L Is for Lawless

by Sue Grafton

  She ripped off another length of tape and began to secure Ray's left leg to the chair rung. "What'd you do to him?" she asked.

  Gilbert stood upright again, backing off two steps. "What I did? We're not talking about what I did. I didn't do anything. It's what you did. You betrayed me, babe. How many times I told you about that? You just never learn, do you? I try – God knows I try – to let you know what I expect."

  "Farley's dead?"

  "Yes, he is," Gilbert said solemnly. "I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you."

  "He was your nephew. Your own flesh and blood."

  "What's that got to do with it? That doesn't cut any ice. Flesh and blood don't mean bullshit. It's about loyalty. Is that simple concept so hard for you to grasp? Listen, I want to tell you something. You can't blame this on me. Anybody gets hurt, it's on your head, not mine. How many times I told you, you have to do what I say. You're not going to obey me, then I can't be responsible."

  "I'm doing what you said. In what way am I not doing what you said?"

  "I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about the money. I'm talking about Rio. Now see? Right there. You didn't fly to Rio like you were supposed to, and look what went wrong as a consequence of your behavior. Farley... well, never mind. I think we said enough about him."

  Helen spoke up. Like me, she'd been standing there doggedly with her hands in the air. "Young man. I wonder if I could take this coat off and set down."

  Gilbert frowned, irritated at the interruption. It was clear he enjoyed getting all worked up, feeling righteous, expounding on the many ways someone else was at fault. Helen wasn't looking at him. Her gaze was fixed at a point to his right, where she was obviously mistaking the doorjamb for him. Gilbert was momentarily distracted, amused by her mistake. He waved his arms. "Hey, over here, sweetheart. You must not see all that good. You've mistook me for a coat rack."

  "I see well enough. It's my feet give out," she said. "I'm eighty-five years old."

  "Is that right? Arms getting tired, is that it?"

  Helen said nothing. Her rheumy gaze was wandering. I kept scanning the room, looking for a weapon, trying to form a plan. I didn't want to put the others in any more jeopardy. His intentions seemed clear enough. One by one, we'd be bound and gagged, at which point he was going to kill us, and what could we do? I was closer to him than Laura was, but if I tried to jump him, he might go berserk and start shooting. I had to do something soon, but I didn't want to be foolhardy... acting like a heroine when it might put us in a worse situation than we were already in.

  "I'm going to set. You can shoot me if you don't like it," Helen said.

  Gilbert gestured with the gun. "Take a seat right where you are. You can put your hands down for now, but don't touch anything on the table."

  She said, "Thank you." She braced her hands on the table and sank heavily in her chair. She shrugged out of her coat. I could see her flex her fingers gingerly, coaxing the circulation before she tucked them in her lap.

  Gilbert angled himself so he could monitor Laura's progress as she bound her father's hands with tape. Ray's arms were behind him. In order to have his wrists meet behind the wooden chair back, he had to lean forward slightly and force his shoulders into a roll.

  Gilbert seemed to enjoy Ray's discomfort. "Where's the harness?" he asked Laura.

  "In the other room."

  "When you get done with that, bring it out here and let's see what we got."

  "I thought you said tape her."

  "Get the harness, then tape her, you fuckin' idjit," he said.

  "There's only eight thousand dollars. You said a million," she said irritably. She set the roll of duct tape aside and moved into the other room. Personally, I wouldn't have dared to take that tone with him. Gilbert didn't seem surprised about the money, so I had to assume Farley'd told him about the eight grand along with everything else.

  Laura returned with the harness in hand. He took it from her, hefting it up onto the counter behind him. He glanced down at the contents, taking in the packets of bills. His gaze shifted to Ray. "Where's the rest of the money? Where's all the jewelry and the coin collections?"

  "I don't know. I really can't swear there's anything left," Ray said.

  Gilbert closed his eyes, his patience wearing thin. "Ray, I was there, remember? I helped you guys, hauling out all that cash and jewelry. What about the diamonds and the coins? There was a fortune in there, must have been two million, at least, and Johnny sure as shit didn't have it on him when he was caught."

  "Hey, not to argue, but you were seventeen years old. None of us had ever seen a million bucks, let alone two. We don't really have any idea how much it was because we never had a chance to count it, and that's the truth," Ray said.

  "There was a hell of a lot more than this. Seven or eight big bags. That loot didn't just disappear into thin air. The son of a bitch must have hid it. So where'd he put it?"

  "Your guess is as good as mine. That's why I'm here. See if I can figure it out."

  "He didn't tell you?"

  "I swear to God he didn't. He knew he could trust himself, but I guess he wasn't all that sure about me."

  I spoke up then, looking at Ray. "How do you know he didn't spend it?"

  "It's always possible," he said. "I know he sent money to my ma. That was our agreement up front."

  "He did what?" Gilbert said. He turned to Helen. "Is that right?"

  "Oh my, yes," she said complacently. "I've received a money order in the amount of five hundred dollars every month since nineteen and forty-four, though it did stop some months back. July or August, as I recollect."

  "Since 1944? I don't believe it. How much did he send? Five hundred a month? That's ridiculous," Gilbert said.

  "Two hundred forty-six thousand dollars," Ray interjected. "I took high school math up at FCI Ashland. You ought to try the joint yourself, Gilbert. Improve your grasp of the basics. Vocabulary, grammar..."

  Gilbert was still focused on Johnny's giveaway plan. "You gotta be shittin' me. Johnny Lee gave two hundred forty-six thousand dollars of my money to this old bag? I don't believe it. That's criminal."

  "I kept an account if you'd care to see it. It's a little red notebook in that drawer over there," Helen said, pointing a trembling finger in the general direction of the drawer where she'd kept Ray's mail.

  Gilbert moved to the drawer and jerked it open, pawing through the jumble of items with impatience. He pulled the drawer out altogether and dumped the contents on the floor. He reached down and picked up a small spiral-bound notebook, thumbing through it with his left hand, the gun still in his right. Even from where I stood, I could see column after column, dates and scratchy-looking numbers running crookedly from page to page. "Son of a bitch!" Gilbert said. "How could he do that, give the money away?" He flung the notebook on the kitchen table, where it landed in the dish of stewed tomatoes.

  It was Ray's turn to enjoy. He knew better than to smile, but his tone of voice conveyed his satisfaction. "The guy kept five hundred for himself, too, so what is that? After forty-one years that brings the total up to four hundred ninety-two thousand dollars," Ray said. "Figure it out for yourself. If we netted half a million bucks from the heist, that'd leave just about eight grand."

  Gilbert crossed to Ray and jammed the barrel of the gun up under his jaw, hard. "Goddamn it! I know there was more and I want it! I'll blow your fuckin' head off right this minute if you don't give it up."

  "Killing me won't help. You kill me, you got no chance," Ray said without flinching. "Maybe I can find it, if there's anything left. I know how Johnny's mind worked. You don't have a clue how he went about his business."

  "I found the kickplate, didn't I?"

  "Only because I told you. You never would have found it without me," Ray said.

  Gilbert moved the gun away, his face dark. His movements were agitated. "Here's the deal. I'm taking Laura with me. You better come up with something by tomorrow or she's dead, you got that?"


  "Hey, come on. Be reasonable. I need time," Ray said.

  "Tomorrow."

  "I'll do what I can, but I can't promise."

  "Well, I can. You get that money or she's dead meat."

  "How am I going to find you?"

  "Don't worry about that. I'll find you," Gilbert said.

  Helen grimaced, rubbing one gnarled hand with the other.

  "What's the matter with you?"

  "My arthritis is acting up. I'm in pain."

  "You want me to fix it? I can fix that in a jiffy with what I got in here," he said, waggling his gun. He turned back to Ray. Helen raised her hand to attract his notice.

  "What?"

  "Now I've set down too long. Thing about getting old is you can't do any one thing for more than about five minutes. I hope you don't mind if I stand up a bit."

  "Goddamn, old woman. You're just up and down and all over the place."

  Helen laughed, apparently mistaking his homicidal wrath for mere ill temper. I felt a bubble of despair rising to the surface. Maybe she was senile along with everything else. He'd kill her without hesitation – he'd kill all of us – but she didn't seem to 'get' that. His threats sailed right over. Maybe it was just as well. At her age, who could tolerate fear of that magnitude? The anxiety alone could push her into heart failure. Me too, for that matter.

  Gilbert pointed the gun in her direction. "You can stand up, but you behave," he said. "I don't want you running out of here, trying to flag down help." His tone shifted when he spoke to her, becoming nearly flirtatious. "Patronizing" might be another word, but Helen didn't seem to pick up on it.

  She waved a hand dismissively. "I'm afraid my flagging days is over. Anyway, I'm not the one you have to worry about. It's my friend, Freida Green."

  At least she'd caught his attention. I could see him suppress a smile, pretending to take her seriously. "Uh-oh. What is it, Freida some kind of hell-raiser?"

  "Yes, she is. I am, too, for that matter. My late husband used to call me Hell on Wheels, get it? 'Hell on.' Helen."

  "I got it, Granny. Who's Freida? She likely to be popping in here unannounced?"

  "Freida's my neighbor. She lives two doors down with her friend, Minnie Paxton, but they're out of town right now. Hasn't anyone ever said, but I think them two are sweet on each other. Anyway, we had us a rash of burglaries about four months back. That's what they call them, a 'rash,' like somebody caught a disease. Two nice policemen come down to the neighborhood and told us about self-defense. Minnie learned to kick out real hard sideways, but Freida fell flat on her back when she tried it."

  Ray fixed me with a look, but I couldn't read the contents. Probably simple despair at the banality of their exchange.

  Gilbert laughed. "Jesus, I'd like to seen that. How old is this old bag?"

  "Let's see now. I believe Freida's thirty-one. Minnie's two years younger and she's in much better shape. Freida cracked her tailbone and she got mad. Whoo! Said there had to be a better way to fight crime than tryin' to kick some fella in the kneecap."

  Gilbert shook his head with skepticism. "I don't know. Bust a guy's kneecap, that can really hurt," he said.

  "Well, yes," Helen said, "but first you'd have to get close enough to kick, which isn't always easy. And then my balance is not that good."

  "Freida's balance ain't good, either, from what you said. So what'd she suggest?"

  "She suggested she make us each a rack and bolt it onto the bottom of the table, where we could keep a loaded shotgun about like this." Helen turned slightly sideways as she rose to her feet. She took a long step away from the table, pulling up a twelve-gauge side-by-side shotgun with twenty-six-inch barrels. She pinned the butt stock between her forearm and her side, letting the butt stock rest on her right hip for support. The four of us stared at her, riveted by the sight of a gun that unwieldy in the hands of someone who, a nanosecond before, seemed so harmless and out of it. The effect, unfortunately, was undercut by the realities of age. Because of her poor eyesight, she was aiming at the window frame instead of Gilbert, a fact not lost on him. He made a face, saying, "Whoa! You better put that gun away."

  "You better put that gun away before I blow you to kingdom come," she said. She backed up against the wall, all business, except for the problem with her aim, which was considerable. The heavy flesh on her upper arms shook, and it was clear she could barely keep the barrel up, even if it was pointed in the wrong direction. I could feel my heart begin to thump. I expected Gilbert to shoot, but he didn't seem to take her seriously.

  "Gun's pretty heavy. You sure you can keep it up there?"

  "Briefly," she said.

  "What's that weigh, six or seven pounds? Doesn't sound like much until you have to hooolld it up for long." He dragged out the word "hold," making it sound exhausting. I got tired just hearing it, but Helen didn't seem dismayed.

  "I'm going to shoot you long before my arms get tired. I feel it's only fair to warn you. The one barrel's loaded with number nine birdshot. The other's double-O buck, tear your face right off."

  Gilbert laughed again. He seemed genuinely tickled by the old woman's attitude. "Jesus, Hell on. That's not nice. What about your arthritis? I thought you had arthritis so bad."

  "I do. That's right. Affecting all but the one finger. Watch this." Helen shifted the gun to the left, drew a bead on him, and pulled the trigger. Ka-blam! I saw a few bright yellow sparks. The blast was deafening, filling the room. A shock wave of air and gas spread out from the muzzle, followed by a faint doughnut of smoke. The mass of bird-shot blew by his right ear, continuing on past him at an upward angle, shattering the kitchen window. Stray pellets tore his earlobe and the top of his shoulder and the spreading fingers of the trailing shot cup raked his neck, painting it with blood. Laura screamed and hit the floor. I was down before she was. Ray's startled reaction tipped his chair over sideways. Gilbert screamed in pain and disbelief, his hands flying up. His handgun flew forward and skittered across the floor.

  The muzzle jump had knocked Helen back against the wall, the butt stock slamming into her right hip as the barrels whipped upwards with the recoil. She recovered and lowered the gun again, prepared to fire. Gilbert's right cheek was already peppered with red, like a sudden rash of acne, and blood was seeping into the hair above his right ear. The air smelled acrid, and I could suddenly taste something sweet at the back of my throat.

  "This time I'll blow your head off," she said.

  Gilbert made a savage sound in his throat as he reached down and grabbed Laura by the hair. He hauled her to her feet, pinning her against him while he leaned down and snagged the harness with the other hand.

  From the floor, Ray craned his neck, straining to see what was going on. "Ma, don't fire!"

  "Pull the trigger and she's dead. I'll snap her neck," Gilbert said. He was clearly in pain, breathing heavily, no longer armed but still out of control. He had his forearm locked up under Laura's chin. She was forced to hang on to him, pulling down to keep from being strangled. Gilbert began backing out of the kitchen and into the dining room. Laura was stumbling backward, half lifted off her feet.

  Helen hesitated, no doubt confused by the jumble of sounds and shapes.

  Gilbert disappeared into the dining room, plowing backward through the piles of junk furniture. Laura was making a series of chuffing noises, unable to vocalize with her windpipe choked off. I could hear a crash and the sound of glass shattering as he kicked the front door open. Then silence.

  I was torn between the desire to chase after Gilbert and the need to help Helen, who was trembling and deadly pale. She lowered the gun barrel and sank weakly into her chair. "What's happening? Where'd he go?"

  "He's got Laura. Just be cool. Everything's going to be fine," Ray said. He was still on the floor, lying sideways in the chair, struggling to get free of his bonds. I scrambled over to him, trying to help him right himself, but with the awkwardness of the chair he was too much for me to lift. I grabbed a butcher knife
off the counter and cut through the layers of duct tape that bound his hands and feet. With one hand liberated, Ray started tearing off the rest of the tape, his attention still focused on his mother. "Gimme a hand here," he grunted at me.

  "What's he going to do to her?"

  "Nothing 'til he gets the money. She's his insurance." I grabbed his hand and braced myself as he hauled himself up from the floor. He glanced at me briefly. "You okay?"

  "I'm fine," I said. Both of us turned our attention to Helen.

  The shotgun was laid across her lap. I crossed to her, took the gun, and set it on the kitchen table. Her shoulders were slumped and her hands were shaking badly, her breathing shallow and ragged. Her hip was probably bruised where the gun stock had kicked into it. She'd used up all her reserves of energy, and I worried she'd go into shock. "I should have killed him. Poor Laura. I couldn't bring myself to do it, but I should have."

  Ray reached for a chair and pulled it closer to his mother's. He took her hand, patting it, his tone tender. "How you doing, Hell on Wheels?" he said.

  "I'll be fine in a bit. I just need to catch my breath," she said. She patted at her chest, trying to compose herself. "I'm not as feeble-minded as I was acting."

  "I couldn't figure out what you were doing," he said. "I can't believe you did that. You started talking to him, I thought it was all bullshit until you pulled out that shotgun. You were terrific. Absolutely fearless."

  Helen waved him off, but she seemed pleased with herself and tickled by his praise. "Just because you get old doesn't mean you lose your nerve."

  "I thought you had trouble with your eyes," I said. "How'd you know where he was?"

  "He was standing up against the kitchen window, so I could make out his shape. I may be near blind, but my ears still work. He shouldn't have talked so much. Freida's got me into lifting weights now, and I can bench-press twenty-five pounds. Did you hear what he said? He thought I couldn't even hold up a seven-pound shotgun. I was insulted. Stereotyping the old. That's your typical macho horseshit," she said. She pressed her fingers to her lips. "I believe I'm about to get sick now. Oh, dear."