by Dane Hartman
And one more thing: rest.
C H A P T E R
T h i r t e e n
When Harry and Owens turned up at Mary Beth’s uncle’s place—a comfortable and unprepossessing home, with architecture vaguely suggestive of Mexico, set among the streets that snake through Laurel Canyon—they looked somewhat more presentable but still a mess. Their host, McKinley Ninn, a man getting on toward seventy but in no hurry to arrive, failed for an instant to recognize Owens and was almost ready to slam the door in his face until Owens spoke up and identified himself.
Ninn frowned and scrutinized Owens with an eye to determining his true identity. “You sure this isn’t another one of your disguises?”
“No disguise, Mac,” Owens said, referring to him just as his wife did. “We had a little adventure on the way over.” He introduced Harry.
Ninn took Harry’s hand and motioned them in. “What you fellows need is a drink. No, let me modify that statement. What you need is a number of drinks.”
“And food,” Owens said. “Haven’t had anything to eat since lunch on the Air West flight we took.”
“I’ll put some steaks on the stove. No problem.”
Since his wife had died and his children gone away to school and to their respective careers, Ninn had lived alone, surrounded by memories frozen in time in the many photographs and posters from old movies that covered virtually all the walls in the house. And while his television was constantly on, and could be said to be his only companion, he seldom bothered to watch it. “I think of it the way I do wallpaper,” he said, gesturing to it. “I wait for the late night movies, the good ones, what Howard Hawks and Frank Capra used to do. Those people knew how to make movies. The ones working today, bah!” He snorted in disgust.
Harry imagined that this was the sort of set speech he gave to everyone who entered his house, regardless of how many times they’d heard it before.
The steaks were good and the drinks restorative but exhaustion soon set in as the hour got past eleven. Harry and his partner managed to stay awake long enough to watch the final news broadcast of the evening come on, though what they saw was only a repetition of what they had gone through earlier: fire flickered on the 21-inch screen and, because one blaze resembles another in the way it progresses and in the destruction it causes, the only way they could tell that it was Sunland going up and not Carbon Canyon was by listening attentively to the commentator’s voice. Because of the gravity with which these brush fires were viewed (twenty-five-million dollars estimated worth of damages and at least three deaths credited to them), the fire that had devastated the house on Ocean Boulevard hardly rated a mention. It was not even accorded the importance of a still photo, let alone a video spot, perhaps because it was reasoned that there was just so much the public could stand of fires. The commentator, a blandly handsome man with an airbrush hairdo, did state that arson was suspected and that detectives from the arson squad could be expected to investigate. The implication was that they would do this only when they could get around to it, for several of the brush fires were also suspect and there were only so many detectives to go around.
“Tomorrow we go back to Santa Monica and talk to some of the neighbors,” Harry told Owens.
“You think any of them are going to talk after what happened there tonight?”
Harry shrugged. “Let’s just hope so.”
Ninn showed the two men to their rooms. “You get Hank’s,” Ninn told Harry. “He’s my oldest. And Drake gets Tommy’s. That’s the middle one. Went off to M.I.T., Tommy did, then dropped out and now does medical illustrations for some company in New York. Strange how your kids turn out.”
Harry had the feeling that Ninn would have gone on discussing his absent family and his life as a producer in Hollywood had they not cut him short, very politely of course, and said good-night.
“Poor Mac seldom has anyone to talk to,” Owens said when Ninn had gone downstairs to continue reading and waiting for a decent movie to come on the air.
“That’s all right,” Harry said. “Anyone who makes a drink as generous as he does can be easily forgiven. I will see you in the morning.”
Harry closed the door, and quickly getting out of his tattered clothes that he hadn’t bothered to change before, he dropped on the bed and was out like a light.
In the living room downstairs McKinley Ninn was busy changing the channels until he found a Hitchcock movie from the forties that he’d already seen at least four times. No matter, he settled himself back with a bourbon adulterated only by some slender chunks of ice, prepared to be pleased all over again.
From time to time he would doze off but then would come awake again, usually during a commercial break. But he had no difficulty figuring out what had happened while he’d been unconscious; he had the plot firmly memorized.
Close to one-fifteen he fell asleep for a longer interlude than usual because when he opened his eyes again it was almost two and the movie was in its last, climactic scene. He leaned forward, in a slightly uncomfortable position so that he would not drift off so easily again. He did not want to miss the ending, no matter that he knew it by heart.
And it was because he concentrated so much attention on the television set that he failed to hear the slight noise that came from behind him.
The man who now stood directly behind Ninn’s chair was accustomed to silence. He looked like someone who had been entrusted with a great many secrets in his time. His face was a cipher, a blank. His body was thin, pared down, wiry and short like the body of a jockey. In one hand he gripped what in the country of Colombia they call a chonta, a dowel-like instrument used by Indians.
With the practiced movement of a professional, he reached out with his free hand, and, grabbing Ninn under his jaw, he managed to clamp his mouth shut. For a man so small and thin his hands possessed an astonishing strength. In an instant he had succeeded in hoisting Ninn partway out of his chair. Ninn was so taken by surprise that he was incapable of reacting quickly enough.
For his assailant wasted no time. Having neither a conscience nor a mind that carefully weighs moral choices, he never hesitated in the performance of his unusual task. He took his chonta and thrust it decisively into the exposed neck and drew it down Ninn’s chest, easily ripping apart his shirt and no less easily his skin and the muscle and organs that lay beneath, gutting him as he would a newly caught fish.
Ninn’s body convulsed with the sudden trauma but in less than a minute ceased its resistance. The chonta had perforated so much that was vital and released such grievous hemorrhaging that there was no question of Ninn’s surviving past the ending of the Hitchcock film, which was concluding on the set.
The assassin surrendered his hold on Ninn, it no longer being essential, and Ninn with the quiet and grace that had characterized his life slipped back into his chair, his head crumbling to his bloodied chest.
Now the man wiped the chonta against a curtain, cleaning it of the blood and glutinous viscera that had accumulated along its shaft. Satisfied that he had it restored to its original pristine condition, he began up the stairs. He took the additional precaution of a 9mm Short, a handy gun easily contained in the pocket, with push-button magazine release, a fully adjustable target sight, and a seven-round magazine.
Harry awakened, and he came awake with such suddenness that at first he was disoriented. Lying in this strange bed, observing the shape his shadow took on the ceiling, he wondered where in hell he was. He felt like shit, his body belatedly remembering the ordeal he’d been through: the burns, the scrapes, the swelling bruises all began crying out for attention.
Then it occurred to him just where he was and what his situation was, and he decided that it should all wait until morning before he seriously considered what his next step should be. But sleep wasn’t anxious to come back to him. He was too fully awake. His mind was filled with just one thing: Teddy on the 17th. His only clue, and it did not seem to lead anywhere. He regretted being deprived of an oppor
tunity to explore the house further, for he was certain the evidence he was seeking must have been there. Or why else would somebody—the mysterious Teddy perhaps?—burn it to the ground? And how had it come about that he and Owens were followed? How had the murderer discovered that they were on their way to Los Angeles?
Distantly, he heard footsteps, scarcely audible against the carpeted staircase. He assumed that it was Ninn finally making his way to bed. But there was another sound, one so low that he had not been conscious of it before. He realized it was the television set, still going downstairs. Then presumably Ninn was retiring for the night; perhaps it was the bathroom at the head of the stairs he wanted. But no, that made little sense, since Harry recalled using a bathroom downstairs.
And because he was of a suspicious nature to begin with, and because something did not feel right to him, though if asked to say what it was he would not be able to articulate it, he quietly climbed out of his bed and, still in his underwear, unsheathed his .44 and slipped up to the door of the room and pressed his ear against it, listening.
The man on the stairs stopped, not because he was aware that he might have been heard—on the contrary, he was certain he had not—but because he was deciding which of the two rooms closed to him he should investigate first. After a moment, he made his choice and attaining the landing, advanced directly to the room Owens occupied.
Again he did not hesitate, opening the door so quickly that the hinges did not squeak or offer more than the most muffled sound that Owens, sleeping much more deeply than Harry had been, did not register.
This man, this cipher, had eyes that were sharp, better than 20/20, and his night vision was acute, which made him all the more valuable to those who employed him. He could discern his target, his victim, in the bed, distinguish his form from the shadows and darkness that abounded in the room. Preferring silence as a matter of course and because he did not wish to alert his other intended victim to his presence, he crept up to the bed, which was positioned against the rear wall, and then, when he reached it, stood for just an instant staring at Owens, who still had not stirred. He was enjoying the power he had, and was now about to use, over those who were helpless to resist him or even to realize that their lives were in jeopardy.
Harry, so close to the door of his own room, distinctly heard Owens’ door being opened. He listened further but could hear nothing more. Nonetheless, he clutched hold of the doorknob and very carefully, very carefully, twisted it and gradually drew open the door until he had a crack from which to peer out into the hallway. But all he could see was what his ears had just told him—that the door to Owens’ room had been opened. Otherwise just darkness.
He decided to step out into the hall, though he could not help but produce enough sound to warn the assassin that he no longer could hope to complete his work in peace. Because the assassin was temporarily distracted, he did not immediately plunge the chonta into Owens but turned to see where this sound had originated.
He caught sight of Harry perhaps an instant before Harry caught sight of him. And in that instant he fired. Though the bullet went way wide of its mark, it did wake Owens.
When Harry returned the fire, a wall mirror hanging over the bed exploded into thousands of fragments, which flew into the air before clattering down to the floor. Both Owens and the assassin sustained minor injuries as glass pinched their flesh.
Owens reacted with commendable speed, jumping out of bed and rolling under it since he had no other option. His gun was way over on the far side of the room.
The assassin, angered that he had lost one man, at least for the moment, without getting the other one, sank into a crouch and fired again. And again, though Harry had darted to the other side of the exposed doorway, out of his sight.
It was then that he turned his attention to the bed, thinking irrationally that Owens would somehow still be there. When he saw that he was gone he was a bit confused as though Owens had pulled a Houdini-like disappearing act. But then the assassin quickly realized his error and understood that there was no place else but under the bed that Owens could be. He risked a second to peer down and see, lowering his gun before his eyes.
Owens watched him as he did this and recognized that there was no way he could get out of his line of fire in time. So Owens did the exact opposite, the most unexpected thing—he crawled toward him and confronted him head-on.
Right then, Harry, crouched behind the protective wall, allowed his head to protrude out enough so that he could see into the bedroom and seeing, fired.
The assassin was looking right into Owens’ eyes when the .44 went off. Though the man’s gun was virtually at Owens’ temple, he was so astonished to see his would-be victim at such proximity that he did something he had not in his entire career ever done—hesitate a moment too long.
The round from the .44 took the assassin in his back, shattering his spine and toppling him over so that he sprawled on the floor in a bed of broken mirror glass. Still, he was alive and moving and had not lost hold of his gun, which he fired twice in reaction though this did not accomplish a thing.
Harry, still keeping the wall as a barrier, fired again as the assassin attempted with painful effort to roll out of the way. Luck had not altogether deserted the man, though it was just about to. The .44 sped into the bed, its impact muffled by the mattress stuffing in which it was eventually ensnared.
Despite the enormity of the pain and the certainty of his impending death, for to live would mean enduring life as a cripple from the waist down, the assassin blindly turned his 9mm Short away from Harry, directing it under the bed, hoping to hit Owens and in that way take somebody else with him when he went out.
He managed to get off two more rounds before Harry’s bullet slammed into his chest, plowing through his right lung and out his back, thereby quickening his end. He flopped back, one hand clasped hold of the entry wound, feebly pushing against it as if to stem the tide of blood. Desperately, he made an effort to raise his head but could not. A wind-like sound whistled through him, and as it emerged from his lips he died.
Now Harry drew himself fully erect and entered the bedroom.
“Drake?” he called out, “Drake, are you all right?”
When he received no reply, he grew alarmed and got down on his knees to better look underneath the bed.
Owens was lying there, but he was unmoving. Harry maneuvered the bed out of the way so he could get closer to him.
Blood was seeping out of two wounds that had entered his side, one appeared to have gone into his abdomen, the other into his chest. He was still alive but barely conscious. His eyes followed Harry, but he seemed unable to talk.
“You’ll be all right, goddamn you, you’re going to make it,” Harry kept saying over and over. It was the nearest he ever got to praying.
With sheets he tore from the bed and ripped into smaller pieces, he tightly bound the two wounds to staunch the bleeding. But there wasn’t much blood to be staunched. Far greater was the danger from the internal injuries, and there was no way Harry could determine just how grave these were.
He reached for the phone, fearing that the assassin might have cut the line, but the phone was still in service.
With the terseness of a veteran detective he explained his situation to the police, emphasizing the need for an ambulance and medical assistance.
Perhaps because of his impatience, the police seemed to take an unusually long time in getting to the Ninn residence. In the interval Harry had managed to throw on a shirt and trousers and to discover, as he had expected, that Ninn had been murdered. The television was still going, but the station that was on was broadcasting “The Star Spangled Banner” before signing off.
Harry neglected to turn the TV off though, and even as the ambulance screamed up the street and police officers invaded the house, with guns drawn as though they anticipated a firefight that had gone on and ended without them, the test pattern remained, buzzing like a deranged horde of mosquitoes about to a
ttack.
C H A P T E R
F o u r t e e n
“I understand that your friend is to be operated on again today,” the solemn-faced man with hair the color of the Antarctic was saying. This was Detective Sergeant Matt Butterfield of the LAPD, and he sat behind his desk with his hands folded rather in the manner of an obedient schoolboy.
Harry was sitting across from him, his face expressive of an exhaustion that is so total it is no longer worth trying to do anything about.
“That’s right. They performed emergency surgery last night. But there’s still another bullet lodged in him. They’re hoping to extract it today.” He looked to his watch. “They should be in surgery right now.”
“What do the doctors say?”
Harry shrugged. “They’re hopeful. Cautiously optimistic, as they say. But they don’t know if he’ll pull out of it. It’s too early to tell.”
Butterfield nodded. He then unfolded his hands and thrust forward a collection of photographs, most of them taken in a precinct house. They were all of the same man, who wore a look of detachment so pronounced he could have been posing for his wedding picture rather than for a booking on attempted murder charges.
Harry had no trouble identifying the man in these photographs. He was the man he had killed the night before.
“His name’s Tom Loving. Otherwise known as ‘Pigeon.’ ”
“Pigeon?”
“People thought he resembled one. A rat with wings, you know? Turns out he also raised pigeons, racing them for a while. Weird fellow, could never keep him locked up for longer than a couple of years. Best we could stick him with was assault and battery or attempted armed robbery, shit like that. Always managed to beat the system, got out the last time because the probation board noted his good behavior.” Butterfield released a bitter laugh. “Good behavior, that fucker probably didn’t know the meaning of good behavior when he was at his mother’s tit.”
