by Andy King
Counting to three as her psychiatrist had asked her to, Courtney started to raise her hand. She couldn’t do it and tried again, pushing against Asperger’s syndrome and a lifetime of unease.
So hard. I can do anything I want, she repeated silently for the hundredth time. She touched the woman’s hand for half a second.
“Please, can you help me?” she said. “I just need a hammer drill. I need the best one. And I need to go.”
“Sure, sure.” The saleswoman scooped up a box and paraded to a register. “You know, if it wasn’t you, I couldn’ta helped you,” she said. “We’re not supposed to.”
Courtney was busy looking for her credit card. It was somewhere. Back pocket. She pulled it out and handed it over. The young woman smiled wide.
“Can I please have your autograph?” she said.
Courtney took a mental snapshot. The face would be embedded in a work of art someday. She scribbled her name on a piece of paper, then hurried to the exit carrying the box and receipt. She was doing better with people, but it was hard.
She hadn’t been paying attention when she parked. Maybe back toward the fence above the freeway? She walked that way, scanning the rows. She stopped to look for her key. A man brushed past. She followed him then wandered up another line of cars.
To her left she saw a flash of bright blond hair, a young woman cutting through the lot. With a severe ponytail, not a hair out of place, she wore a lightweight suede jacket and expensive jeans.
The man bleeped a remote. Courtney looked back at him. He slid behind the steering wheel. The blonde followed him and stood next to his car. He sensed somebody and looked to his left. Young and trim, the blonde was smiling. She motioned for him to roll down his window. He did, and smiled back.
Courtney was only a row away, direct line of sight.
The blonde pulled a gun from the small of her back, held it behind her and squatted. The man leaned toward her.
She raised the gun and shot him twice. Two neat red holes appeared.
The man’s head fell and banged on the window frame. Blood dripped.
Courtney dropped the box. Her legs had no feeling. She leaned on a car.
The blonde stood up, unscrewed something and pocketed it. She walked away, cut a diagonal route between cars and went into Sears.
Courtney saw the whole sequence. Just ten seconds but it seemed like an hour.
A storm of flashing images and fear crackled. She struggled to focus.
Her eyes jiggled and jumped but tracked the woman into Sears. She tried to get hold of herself.
Frozen, she debated. Tell the parking guard? Call 911? Her phone was in her car.
She turned, stunned. At the far end of the parking lot she saw the young blonde walk across the freeway bridge. Without thinking, she memorized the face. Then she memorized the outfit and gait—precise.
Her head was tight.
Oh, oh, oh! I need to lie down.
Courtney somehow found her car and unlocked it. She sat behind the wheel and stared at the sky, not seeing. Disoriented and dizzy, she wondered what to do.
_____
Steve McKuen ambled down the sidewalk on Lincoln, restless. He stopped at a liquor store for a licorice stick and strolled back to Tony’s.
Almost eight, a band was setting up. Dennis was negotiating with the guitarist. McKuen gave him a nod and headed for the office. A minute later, Dennis popped his head in, scanning.
“Seen my keys?” McKuen looked around. Dennis spotted the keys and walked in. His phone rang in his hand.
“Dennis.” McKuen saw his eyes go wide.
“When?” Dennis listened for thirty seconds. “OK, I’ll tell him.” He clicked off and faced McKuen.
“You know Jerry Esterhazy.”
“Florida Grill. Oh yeah, he picked up Terri’s a couple months ago.” Dennis nodded.
“That’s him. Shot in his car yesterday.”
“Shot? Like dead?”
“Like real dead.” Dennis’s mouth pulled to the side. “Don’t know if we got a problem.”
“Huh?”
“Well, you.” Dennis sat down. “That was a…confidential source, OK?”
“Yeah.” McKuen blinked, not sure if he wanted to know more. “SMPD?”
“Not Coil.” They both had history with Charlotte Coil of the Santa Monica Police Department. McKuen rolled a hand.
“Why me?”
“With Esterhazy buying Terri’s, now he had two bars going head-to-head with Tony’s and Bart’s.”
“Yeah right, like I’d shoot a guy ‘cause he’s a competitor.” McKuen almost laughed, but Dennis’s expression stopped him.
“Wait, they’re not serious.” McKuen was still adjusting to the shooting. Being a murder suspect was too alien.
“We might get a visitor, or we might just get scoped out,” Dennis said. McKuen looked at the floor, and nodded.
“Oh well, nothin’ I can do. What time yesterday?”
“Mid-afternoon.”
“Mmm, we were out in the Tesla.”
“No witnesses.”
“You’re my witness.”
“What if I supposedly helped you pull it off?”
“Oh, guess there’s that.” McKuen felt a small bead of sweat roll down his back. He stood up.
“Like I said, nothing we can do,” he said.
Dennis stood, too. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” McKuen looked him in the eye. He would count on Dennis if his life depended on it.
“Thanks, man.”
Dennis walked out the back door.
_____
The next morning Amy McKuen bustled into the kitchen.
“OK, I’m off. With any luck, I’ll finish writing midterms, oh, sometime tomorrow. What are you doing today?” She hooked her dark brown shoulder-length hair over her ear and made a face at her phone.
McKuen was finishing his coffee, looking out over Santa Monica Canyon; peaceful, serene, blue sky. He smiled at her.
“I could just sit here all day.” She looked up and laughed.
“Doubt it, you’ll think of something.” She mimicked his constant operating, adjusting and fine-tuning. “‘Oh, I forgot to do this. Oh, Dennis needs to do that.’”
Six feet tall, still wiry, he stood up. On tiptoe for a kiss, arms around his neck, she was grateful for the attention. It’s the little things.
“You really have to go to work?” he whispered to her cheek. She sighed.
“Yeah, Lee’s gotta take the kids to Disneyland, some special deal.”
“But she works for you, right?” He nuzzled her neck.
“I know, but…” She broke away from the heat. “You give your people all kinds of breaks.”
“I’ve seen you with the orchestra, The Boss.” He grinned. She put her phone in her briefcase.
“Going along works for me.” She looked up and smiled. “You like it, anyway. It’ll be OK.”
Hand on the doorknob, she glanced back. In tune with his feelings, she prayed his pain was fading. He might never get over it, but hopefully he’d moved on. She stepped into the garage, started her car and drove to UCLA.
A few hours later she drove into Westwood Village, humming one of the Eroica Variations. She’d been dreaming of a slice of cheesecake all day. She pulled into a parking garage. A van pulled into the next space, too close. She flattened herself against her car.
The van door slid open. A man in a ski mask pointed a gun.
“Get in,” he said. She raised her hands, purse dangling.
“I’m not screwing around,” the man said. “Get in.”
No options. She stepped up into the van. He moved back, pointing the gun, reached over and slid the door shut. She stood hunched over. Hands still raised, she looked around.
“Sit on that.” He gestured at an upside-down crate.
Amy sat, lowered a hand and pulled her skirt down. Trembling, she started to open her purse.
“I, I—”
“S
top it. Don’t move.” The gunman backed into the passenger seat, gun still leveled.
Nothing like this had ever happened. Steve’s past? He had told her some vague stories. Not a lot of detail, just enough to be scary. Those days were over, he said. Though she knew him as a kind, honest person, he admitted that years before he was technically a criminal.
She peered at the disguised man. He was wearing gloves and a cap. Maybe his eyes were brown.
“I have some questions,” he said. “The gun is to make sure you behave.” A faint accent, maybe U.S.-born, but he grew up in a Mexican-American community. Gun steady, he seemed to be in no hurry.
He squinted, inspecting the neckline of her cashmere sweater. “You wearing a necklace?”
“You want my jewelry?” She really didn’t want to hand over her wedding ring, her marriage to Steve hard-won.
“Are you wearing a necklace?” he said through clenched teeth.
Better not make him mad. “No.”
“Where is it?”
“At home,” she squeaked.
“We may go get it.”
They sat in silence. He turned the gun sideways and rested it on his knee. It looked like he was thinking.
Steve had insisted Amy learn to shoot. It took several arguments. She wasn’t convinced but he wore her down. She hated it, but he always went to the range with her. The safety was off. Better cooperate.
He raised his chin. “Have you opened the locket?”
She had a glimmer of understanding. Well yeah. She nodded.
“What was inside?” he said.
“An old picture.”
“Who was in the picture?”
She couldn’t help it. “Old people.”
The man sighed. “You need to take this seriously. I don’t want to shoot you.”
“OK OK,” she said. “It’s a picture of my husband’s former wife’s grandparents.”
“What else was in the locket?”
Now she was sure, definitely Steve’s past. He’d told her about a criminal who acquired the necklace and had it for years. The guy probably hid the slip of paper she found in the locket. She might stay alive if she were truthful.
“A piece of paper,” she said in a hoarse whisper.
“What was on the paper?”
“Letters and numbers.” He tensed.
“What did they say?”
“Nothing, it was just a bunch of letters and numbers.”
“OK, I want it. Your life depends on it. Let’s go get it. Sit in the passenger seat.”
“Wait. The paper isn’t in the locket. I gave to Steve, that’s my husband. He said he would put it…”
She didn’t know where he put it.
“Where?”
“I don’t know. He said he would put it in a safe place.”
The man was silent, thinking again. He raised the gun and pointed it. There was a cylinder at the end of the barrel.
A silencer. She started to shake.
“I’ll shoot you,” he said. “I will shoot you if I think you’re lying. I know who you are, I know who your husband is. So think carefully. Where’s the piece of paper?”
“I don’t know, I really don’t know!”
The man lowered the gun. He rested it on his knee again and glared at her. It seemed like an hour passed.
“Move to the door,” he said. “Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll be right behind you.”
Back aching, legs stiff, she nudged herself up and moved a few feet.
“Open the door. Step out and wait,” he said.
A hard object pressed against her side. Still shaking, she slid the door open and stepped down. He pointed the gun at her cheek.
“Unlock your car. Lie down on the floor by the back seat. Don’t let the alarm go off.”
She punched the remote and the doors clicked. She opened the back door, flung her purse and lay down. His whisper was a snarl.
“I’m not going to tell you not to tell your husband or the cops. You will. But if you try to get the license number, I’ll come back and shoot you, got it?”
She nodded and made a noise. He punched the door lock and shut it.
Eddie Sanchez looked around, jumped in the van and slid in the driver’s seat. He started it up, checked the mirrors and backed out.
Level with her car, he scanned the back seat. She was lying there. Maybe she was trying to use her phone, but she was probably too scared. She wouldn’t move until she heard him drive away.
Not wanting to risk a kidnapping or murder charge, he had taken it as far as he could. She was telling the truth.
Shit.
He took off the ski mask, drove to the exit, paid and pulled onto the street. Return the van, walk a few blocks and pick up his own van. It would take over an hour to reach his garage. Plenty of time to think.
But there was nothing to think about, really. He’d have to go after McKuen.
3
Déjà vu.
Jaw tight, McKuen held Amy and comforted her. Years before, someone had held Mindy at gunpoint and forced her to deliver a message, too.
All of his control was concentrated on soothing Amy. Inside he was like a forest fire. Sooner or later he would let it out, lifting weights or running while thinking through the angles. She sniffled, no more tears.
“OK Steve, I can talk now.” She broke away and went to a chair. He stood waiting. She pulled a fresh Kleenex.
“It was a dark blue van, no windows on the sides,” she said.
Probably a rental. He smiled and nodded encouragement. She wiped under her eyes.
“He was completely covered.” She gestured up then down. “Ski mask, gloves, long-sleeved shirt and work boots. Maybe he had an accent. It was faint and it seemed to come and go.” McKuen raised his eyebrows.
“Like he was born here and grew up in East LA or something,” she said. It took a lot of willpower to steady his eyes and keep smiling.
Son of a bitch, not them. The Five was a Southern California drug cartel. He thought their operations had been shut down by the police, and hoped that subject was closed forever. He held up a finger.
“He asked about the necklace and the scrap of paper, right?” He was pretty sure The Five didn’t know about the necklace. She nodded.
“It’s all he wanted,” she said. “Where did you put it?”
“Not sure I should tell you. If you don’t know, you can’t tell.”
“Are you going to talk to the police?”
“Haven’t decided yet. I’m thinking about asking Dennis to have Zolo ask around, remember Zolo?”
Amy nodded. Zolo was Dennis’s personal P.I., more or less. He’d accompanied her for a couple of days a year or two before when John Christian was in town.
“Well, you know best,” she said. “I think this man is done with me. I’m going to start where I left off and go to school tomorrow.”
McKuen looked away. His impulse was to put three men with guns around her, but she wouldn’t stand for that. The guy was coming after him, anyway.
Talk to Charlotte Coil at the SMPD? There was a jurisdiction issue. The McKuens lived in Santa Monica, Westwood was City of Los Angeles. Ask her to talk to LAPD? Something to think about.
“Why don’t you go upstairs and take a nice long bath?” He wanted to call Dennis.
First he went to the garage. He had built a tiny home gym, soundproof so he could crank up the tunes. He took a deep breath and pounded the heavy bag barehanded.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Ow, that hurt. He stopped and shook his hand.
The Esterhazy murder and his desire to get out of the bar scene were on the back burner. The piece of paper was all-important.
Involve the police? No, they would ask too many questions. He went inside and called Dennis. They talked it over and Dennis agreed: get Zolo working on it.
McKuen cleared off his desk and pulled out a pad and pen. Amy’s safety paramount, he needed to figure this out. Obviously the man was real interested. He would
pop up soon.
_____
McKuen walked into Bart’s, his bar in Venice. Dennis’s office was a storeroom with beer cases stacked to make a sofa. He nodded at Zolo and made himself as comfortable as he could.
“You’ve got somebody watching Amy?” he said. Zolo nodded back.
“Dennis say she does not want a babysitter. Somebody is behind her when she drives but she cannot see him.”
“You’re a good man.” They smiled at each other. Zolo stood up and ran a finger across his thin mustache.
“I call Jerky.” He looked at Dennis. “If Mr. McKuen’s wife is detained, we should also watch Miss Olivia.”
“Let me think about it,” Dennis said.
Zolo slipped into a black leather jacket and moved toward the door. Dennis lifted a finger at McKuen.
“Zolo had a question.” He smiled. “All your drawing, I told him it was your plan for world domination.”
McKuen smirked. “Busted.” He looked up at Zolo. “It’s actually diagramming. Some people play music, this is what I do. It started as doodling but it went way past that when I got into the business. Now I have a system.”
“When it works,” Dennis said. McKuen cocked his head.
“Eighty, ninety percent, maybe. But people do random stuff, too much chaos.”
Zolo nodded in agreement. He eased out and pulled the door shut behind him. McKuen looked at Dennis.
“Didn’t want to get into it on the phone, but it’s gotta be about that piece of paper Amy found in the locket.”
Dennis’s head went back, eyes on the ceiling. “Crap. John Christian, dead but still fucking with us.”
“Somebody’s fucking with us.” They looked at each other, silent, mental wheels spinning.
McKuen shook his head. He was glad that Zolo was on the case, but he was still uneasy. What else could he do?
_____
McKuen took the next day off. Amy was shopping and then had to run an orchestra rehearsal. He called an old friend, Tamra Morrison, and made a lunch date.
A minute after claiming a table, he saw a tall, pretty black woman walk in and look around. He waved.
An inspector for the Department of Alcoholic Beverage Control, Tamra grew up in South Central LA. A single mother, she raised three children on a government worker’s salary. Radiant as ever, her philosophy led to deep peace. She glowed.
