Table of Contents
Copyright
Additional Titles
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
While I Disappear
By Edward Wright
Copyright 2010 by Edward Wright and Untreed Reads Publishing
Cover Copyright 2010 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright, and has granted permission to the publisher to enforce said copyright on their behalf.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Also by Edward Wright and Untreed Reads Publishing
Clea’s Moon
http://www.untreedreads.com
While I Disappear
A John Ray Horn Novel
By Edward Wright
This book is for Jean
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to my wife, Cathy, who is my first line of defense, and my long-term gratitude to Rayburn and Margaret Moore for helping me value the written word. I appreciate the good work of my editor, Gail Fortune, and my agent, Elizabeth Winick. And for friendship, support, and help in navigating the rocks and shoals of publishing, I’m grateful to Kate Kennedy Greene, Morrie and Alicia Ruvinsky, Ron and Merle Mardigian, Denise Hamilton, Ed Kaufman, Cara Black, Adrian Muller, and, especially, Sheldon McArthur.
CHAPTER ONE
The slow rain washed down the windshield, smearing the streetlights and neon signs across the glass, softening the world’s edges, melting the features of the people on the sidewalk.
“I can’t see good,” Mad Crow grunted. “Run the wipers.”
“Better not,” Horn replied. “Right now, we’re just another car sitting here. If I start the engine, we’ll get attention.”
Mad Crow cursed under his breath, leaned forward in the passenger seat, and wiped the inside of the windshield with his hand, then rolled down his window a few inches, letting in a rush of cool air. Outside the car, the nighttime street surged with cars and people. A block away, one of the movie palaces had finished showing a film, and the crowd began to move past Horn’s inconspicuous black Ford, some of them headed for their cars at nearby lots, some ready for a meal at the cafeteria a couple of blocks away, others looking for one of the several bars in this stretch of downtown Los Angeles.
Those in the crowd, young and old, looked well-off and animated, not beaten-down and anxious, as they had only a few years earlier. Many of the men, hats pulled low against the drizzle, wore sharp-looking suits. The younger, gum-chewing girls huddled under their dates’ umbrellas and swung their purses like metronomes. Well, the war’s been over for a while, Horn thought. People are making money again, having a good time. Funny it didn’t work out that way for me.
Several of the women dabbed at their eyes with handkerchiefs even as they walked and talked. “What’s wrong with them?” the Indian asked.
“That’s a Joan Crawford playing up the street there,” Horn replied.
“Oh.” This was their second night here, waiting for a glimpse of a man whose name they didn’t even know, and they had exhausted most of their attempts at conversation.
Horn adjusted his rearview mirror for a look at the young woman in the back seat. “Nothing else occur to you, Cassie?”
“Huh-uh.” Cassie Montag, her expression uninterested, was working at the braids that held her dark hair. As he watched, she freed one of them, brushed it out, and began teasing at the other with her fingers. Even in the dim light inside the car, Horn could make out the faded rainbow of bruises that marked the left side of her lip and lower jaw.
“You sure he said he likes to drop in at the Green Light Tavern?” Horn asked her. “You know, there’s a Red Lantern Grill just a couple of blocks from here.”
“He said Green Light,” she replied. Mad Crow swivelled around heavily, thick shoulders bunched under his jacket, and studied his niece. She had some of his looks, the dark eyes and the cheekbones. But the rest of her was a mixture of Indian and white, and Mad Crow had once told Horn it was the white part of her that worried him.
“You’re just going to have to braid your hair again before you show up for work Monday,” he told her.
“I don’t care,” she told him, eyes focused on nothing in particular. She wore a western shirt and a fringed skirt, and Horn could just make out, in reverse, the lettering embroidered on her shirt pocket: Mad Crow Casino. “I just don’t want to look like a goddam squaw all the time.”
Mad Crow’s jaw tightened, and he seemed about to speak. But Horn reached over and touched him lightly on the arm. “Over there,” he said, quickly cranking down the driver’s-side window.
They both stared at the bar they’d been watching for two nights. A man who appeared to be in his thirties approached the entrance, loosening the belt of his trench coat. “Looks like him,” Mad Crow said. “Right, Cassie?”
She took a look. “That’s him,” she said, adding a muttered obscenity.
The man’s dark, slicked-back hair shone under the lights. “If he doesn’t introduce himself properly tonight,” Mad Crow said, “I just might call him Vitalis.”
“Uh, he’s got friends,” Horn said. The man had just been joined by a woman of indeterminate age and another man, this one stocky and wearing a slouch cap. The trio went inside.
“You recognize the other one?” Mad Crow asked Cassie without turning around.
“He looks like a guy who was with him that night,” she replied tonelessly.
“So there was somebody with him? Would’ve been nice if you’d mentioned that.”
Horn could feel the tension building in the car, and he wanted all this to be over. “Sure you want to do this here?” he asked Mad Crow. “We can wait, follow him to his hotel, wherever it is, talk to him with nobody around. When a man opens his door in his underwear, you got him at a disadvantage.”
“If he opens the door,” the Indian said.
“I can always get them to open the door,” Horn said. “That’s what I do for you, remember?”
The Indian thought for a moment, his thick hands resting on the dashboard, the big turquoise ring and hammered silver bracelet shining dully in the softened neon light as if they were part of Montezuma’
s treasure.
“Hell with it,” he said finally. “I’m tired of waiting. Let’s get it done. They’ve had time to order their drinks and settle in, so let’s go join the party. Come on, Cassie.” He rolled heavily out of the car and wrapped his raincoat lightly around his thick chest and torso. The rain had slackened to a light, uncertain drizzle. With his ponytail, his most distinctive feature, tucked under his fedora, he was just a big, copper-skinned man standing on the street.
Horn unfolded his lanky frame and got out. Cassie reluctantly joined them, and they crossed the street. The round green symbol of the tavern flashed slowly off and on, and the name of the place was reflected waveringly upside down in the puddles.
Inside, they stood for a moment in the doorway, getting used to the low light. The tavern was busy, not quite full, with the warm, steamy feel of a place where people have come in from the rain. Somewhere a juke box played a Dinah Shore tune that had been popular at the end of the war. They saw their man sitting with his male friend one table away from the bar next to the wall. At first there was no sign of the woman, but they quickly spotted her coming out of a back room, adjusting her coat and dress.
Horn thought quickly. “We should try to separate her,” he said to Mad Crow. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” the Indian muttered. “Cassie, we don’t want her getting in the way,” he said forcefully. “Do something, all right?”
His niece hesitated long enough to show her lack of enthusiasm for the whole endeavor. But she approached the woman and spoke quietly to her, motioning toward Horn and Mad Crow. After a few seconds, Cassie and the woman took seats at a nearby table and waited. The two men, who were being served drinks by a waitress, apparently had not noticed.
“We weren’t counting on him having company,” Horn said. “You be careful.”
“You just watch my royal behind,” Mad Crow replied. The sharp planes of his face broke into a wide grin as he crossed the room. Horn had seen the grin before. So had other men. It did not portend a good time.
“You mind?” Mad Crow said to the two strangers as he plucked a wooden chair from the next-door table and sat it down loudly next to the dark-haired man, ignoring his look of mild astonishment. Moving swiftly, Horn found a chair two tables away and set it down to Mad Crow’s right, next to the stocky companion in the cap.
Horn brushed the raindrops off his shoulder, slapped his hat lightly against his knee, and unbuttoned his jacket, trying to put a relaxed smile on his face. The stocky man on his right had not moved. His square, outthrust chin had gone a few hours too long between shaves. A toothpick rested on his lower lip, and his gaze went slowly back and forth between Horn and Mad Crow. Horn knew this second man was his responsibility, but he had been careful to position his chair far enough away from the table to allow him to watch everyone else as well.
“Can I help you folks?” The cocktail waitress had shown up. Her expression looked strained, and she seemed to sense that something was going on.
“We’re going to think about it, honey,” Mad Crow said to her. When she had left, he turned to Vitalis. “You know who I am?”
“I think so.” The man wore a well-fitting double-breasted tweed, snug at the waist. His eyes were sleepy and unconcerned.
“You played poker at my place,” Mad Crow said. “Won a few hands, ordered some drinks, left some nice tips. My guess is you had a good time.”
“That a question?” The man seemed to be enjoying the conversation.
“Sure, let’s call it a question.”
“I suppose I had a good time,” Vitalis said, studying his cuffs as he fussed with them until an inch or so showed below his coat sleeve. “I’ve been to bigger places, better run. Your bar service is a little slow. But I got no real complaints.”
“That’s good,” Mad Crow said, leaning forward slightly. “I got one, though. One of my waitresses says you roughed her up.”
A look of lazy comprehension passed over Vitalis’ face. He looked over his shoulder, searching the room until he spotted Cassie and the other woman, who were now working on drinks. They were sitting too far away to overhear, and they appeared to be talking quietly, eyeing the men occasionally.
“That wouldn’t be her, would it?” he asked.
“Says you invited her out in the parking lot, offered her money to go out with you,” Mad Crow went on. “She turned you down. You grabbed her arm. She tried to get away. You slugged her.”
“That’s a lie.” Vitalis didn’t move as he spoke, but Toothpick shifted in his chair, hands lightly gripping the arms, and now Horn gave him all his attention. In the background, Dinah Shore had given way to the velvety baritone of Perry Como singing Temptation.
“Which part was a lie?”
“The parking lot was her idea. Meeting me later was her idea. The money—”
“Now you’re the liar.” Mad Crow had stopped smiling, and Horn could feel something bad coming, like a train on a downhill grade with a belly full of fiery coal and no engineer at the controls. The unease built in him, the familiar knot in the stomach at the prospect of violence. He glanced at Vitalis. Why isn’t he worried? he wondered. He must be counting on his friend. Toothpick. He’s the ace in the hole.
“Here’s why I’m here,” Mad Crow went on. “You bruised her face and chipped a tooth when you hit her. She’ll need to get the tooth fixed, and then there’s the question of her general discomfort. Way I see it, you owe her an even hundred. You hand it over, we leave you to your drinks and your female companionship. We’ll even forget about the apology.”
The other man laughed out loud, and his sleepy eyes came alive. He’s enjoying this, Horn thought. Not a good sign. He tensed himself, waiting for whatever came.
Vitalis reached in his left front trouser pocket and pulled out a wad of bills secured by a money clip. He peeled off a ten and laid it carefully on the table in front of Mad Crow.
“Here’s a Hamilton,” he said. “I think this is the going rate for a halfbreed with a broken tooth.”
Mad Crow leaned forward as if to speak, but instead he reached down and grasped a front and rear leg of the man’s chair in each hand, then stood erect, bringing the chair up with him in a surge of arm and leg muscles. Vitalis came up with the chair, then was dumped sideways in a heap on the floor. He scrambled to his knees in a crouch as his right hand shot under his jacket. But in the next instant Mad Crow had swung the chair high, one-handed now, and brought it down in a fearful arc, slamming it into the man’s ribs with a sound that everyone in the bar could hear.
Vitalis emitted a cry of pain, then lay there on his side, wheezing, slowly drawing his legs up, making himself as small as possible in case another blow should follow.
As the chair had struck, Horn saw Toothpick tense, his hands gripping the chair arms tightly, about to commit himself. Horn quickly leaned toward him, speaking in a low but urgent voice. “Careful,” he said. “It’s all over. It’s done. Not your fight anyway. Be sensible, now, all right? Let’s leave it right here. We’ll be gone real soon, and you can take care of your friend. Nobody else needs to get hurt.”
The man on the floor wheezed again. Everyone in the bar seemed to be holding their breath. Toothpick sat rigidly, unmoving except for his eyes, which were all over the place. He’s figuring the odds, Horn thought.
“Look,” he told Toothpick, “I’m just getting comfortable here. If you get up, I’ve got to get up too. And where do we go from there?”
A few more seconds passed, and then the man, with a lazy roll of his tongue, transferred the toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. He relaxed his grip on the chair and sat back. Horn exhaled loudly. Glancing at the bar, he saw the bartender moving toward what Horn guessed was the telephone. “It’s all right,” he called out, making a palms-out gesture. After a moment, the bartender stopped.
Mad Crow reached under the fallen man’s midsection, fumbled around for a while, and came up with a switchblade knife, which he pocketed. Then he pried t
he money out of his victim’s clenched fist. When he had it, he looked around the room, re-applied the grin to his face, and said loudly, “Show’s over, folks.”
Sitting down, he removed the money clip and began counting. “Hey, buddy,” he said to Horn, “I think this is what they call a Michigan bankroll. Big bills on the outside, mostly singles on the inside. But—” He was snapping the corners of the bills between thumb and forefinger, like an experienced money man. “But looks like he can cover the tab, and maybe even have enough left over for train fare back to, uh....” He nudged the prone man with the toe of his shoe. “Where you from, partner?”
“Cleveland,” the man croaked.
“How about that? Home of the Indians.” Mad Crow seemed immensely pleased with himself. “You’re headed there tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“Right.” The word was muffled.
Horn took the rest of the folded money and passed it to the man on his right. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Would you mind helping your friend out the door?”
Toothpick, whose expression had never changed, coaxed the other man to his feet, and they slowly made their way out onto the street.
“Damn, that worked out, didn’t it?” Flushed with success, Mad Crow pocketed the hundred. He got up and headed toward the door, stopping for Cassie on the way. Before accompanying him, she spoke a few final words to the other woman, who smiled at her.
Horn started to follow, but his gaze swept over the woman at the other table, then settled on her. The two men had ignored her as they left, and she sat with her drink, head down, as if unaffected by what had happened.
“You two go ahead,” he called out. “I’ll be just a minute.”
As the bar chatter started up again, Horn walked over to get a better look at the woman. From what he could see, she was not young. She wore a serviceable wool coat with a worn fur collar and a felt hat with a floppy brim that partially hid her features, and she sat with both hands cradling her highball, as if it might skitter away from her.
“Those guys friends of yours?” he asked her.
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