by Andy King
“No, bring it to Santa Monica.”
“Gotta be neutral ground, pendejo.”
A hesitation, Zolo probably trying to contain his temper after the insult. Eddie did know some Spanish.
“Neutral ground in Santa Monica, a public place.” Apparently Zolo and McKuen had worked out a plan. A different voice came on the phone.
“Look man, stop screwing around. I can burn the paper and forget the necklace.”
Suddenly immersed in sweat, Eddie recognized McKuen’s voice. He had worked way too hard to get to this point.
“OK,” he said, trying to sound calm. “I know who you are and you know I can reach out and touch you any time I want.”
The implied threat seemed to work. Silence on the other end.
“You can have what you want, we make a trade,” Eddie said in a reasonable tone. “You and me alone, that’s how it’s gonna be.”
More silence. Eddie thought he might have heard scratching, like McKuen writing a note to Zolo. After five seconds Zolo came back.
“You win. Tonight, Santa Monica Pier, in front of the—” Eddie heard a muffled voice, then, “The carousel, in front of the carousel.”
Good enough. Eddie knew the Pier was open twenty-four seven and people would be around.
“Nine o’clock, in front of the carousel,” he said. There was a pause.
“OK, nine o’clock,” Zolo said, then three soft beeps.
Eddie paced around his office trying to burn off stress. He had time to make a plan and he was sure he would have ideas. Would McKuen have people stationed nearby? Again, Eddie thought about hiring the psycho killers, but nixed that idea. Anybody else gets hurt, it’s jail. Need to surprise him, get there early.
The element of surprise seemed to be the best bet. He carried the box to his truck. Surprise was the starting place. He could figure the rest of it out.
A hundred yards into the ocean on the Pier it was about seventy and breezy, warm for the time of year. Hours before their meeting, Eddie was there for reconnaissance. He found a spot at the railing and munched some takeout from Bubba Gump’s.
At the end of the Pier was a two-story restaurant and the harbormaster’s building. He had already decided against going in that direction. Toward land was the best escape route.
An amusement park with a roller coaster, Ferris wheel and other rides was at the foot of the massive old structure, the carousel about a third of the way between the entrance to the Pier and the end.
Eddie winced, regretting letting Zolo tell him where to meet. Should he call back and cancel?
The piece of paper danced in front of his eyes. He straightened, then faced the breeze. No, his plan was good.
McKuen didn’t know what he looked like, but he had seen McKuen. With that advantage he could blend in with the crowd. Given the mild weather there were sure to be plenty of people, the Pier a major draw.
After McKuen stationed himself, Eddie planned to move around behind him, wherever that might be. Sneak up behind McKuen, jam the gun into his back and make him hand over the paper. Keep it simple.
If McKuen tried to fight him or move away, Eddie had no problem shooting him and rifling his pockets. He had the ski mask he used when he picked up Amy McKuen.
Shoot, pull on the mask, find the paper, run.
Eddie dodged a couple guys with Go Pros, threw away his trash and walked to his van.
_____
Dennis’s face was crimson.
“You are not going out there alone, Steve, no fuckin’ way!”
Zolo stood leaning against the wall, arms folded. He agreed with Dennis and had already said so.
“I’ll have a gun, I won’t use it unless I have to,” McKuen said. “Too many people around.”
“That’s what he’s counting on! He doesn’t care if he shoots somebody! Goddamn it!”
Dennis threw his cap on the floor. His blond mane exploded and a big clump of hair stood straight up. Zolo stifled a smirk, stepped forward and held up his hands.
“Dennis is right, you cannot go alone.”
“Well that’s what I’m doing,” McKuen said. “I get it, you guys are looking out for me, but this is my fight.”
The three of them stared at each other, Dennis’s scowl fierce, McKuen’s eyes on fire.
“OK Dennis, let us go,” Zolo finally said. “We give Steve some time to think, maybe he comes sensible.” He nodded at the door.
Dennis pinched his brows together. He pointed at McKuen.
“Look, man. I’ve known you almost twenty years. I get it, it’s your last tie to Mindy. C’mon, you can’t go risking your life for it, please?”
McKuen looked away. Dennis picked up his cap. Zolo opened the door and walked out. Dennis clomped after him and shut the door. The barroom was full, March Madness accelerating. Cheers broke out and bottles clinked.
Zolo gestured out the front door. On the sidewalk he moved away from the bar and stood in the alcove of a closed shop. Dennis joined him.
“No way we let him go there alone,” Zolo said. Still red-faced, Dennis looked at him.
His features relaxed. “You want to tail him?”
“I think we send some men early.”
“Oh yeah, good. Get a lock on the guy, take him out before.”
“There is maybe no way to know who is this puta.” Zolo spat on the sidewalk. “He will make his self known soon enough. If is OK with you, I pick three men and tell them what they need.” He pointed toward the Pier.
“They go there at seven o’clock, go hang out separate. You know, like they don’t know each other. Buy food, maybe play games at the booths—they turistas.”
“A stake-out.” Zolo nodded vigorously.
“Then we get there ‘bout five minutes before nine, but not near the carousel. One by the parking lot and one behind the big wheel.”
“The Ferris wheel.”
“Yes, Ferris wheel. Have the three other men up close, they drive this asshole at you or me. Sound good?”
Dennis looked at the ground, thinking it through. He adjusted his cap, then smoothed his hair behind his ears. Finally, he looked up and nodded. Zolo knew Dennis understood tactics. He just needed a minute to visualize all the moves. Serious as an undertaker, Dennis looked Zolo in the eye.
“Let’s do it.”
_____
Fatigue fell on McKuen’s shoulders like a heavy blanket. His eyes stung.
He called Amy and made an excuse for why he would be late, then pulled his gun out of the safe. It was clean and ready. He stashed it in a desk drawer with two extra magazines and a business card sleeve containing the all-important piece of paper.
Sleep beckoned. Time enough for a nap but his mind wouldn’t stop grinding. He was now pretty sure how it would all play out.
He dialed back his chair, thinking. He remembered working in his father’s repair shop when he was a kid, riding his Stingray bike under the purple and magenta sunsets. So much simpler.
He knew what was right and he knew what was just. Memories of the necklace, memories of Mindy, had him in their grip.
He couldn’t let go, couldn’t live the words his friend Tamra said years before: control is an illusion.
15
Cheers rang out, rattling the door. He must have fallen asleep.
McKuen opened his eyes. Light was fading in the sky. Better get moving.
He stood up, canting to the side, then straightened up and pulled back his shoulders, unlocked the door and walked across the hall to the Men’s room.
Cold water on his face, he felt more alert. He went back to his office, opened the closet and pulled out a denim jacket with big inside pockets.
The Glock 19 fit perfectly, an extra magazine on the other side. He decided to leave the third one. If thirty cartridges weren’t enough he would probably be dead anyway.
He wiggled the paper out of the plastic sleeve, the cryptic letter and number combination as inscrutable as ever.
He had an idea.
He pushed the paper back in the sleeve and found a lighter in a drawer. He held the flame under the open end, making a crude heat seal. When it cooled, he tucked the plastic deep in the right front pocket of his jeans.
The clock on his desk said seven forty-seven. The Pier was a short drive but he wanted to get there early.
McKuen was as ready as he would ever be. He picked up his phone, shut the door behind him and locked it.
He walked out the back door with only one thing on his mind.
Let’s get Mindy’s necklace.
_____
Eddie surveyed the Pier. It looked like a fun place. He should bring his wife sometime. He bet you could see the Ferris wheel for ten miles on a night that clear. Up close it was spectacular, at least ten different colors in thousands of neon lights.
The wheel dominated the swirl of amusement rides. Stretching west, the next quarter of the Pier held souvenir booths, street vendor snack stands and restaurants, lit like the Vegas Strip.
The darker promenade area trailed out to sea, illuminated by antique street lamps. Wide enough to fit four large trucks abreast as it left the vending area and extended into the ocean, fishermen dotted the side railings. Hundreds of people strolled the quarter mile length.
Eddie lounged in the amusement area Hippodrome, the carousel in sight. He was careful to appear to be waiting for somebody, idly interested in the crowds. A pedestrian caught his eye.
Something about the young Latino seemed wrong. Was it the way he walked, nonchalant and athletic? Eddie looked for a gun.
No telltale bulges. The man turned and Eddie had a clear view of the small of his back. Nothing under his T-shirt.
Ah—flared jeans, the left leg was fixed and motionless near his shoe but the right one flopped normally as he walked. An ankle holster, so maybe be one of Zolo’s crew?
Eddie wasn’t born yesterday. Yawning, he scouted for other potential soldiers.
There—on the other side of the Hippodrome, another Latino, about his age, eating a hot dog. He also appeared to be doing nothing important.
Eddie realized why they looked out of place. Most men out on the Pier on a Sunday night would have a date with them. Those that didn’t were like him, there for a serious reason.
His jaw tightened. McKuen was breaking the deal. All bets were off. Go to Plan B.
He sneaked a glance at his watch. Six minutes before nine.
_____
McKuen was pretty sure he’d found his man. Not only did the Latino wearing a cap look too bored and unoccupied, he also looked familiar.
Tucked behind a grey maintenance shed, McKuen couldn’t see the entire carousel area. Show his hand or wait?
If he waited and ran the clock past nine, the man might become anxious. He might make a mistake. And he might leave.
McKuen didn’t think so.
He wondered if the man had broken his own condition and brought reinforcements. Fifty-fifty.
Hired guns would put the odds in the guy’s favor, but it would make a clean getaway harder, and somebody might talk. McKuen decided the man was alone.
9:01. He stepped out from behind the shed and started around the carousel, avoiding a glance in that direction.
When he reached a large open area facing the promenade, he stopped. He pulled out his phone. 9:03.
He looked around as if he might be meeting somebody. The man had disappeared.
McKuen strolled five yards toward the promenade. And saw the guy step into view between two booths.
The man beckoned toward the wide walking area and moved to the left out of sight. McKuen took a deep breath and headed in that direction.
When he reached the promenade, he looked right toward land, and then left down the Pier. A couple of two-story buildings stood at the end, one brightly lit, the other dark.
Several dozen people strolled, about half approaching and half walking toward the end. The man was nowhere in sight.
He had moved toward the end when he slipped out of view. Perfect.
As McKuen fell in with a pack of pedestrians, he thought about his courtship with Amy. They had come to the Pier and—
He felt a hard object pressed against his jacket.
“Keep moving and don’t look back.”
McKuen smiled inside. The key was in the lock.
“Walk faster,” the voice said. “Your men are still back there, but they’ll figure it out.”
Zolo and Dennis, right on. A tumbler turned with a click. He lengthened his stride.
The gun pressed harder, then less hard, as the man’s steps fell in and out of sync with McKuen’s.
He was glad he hadn’t tucked his gun in his belt at the small of his back. The man would surely frisk him, but there was a tiny chance he could miss it in the inside pocket.
At this range it wouldn’t matter. His tormenter could blow a hole in his spine in a quarter second.
It looked like his plan was working. The guy thought he’d suckered him. Now just don’t get too confident, play worried.
The brightly lit, yellow-roofed restaurant was getting closer. A stairway led up to an observation deck on a grey, two-story structure next to it, probably an official building.
The gun’s pressure backed off. The man might be looking behind them.
He ran.
Too crowded to shoot, he hoped.
The stairs looked good, but deserted. Better keep people around.
Into the restaurant, he threw elbows, making random turns. He tried to avoid an elderly woman and ran into a waitress. He heard yelling, but could tell it was only from his wild moves.
Finally he reached a door near the back and pushed through. He shut it and looked through the glass, the only commotion the wake he’d left. A few people were bending over, picking things up.
“Pretty smart.”
He whirled and stared at the barrel of a nine millimeter semiautomatic. A cylindrical tube protruded. Silencer.
McKuen’s peripheral vision kicked in. They were standing on a deck with the bay behind the man. Millions of lights showed in the distance. A jet was taking off from LAX.
“Hold out your arms.”
The man patted down McKuen’s right side, then switched the gun to his left hand and patted McKuen’s left side. He raised the gun to McKuen’s face.
“Very slowly, with your left hand only, open the left side of your jacket. Keep your right hand up.”
McKuen did so. The man extracted McKuen’s Glock without moving his eyes. He slid the Glock in his right jeans pocket and switched his gun back to his right hand.
Out of the corner of his eye, McKuen could see the back deck was deserted except a couple snuggling at a picnic table. He hoped they didn’t catch stray fire. The plan was going well enough, and he had no intention of giving in.
“The paper,” the man said. McKuen looked him in the eye.
“The necklace.” The man stared back, his eyes so dark McKuen couldn’t see the pupils.
“Paper first.”
Hope this works. McKuen brought both hands together. With his left, he held open his right jeans pocket and with his right, started to reach in.
The man took his eyes off McKuen’s face. The gun wavered just enough that…
McKuen kicked up. The gun flew in an arc. The man’s jaw dropped. He reached for McKuen’s gun.
McKuen bulled him with a shoulder, knocking him over. McKuen spun off, recovered, and leapt to where he heard the gun clatter to the deck. Off balance, he found it and pitched forward. Rolling, he came up in a crouch.
The man was gone.
McKuen saw movement reflect off a window. He jumped up and raced after it.
There was a stairway up to the second story. He took cover behind it.
He gripped the gun with both hands and peered around the corner. Slowly. Carefully.
He only saw the deck, rippling black seawater in the distance. Wisps of fog floated past, like ghosts.
Perspiration dripped down his side. He h
eard nothing, but knew the guy was there. Somewhere.
Should he move? Or stay? Waiting always worked better but he felt like a target.
This had happened before. A dream?
Ow! He fell from a sudden blow.
The gun slipped from his grip. Move!
He scrambled to his feet, unsteady, started to run and crashed into a table. As he went down, he heard the whaannng of a bullet ricochet next to his head. Lucky. Somebody screamed.
He scrabbled on all fours and crouched behind a table. The man was walking toward him, pointing a gun.
No thoughts—he jumped up, three steps to the left and four to the right.
He heard a loud bang from the Glock, then glink from the silenced Nine. Time for the exit plan.
The railing. Three giant steps and he rolled over.
Clawing air he took a breath and blooosh! cold water. He let himself sink.
Eyes open, everything was pitch black. He heard a dull thunk. A bullet? He tried to stay underwater as long as he could.
Running out of oxygen, survival instinct took over. He paddled for the surface. Then a huge breath as he caught air.
Lights and sounds pounded his senses. No gunshots. People yelled and beams crisscrossed crazily. McKuen stayed in the lee of the pilings until he could sort things out.
“Steve!” It was Dennis.
_____
A half hour later, shivering under a coat, McKuen stared at the man. The air was chilly but the guy was sweating.
There was something about him. At first he couldn’t place it. Then he realized he saw the man on a security recording not long ago. It was him, all right.
They were standing in a small parking lot on a beach frontage road, two of Zolo’s men training pistols on the guy.
The veins on McKuen’s neck were throbbing. His head ached where he’d been clipped with the gun. The wound stung from saltwater.
“Give me the necklace,” he croaked. The man looked defiant.
“I’m not screwing around,” McKuen said. He lowered his voice. “Give me the necklace and I’ll let you drive away.” The man glared but appeared to grasp that it was his only chance at freedom.
“It’s in my van.”
