out of my back? I’d appreciate it.” I set down my briefcase, and had some trouble straightening up again after I set it down. The glass rode with the muscle one way and cut the other.
“Come in here,” said Ed. “The light’s better.” I followed him into the kitchen. I stayed stooped over.
“Take off your shirt and lean over the sink there.” I did. The towel dropped to the floor. Juanita picked it up and said something in Spanish too fast to understand.
“Juanita, you got some pliers?” Thomas asked. “Needle-nose would be good.”
Juanita took the towel and hurried from the room.
“What happened? You looked okay when I saw you this afternoon. Who needs the bodyguard? You or the lady?”
“Long story, Ed. Where is Claire?”
“Upstairs. On the phone. Something to do with her company. Juanita let us in. You called her, I guess, or she probably would have shot us. She made us show our badges and ID before she unlocked the door. When she did, she was carrying a piece.”
“You guys are her backup,” I said.
“This hurt?” Ed wiggled the glass back and forth with the tip of his finger.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Juanita returned with needle-nose pliers. When Ed tried and failed to grasp the sliver, complaining about his vision, she took over. She was not afraid to dig the tips of the tool into my back to get purchase on the glass and s
he tugged it out of the wound the first time.
“That’s a big one,” said Ed. Juanita held it up for me to examine as if it were a trophy I should be proud of. It didn’t look as big as it felt.
Juanita poured something on my back. It was cold and I could feel it bubble inside the wound.
“Stay that way for a minute, Meester Caine.” Juanita patted my back with a cloth, wiping the blood from my skin. “I’ll get you a bandage and another shirt.” It would be another of Peters’s shirts, I thought. I was cutting deeply into his wardrobe. The thought troubled me until I thought about it some more. Peters wouldn’t be coming back, no matter how this thing settled out. He was either the ex-husband or the dead husband. Claire knew that from the moment she had seen him in Mexico. I might have been the only one who had thought about him as Claire’s husband.
“Mr. Caine, I’d like you to meet Hatley Farrell. He’s retired San Diego PD. Best man for this kind of thing.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, turning my head toward a compact, balding man dressed in rumpled khaki trousers and an old blue sweatshirt. What little hair he had was snow white. A pair of thick horn-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He looked to be in his late seventies, a benign presence, like someone’s favorite grandfather.
“How long have you been retired, Mr. Farrell?”
“Twenty-two years.”
“Hatley was SWAT commander,” said Thomas. “I’ve used him for years. Good man.”
I nodded, thinking I’d either hired the Gray Panthers or the striking arm of the AARP. Thomas told me the man had been retired, but he’d neglected to tell me how long. This was the guy who was supposed to work evening to midnight. Claire now had two grandfathers and a maid guarding her. But then, she did have the skeet gun.
Juanita returned with the bandages and another shirt. I dressed and she bandaged my forehead. I had to sit in a chair and slump low so she could reach.
“What does the other guy look like?” Thomas grinned at me. My wounds weren’t serious and he knew it now and could joke about it.
Sand Dollars Page 9
