The same pool player sank another ball; the other guy said “sheeyitt” again.
I told the counterman: “Tell Luis I’ll wait for him in the truck.” He picked his nose, examined his fingernail, then looked at me with the same expression.
I checked behind me, then backed outside. A half-dozen people ducked back into doorways and the sidewalk was empty yet again.
Then a shotgun boomed in the alley behind the pool hall and the day started downhill in a big way.
I got into the truck, started it, and waited for Wells to come through the pool hall with or without Ortega. At that point, I was betting on without.
When nothing happened, I popped the pickup into gear and took the first right, then braked at the mouth of the alley. Twenty yards down the alley, near the pool hall exit, a man’s body was slumped against the wall. Most of his face was missing.
At the far end of the alley, Wells threw his shotgun into the passenger seat of a waiting red Pontiac, then jumped in after it. The Pontiac lurched out of sight in a swirl of tire smoke.
Rafferty’s Rule Nineteen: When you can’t tell the bad guys from the good guys, it’s time to get the hell out.
So I got the hell out, but not quite soon enough.
A solid black Electra came sliding around the corner as I left a sizable chunk of Wells’s tires on the pavement. I beat the Electra to the first corner by five or six feet, no more.
There were several men in the car chasing me. I couldn’t tell exactly how many. At least five, though, including the driver and the front-seat passenger with the machete.
Behind the Electra there was an old Ford with another two or three angry men. Maybe four. The rearview mirror was pretty jiggly; I couldn’t tell for sure.
It probably didn’t matter much how many men there were in the Ford; the Electra was closest to catching me and they didn’t look like good sports about sharing.
The only bright spot was the F100. It was wide to begin with, and it was light enough in the rear end that I could hang the tail way out on the corners. The Electra couldn’t get past me. And the Ford couldn’t get past the Electra.
It was exciting, in a way, but I kept thinking about fox hunting. From the fox’s viewpoint.
Then the right front tire blew out.
The wheel jerked viciously in my hand; a spoke slammed back against my right thumb. It hurt so much that I stupidly glanced at my hand to see if the thumb was still there. Then the Electra rammed me from behind. The F100 bucketed up and over the curb, missed a fire hydrant by an inch or so, and shuddered back onto the road.
The Ford was already there, waiting. It rocked sideways into the F100; I bounced back up onto the curb. I had a fleeting glimpse of an old woman in black being dragged into the open door of a small grocery, then I was back on the street, fighting off the Ford by trying to side-bash him before he hit me. Behind us the Electra made random lunges at my rear.
It wasn’t a very even contest. For one thing, they each had four tires and I had only three. For another, there was this huge Hispanic who was leaning out of the Ford. He had a Zapata mustache, long arms, and a baseball bat. He kept bashing the bejesus out of the F100’s windows and roof.
I was getting slower and slower, being dragged back by the flat tire and repeated collisions with the Ford, the Electra, various curbs, and the occasional parked car. The F100’s motor sounded willing enough, but I couldn’t seem to get any of that power to work for me. We—the entire insane caravan—were down to about twenty miles per hour, roaring and scraping and smashing across one of the few major thoroughfares in that part of town, when I spotted the patrol car.
It was a Dallas Police Department Dodge, it was blue and white, it was only half a block away, and it was beautiful.
I turned toward it, expecting the Ford and the Electra to peel off when they spotted the two cops ticketing a motorcycle rider. They didn’t. On the wider street now, the Electra moved up on my right and tried to coordinate with the Ford’s rhythmic crashes.
We—the Ford and I—became entangled. We locked wheel arches, bumpers, something. The Ford’s designated hitter used the opportunity to lay the wood to my windshield. Things got pretty dim for a while there, then a grapefruit-sized chunk fell out and I could see again.
We separated—with a long, screechy noise—then I swooped back to the left, muscled the Ford out of the way, and crossed the opposing traffic lane, aiming for the parked cop car. The cops saw us coming—how could they not?—and jumped for the curb.
It was sort of a formation crash: I hit the police Dodge in the side, the Ford hit the rear wheel, and the Electra nailed the front wheel.
I kicked out the rest of the broken windshield, crawled out onto the F100’s hood and kept going, right on over the top of the patrol car. I took the shotgun with me, partly because it was evidence, but mostly because I didn’t want to leave it where the angry friends of Luis Ortega could get their hands on it.
Then there was a little bit of confusion. I remember the guys boiling out of the Ford and the Electra; there were nine of them, by actual count. I remember them howling abuse at me, but not being quite game enough to come over the patrol car.
I remember having the time, finally, to be angry at Toby Wells or whatever his name really was.
I remember the two cops pointing their sidearms in my face while the skinny one jerked the shotgun out of my hand.
And I remember the funny looks they gave me when I said, “Boy, am I glad to see you guys.”
Chapter 3
“Let me make sure I understand this,” Lieutenant Ed Durkee said. “This stranger walked into your office and said he was a bounty hunter. He seemed like a nice guy, so you waltzed over to west Dallas and helped him whack out a twenty-three-year-old pool cleaner.” Ed rubbed his basset-hound face wearily. “That about it?”
“Ortega was a pool cleaner?” I said.
“A pool cleaner. Not a bail jumper.”
Sergeant Ricco was there in Durkee’s office, too. He said, “You know, Rafferty, a pool cleaner. Guy with a great tan, carries brushes with long handles. He scrubs that green shit off the walls of a swimming pool. A pool cleaner.” Ricco leaned back against the wall, but he did it carefully, to maintain the crease in his trousers. As always, Ricco was dressed for a Damon Runyon theme party.
Ed Durkee glared at me. “Did this Wells character show you any ID?”
I shook my head. “Why would he?”
“He pay you?” From his tone, Durkee only seemed interested enough to hope I’d been stiffed for the fee.
“Two hundred.”
Ricco snorted. “Goddamn, Rafferty works cheap, Ed. Everybody else charges at least a grand for a hit. And he even drives his own getaway car. You suppose he validates, too?”
I said, “Droll, Ricco. Very droll. You guys let me know when you’re finished with this game, then maybe we can play a quick round of My Friend the Policeman Solves a Case.”
Durkee looked at Ricco; they both shrugged. Ed pawed through the papers on his desk and opened a file. “Okay,” he said. “Well, at least the victim’s name really was Luis Ortega. That’s something, I guess.”
“And he was only a pool cleaner?”
Ed looked at me even more dismally than usual. “You think I’m making that up, for God’s sake? He worked for an outfit called Aqua-Tidy.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’ll buy all of that, even a name like Aqua-Tidy. But can he please be a mad rapist on parole or something?”
Ed shook his head. “No way. Ortega was clean with us. No record, no warrants, no wants.”
“Uh, about Wells …”
Ricco came off the wall to get his two cents’ worth in. “That one don’t fly, Rafferty. We got nothing on a bounty hunter named Toby Wells. How good did those bail-bond papers look?”
Oops.
“Tell you the truth, guys, I didn’t exactly look at the papers he had. He looked at them, read a bit to me, then put them back in his …” Why go
on? It was too embarrassing.
“So he could have been anybody,” Ricco said. “Just some hot dog who walked in off the street.” His standard sneer became a trifle more pronounced.
“Well, hell, what was I supposed to do? Exchange secret handshakes? Check for initials inside his Bounty Hunter Magic Decoder ring? You know those bounty-hunter types. This guy just seemed right for the part. What can I say?”
Ed and Ricco looked at me like they had several ideas, none of which I might agree to.
“Okay, then,” I said, “the truck. Wells had that F100 I was driving and—”
“Stolen yesterday,” Ricco said. “From a used-car lot on Colorado Boulevard.” He grinned savagely and added, “They’re trying to total up the damage bill now. I think they might want to talk to you.”
“The Wells guy had a helper in the—”
“Besides you?” Ricco said, and wheezed at his own razor-sharp repartee.
“—in the Pontiac. I couldn’t see much because of that corner where the alley … uh, but …” I wished I hadn’t brought it up. It even sounded feeble to me.
Ricco, on the other hand, loved it. He cupped his right hand in front of his mouth and became a B-movie police dispatcher. “All Points Bulletin,” he droned. “Stop all Pontiacs on sight. Any model, any color, anywhere. Shoot to kill. Occupants may be …”
Ed and I just waited until he ran down. Then I said, “How about prints on the shotgun Wells gave me?”
“Lots of prints,” Durkee said. “One set where that uniformed officer took the gun away from you and a whole bunch more, all from the same person. Which means you. Which means it was wiped clean before it was given to you.” Ed waved a big hand vaguely. “We’re going to match the prints, of course, but that’s what we’ll find. Wait and see.”
“Yeah.” I didn’t tell them I’d wiped the gun myself because it was so oily. I didn’t have the nerve to admit I was that dumb. “Okay, then, how about the bail-bond companies? All those bounty hunters work for bail-bond companies. And this guy was pretty distinctive.”
“You ever noticed how many bail-bond outfits there are?” Ricco said. “And you did say Ortega was supposed to have jumped bail in Houston, right?”
Ed rummaged through his desk drawer searching for something, gave up, and looked at me blandly. “Morton and Hancock have been phoning Dallas bondsmen for a solid hour,” he said. “A sergeant at Houston PD who owes us a favor has been doing the same thing down there. So far nobody has turned up anything. Plus, Houston hasn’t charged—or bailed—anyone named Luis Ortega for fourteen months. Plus, Ortega’s boss says he’s been showing up for work every day for the past year and something. Plus … Aw, plus I don’t know what else. Point is, Rafferty, does all this tell you anything?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It tells me the dude was not a righteous bounty hunter, no matter what his name was.”
“Right,” Ed said.
“And because young Luis Ortega—who won’t be getting any older—was clean as the pure driven snow, we do not have lead one to indicate why he got whacked. Or why Wells sucked me in on it.”
“Right,” Ricco said.
“And the only good news is that because my shotgun hadn’t been fired, and because you know and trust this smiling honest face, I’m not gonna be charged with anything.”
“Right,” Ed said, but considerably slower.
“But,” I said, “the bad news is that I screwed this one up horribly. Fat, dumb, and happy, I let that country boy con me. And you guys aren’t gonna let me forget it.”
“Right!” they both said.
Chapter 4
“Hilda, babe, that’s the sort of thing I do. I’m a thug, remember?”
There I was, lounging in my office chair, feet up on my desk, a cold beer in one hand, and a telephone line to Hilda Gardner in the other. It’s amazing how rich and full life can be once you get organized.
Hilda said, “I know you’re a thug, my love. In fact, that’s my line. So, you messed up pretty bad, eh?”
“Atta girl. Be nurturing and supportive.” I took another long sip of beer. “But you’re right, Hil. I did not do well. My screwup didn’t make any difference to the Ortega kid; Wells would have nailed him whether I was there or not. One way or another.” I swigged more beer. “But Wells probably wouldn’t have gotten away if I hadn’t been there. This thought does not please me.”
“I can tell. Excuse me a moment.” Hilda spoke softly to someone at the shop with her. I drank beer. After about twenty seconds she came back. “Rafferty, I have to go. We have an offer on that colonial sideboard I’ve been holding for months. Time to wheel and deal, big guy.”
“I shall murmur incantations to the gods of antiques, thus ensuring your success. Tiffany. Fabergé. Sotheby’s.”
“You wouldn’t be getting the tiniest bit drunk, would you?”
“Of course not. Chippendale. Sheraton. Limoges.”
“You nut,” she said. “Tonight? My place or yours?”
“Don’t play hard to get with me, cookie. Your place. I’ll bring food. And this magnificent body, of course. Doulton. Wedgwood. Ah …” I couldn’t think of any other names.
Hilda laughed and hung up.
I finished my beer and got another bottle from the office refrigerator. I was drinking Shiner Bock beer at the time. Since I’d quit smoking, I found myself drinking more beer—figure that one out—and I was going through all the different brands I could find, a case at a time. Man’s never-ending quest for knowledge.
I worked out how many Shiners I’d had and decided to stop after that one. There was rush-hour traffic to fight, and I hadn’t eaten for a long time. And that was breakfast. I had missed lunch altogeth—
The knock on the glass window surprised me. It was Honeybutt. She smiled—a little tentatively, I thought—and did a broad “May I come around and see you in your office?” pantomime.
“Goddamn it,” I said to myself. Then I pointed at the clock, which said four-fifty-five, and shouted, “Not now! Tomorrow.”
Honeybutt nodded with an exaggerated movement, held up eight fingers, and arched her eyebrows.
I shook my head and held up nine fingers.
She nodded, waved good-bye, and walked out of her office. She really did have a great backside.
I finished my bottle of Shiner and left about ten minutes later. As I closed the office door, the last thing I could see was the window, and through it, Honeybutt’s office. And I thought about all the times we had winked and flirted and leered at each other.
She was coming to see me at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.
Now, why would she want to ruin such a good thing?
Chapter 5
Hilda Gardner’s hair was backlit by the glow from the hallway outside her bedroom. But it wasn’t much of a glow, and because her hair was so very black anyway, I could see her only as a shimmering gray nimbus surrounding the tiny glints of her eyes.
That was the seeing part; the feeling part was much better. Hilda was lying on her stomach, propped up on her elbows, her body jammed tightly against—trust me, the feeling part was better.
“Hey, big fella,” Hilda said, “why don’t we both spend the next couple of days right here? We can cuddle, sleep, occasionally make a picnic lunch.” Her voice had a throaty burr to it.
“Tempting,” I said. “Mighty tempting. But what about the big deal you said you had to finish tomorrow morning?”
“Oh, damn. I forgot about that.”
“And I should go in, too, babe. I have to preside over the end of an era. Though it’s a pitiful thing to contemplate.”
Hilda put her head on my chest and nuzzled against me. “Whatever are you babbling about?” she said.
I almost forgot what I was babbling about. I swear, if they ever start an Olympic event in nuzzling …
“Oh. Right,” I said. I told her about my nine o’clock appointment with Honeybutt.
“You’d better not call her Honeybutt to h
er face, you sexist turkey. So what’s the problem?”
“Well, there’s not a problem, really. It’s just that after tomorrow, we’ll sort of know each other; we won’t have that ‘two strangers across the aisle on an airliner’ feeling. I won’t feel right about winking at her, admiring her backside when she files things, stuff like that.”
“Got a good tushy, does she?”
“Nice, I must admit. Very nice even, though not as good as yours.”
“How reassuring. Rafferty, can you believe this conversation?”
“Well,” I said, “I suppose I shouldn’t dwell on my own little problem. Imagine how Honeybutt must feel. Tomorrow morning she’ll be face-to-face with her favorite sex symbol.”
Hilda let that one drift away in the gloom. After a long silence she said, “Were you scared today?”
“Scared? I was terrified. Honeybutt was pounding on the door, you were off somewhere selling old furniture, and there I was, trapped in my office with only three beers left in the fridge. And I haven’t even decided which brand to try next, so—ummph!”
“Don’t be silly or I’ll do that again. You know what I mean, Ugly. Were you scared when the men in those cars were chasing you?”
“That’s just not the way it works, honey. You get scared before or after; you don’t get scared during.”
“Why not?”
I shrugged; the waterbed jiggled in response. “I don’t know. There’s not enough time to be scared, for one thing. But that’s odd, now that I think about it, because usually time slows way down. It seems like you have forever to do whatever you have to do. Maybe it’s all the adrenaline sloshing around. Anyway, you feel sort of detached; objective and cool. ‘Oh, yeah,’ your body says, ‘I gotta shoot now and run over here and dodge that and …’”
I rubbed Hilda’s back; she made an appreciative sound and nuzzled me again. I made an appreciative sound then.
Hilda stopped nuzzling and said, “A lot of people, maybe most people, wouldn’t feel that detachment. They’d freeze. They’d be scared ‘during,’ as you so coyly put it.”
Wrong Place, Wrong Time Page 2
