Indigo Slam: An Elvis Cole Novel

by Robert Crais

  The medical group had even been thoughtful enough to enclose a little pamphlet titled Living with Your Cancer.

  I guess Jasper was right; Clark Hewitt was more than he seemed. I looked at Pike. “Clark’s dying.”

  Pike said, “Yes.”

  That’s when a hard-looking man with an AK-47 stepped through the door and said, “He’s not the only one.”

  25

  He was an older guy with a hard face that looked as if it had been chipped from amber. He waved the AK. “Hands on heads, fingers laced.” The accent was thick, but we could understand him.

  I said, “The building is surrounded by the United States Secret Service. Put down the gun and we won’t have to kill you.”

  “Lace your fingers.” I guess he didn’t think it was funny.

  He took a half step backward into the hall, and when he did Pike shuffled one step to the right. When Pike moved, the older guy dropped into a half crouch, bringing the AK smoothly to his shoulder, right elbow up above ninety degrees, left elbow crooked straight down beneath the AK’s magazine, the rifle’s comb snug against his cheek in a perfect offhand shooting stance. Perfect and practiced, as if he had grown up with a gun like this and knew exactly what to do with it. I said, “Joe.”

  Pike stopped.

  The older guy yelled down the hall without taking his eyes from us. A door crashed and Walter Tran, Junior, came running up, excited and sweating, expensive shoes slipping on the vinyl tiles. When he saw me, his eyes got big and he barked, “Holy shit!” He clawed at his clothes until he came up with a little silver .380 that he promptly dropped.

  I said, “Relax, Walter. We’re not going anywhere.”

  He scooped up the .380, fumbling to get the safety off and pointing it at the older guy who snapped at him in Vietnamese and slapped it out of his hands. The old man shifted to English. “You’re going to shoot yourself.”

  I said, “Walter, take a breath.”

  Walter Junior pointed at me. “This one was the guy at the paper. I’ve never seen the other one.” Pike, reduced to “other” status.

  The older guy narrowed his eyes again. “He said they were with the Secret Service.”

  Walter Junior said, “Holy shit,” again, and ran back down the hall.

  “I was kidding. We’re private investigators.”

  The older guy shrugged. “Gives the boy something to do.”

  The door crashed once more and Walter Junior was back, skidding to a stop just ahead of Nguyen Dak and two of the shotgunners who had fronted me at the Journal. I said, “We could sell tickets.”

  Nobody laughed at that one either.

  Nguyen Dak was wearing a fine wool suit that had probably cost three grand. He looked at me. “We told you to stay away.”

  “Clark Hewitt has three children, and I have them. A bunch of Russians from Seattle are looking for Clark because they want to kill him. That means they’re looking for his kids, too.”

  “You should have listened.” Guess none of it mattered to him.

  “We’re here because we’re working for Hewitt’s children. We don’t care about the printing.”

  I guess that didn’t matter to him either.

  They made us lie facedown with our fingers laced behind our heads, then searched us as if they were looking for a microphone or a transmitter. I guess maybe they were. Dak positioned the two shotgunners in the front corners of the room so they could cover us without shooting each other. The guy with the AK took our guns and our wallets, tossed them to Dak, then tied our hands behind our backs with electrical utility wire. Dak called him Mon. When our hands were tied, they lifted us into the two folding chairs. I said, “It started out like a pretty good day.”

  Dak made a gesture and one of the shotguns punched me on the side of the head. Seattle all over again.

  Dak looked through my wallet first, then Pike’s, then handed them to the guy with the AK. “Private investigators.”

  “I told you that.”

  “You told this gentleman you are with the Secret Service.”

  “Bad joke.”

  Dak stared at me some more.

  I said, “We came here to find Clark Hewitt. We know he’s working with you, and we know he’s been here.”

  Dak lit a Marlboro and looked at me through the smoke. The guy with the AK said something in Vietnamese, but Dak didn’t respond. He said, “We now have a problem.”

  “I kinda guessed.”

  “Who do you really work for?”

  “Clark Hewitt’s children.”

  More cigarette, more smoke. “I think maybe the FBI.”

  I shrugged at him. “If that’s true, your problem’s bigger than you think.” You could tell he knew that, and didn’t like it. “If we’re feds, then other feds know where we are. If they know where we are, and we turn up dead, you’re history.”

  Dak clenched his jaw and waved the cigarette. “I told you to stay away, and you did not. You came onto our property, and you have seen things that you should not have seen.”

  I said, “I don’t give a damn what you’re going to print, or why, or what you’re going to do with it. I came here because Clark and his children are in danger.”

  The AK spoke Vietnamese again, louder this time, and Dak shouted back at him, the other Viets looking from one to the other like some kind of tennis match was taking place, maybe yelling about killing us, maybe saying murder us clean right here in the room, then sweat it out with the cops and pretend they didn’t know what happened or how or why. They were still going through it when Clark Hewitt came in with Walter Senior and another younger guy. Clark was wearing a cheap cotton shirt and baggy trousers over busted-out Kmart canvas shoes, and he had the vague, out-of-focus look of someone who’d just shot up.

  Clark saw us and said, “Oh, dear.”

  Dak’s eyes flashed angrily, and he jerked the cigarette. “Get him out of here.”

  The younger guy was pulling Clark back into the hall when I said, “The Russians are in LA, Clark. I’ve got your kids stashed, but they’re in danger.”

  Clark jerked his arm away and came back into the room. “Where are they?”

  “At a friend’s.”

  Dak told the younger guy to get Clark out of there again, and when the younger guy grabbed his arm, Clark swatted at him. “Get away from me!”

  I looked back at Dak. “I’ve got his children, god-damnit. Shooters from Seattle are down here looking for him, and he knows it’s a fact.” I looked back at Clark. “The Russians killed Wilson Brownell, and that means they know everything that he knows.”

  Clark’s face worked. “They killed Wil?”

  The AK screamed again, and this time he shoved past the others and leveled the gun at us. When he did, Clark shrieked, “No!” and lurched forward, shoving him away. Both Walters and the other Viets swarmed around him, and Dak slapped him hard, twice. Clark didn’t quit. He punched at Dak, throwing awkward punches with nothing on them, but he kept throwing them until a Walter hung onto each arm and a third man had him around the neck. Clark was just full of surprises.

  Pike said, “Payback’s going to hurt.”

  The three men pulled Clark out of the way, and Dak waved at us, saying, “Kill them.”

  Clark said, “If you kill them I won’t print your god-damned dong.” Vietnamese money is called dong.

  Dak’s face went dark, and he shook Clark’s arm. “You agreed to print for us and you will make the money!”

  Clark said, “Like hell I will.” When he said it a little bit of spit hit Dak on the shirt.

  The AK had had enough with all the talk. He pushed past Dak and ran at us again, barking in Vietnamese. When he did, Dak yelled “No!” and grabbed him from behind.

  Dak and the AK and the other two older guys shoved and screamed at one another, and I knew what it was about. They were revolutionaries, but they were also businessmen with families and property and things they would lose if they were discovered. They were shouting about k
illing us, and it was clear that they wanted to. Pike tensed beside me, probably thinking that if the younger shotgunners looked at the older guys he would come out of the chair and risk the charge, maybe hit the near guy hard enough to knock free the gun, maybe get the gun and do some damage even with his hands tied behind his back.

  Helluva morning. Drive down to Orange County to die.

  I said, “Clark, whatever Brownell knew, the Russians know. They’ll have your address and phone number, and that gives them a place to start looking. If I can find you, they can find you, too.”

  Clark was nodding, trying to hear me past all the yelling. A faint sheen of sweat covered his face, and he looked pale and more than a little nauseated. I thought that even with the dope whatever was eating him up must hurt like hell.

  I said, “I’ve got the kids stashed in a safe place, but you’re going to have to do something. Either go back into the program or get out of town.”

  Clark was looking from me to the Viets, me to the Viets, over and over again. “I need this money.” Whatever they were paying him to do the job.

  “Clark, what good’s the money if they murder your children?”

  All the screaming had peaked, and Dak jerked the AK away from the other guy and used it to shove Clark toward the door, screaming, “We have the paper now, we have the machines! Go into the other room and print the dong!”

  But Clark didn’t go into the other room. He grabbed hold of the AK, and shouted, “I’m not going anywhere! If you kill them I won’t print your money.”

  Dak was breathing so hard he sounded like a bellows.

  One of the other guys ran up beside him and tried to wrestle the AK away but Dak shouted a single Vietnamese word and the man stopped. Now they were both breathing loud, and Clark was breathing loud, too. Clark grabbed Dak by the front of his jacket and shook him. Clark’s face was so pale I thought he might keel over. He shouted, “My children are in danger and these men are taking care of them.” He looked back at me. “If they let you go, you won’t tell, will you?”

  “No.”

  “You won’t stop me from printing the dong?”

  “Clark, if they let us go, we’ll do everything we can to help.” I wanted Clark Hewitt to get his money.

  The other man shouted and Dak raised the gun. Dak was shouting, too, and with all the shouting I thought that no one could understand anything and that the moment had taken on an inevitable life of its own. I thought that Dak would shoot right through Clark, the 7.62mm bullets ripping through Clark into me and Pike and ending us all, but then the shouting stopped and Dak muttered a single coarse Vietnamese curse, and he looked at me with an expression of infinite weariness. He said, “All right.”

  He told Dak to cut us loose.

  My heart began to beat again.

  26

  The one named Mon didn’t like it. He stomped around, waving the AK and making a big scene until Nguyen Dak slapped him and took the gun away. The others started shouting and arguing, but when Dak finally had them quiet, he said, “Make the dong and let’s be done with this.”

  I said, “How long will it take to print the dong?”

  Clark frowned. “Well, after I make the plates, a couple of days.”

  “How long start to finish?”

  “Three days.”

  “Okay. Your children can stay with you here while you print the dong, and you can decide what you want to do.” I wanted to get the kids out of LA, and I was hoping that I could work on getting Clark and his children back into the witness protection program while he was down here guarded by Dak’s people. “When you have the money you can leave from here without going back to Los Angeles. That way it’s a clean miss for the Russians.”

  Clark was liking it. “That sounds good.” He turned to Dak. “We’ll have to go to Los Angeles to get my family.”

  Dak shook his head. “Absolutely not. Print the money first, then do what you want.”

  I said, “Forget it, Dak. His kids are in danger as long as they’re in Los Angeles. So is he.”

  Dak glared at Clark. “You agreed to make the dong. We’ve bought the press and the materials. We have an enormous investment.”

  Clark frowned. “I’m still going to do it. I’ll make the dong when I get back.”

  Dak shook his head again. Adamant. “No dong, no money.”

  “I’ll make the dong. I just want to get my children.”

  Dak waved at me and Pike. “You stay and make the dong. They can go get the children.”

  Clark pursed his lips and scowled, and suddenly I could see Charles in him. “No, I’m their father and I’m going to get them.”

  I said, “They’re just up in Studio City, for chrissake. It’s not like they’re on Mars.”

  Dak put his hands on his hips.

  “We’re talking about three hours round-trip.”

  “No.”

  I spread my hands. “Look, if you’re that scared Clark won’t come back, why don’t you come with us.”

  Pike stared at me.

  Dak huddled with the other Viets. There was more hand waving, but this time no one was shouting or pointing a gun at us. I guess they were getting used to the idea. Finally Dak came back to us and said, “All right. Let’s go get them.”

  Pike sighed. “Now it’s ‘us.’ ”

  Dak looked at Pike. “We have a large investment here that’s worthless if he doesn’t come back. We’re going to protect it.”

  Pike shook his head and stared at the floor.

  I said, “Clark, are you up to this?” He looked pale and clammy, and I was wondering just how much longer he could stay on his feet. He looked like he should be in a hospital.

  Clark Hewitt pulled away from me. “I’m fine. Just let me get my bag.” His drugs were in the bag.

  They made me draw a map detailing how we would get to the safe house, and then we left, Dak and the two Walters following in Dak’s Mercedes, Mon riding with us. The other guys stayed to guard the warehouse. I wasn’t sure from whom, but you never know. Mon seemed sullen and resentful, and made sure we all knew he had a pistol tucked in his pants. He must’ve been something when he was younger.

  We drove in silence for the first twenty minutes or so. I glanced in the rearview mirror at Clark every few minutes, but all he did was stare at the passing scenery without really seeing it. “Clark, why didn’t you tell someone about the cancer?”

  He still didn’t look at me. “How do you know about that?”

  “We found the letter from your doctor.”

  He nodded.

  “Does Teri know?”

  “How could I tell them something like that?”

  Pike said, “You shoot dope for the pain.”

  Clark glanced at Pike. It was the first time he had turned from the window. “I don’t have health insurance, and I can’t afford prescription painkillers. Dealers buy and sell their drugs with cash, and they rarely put anything in the bank, so I just use the funny money.”

  I looked at him some more. Even in the mirror I could see the faint sheen of sweat that covered his face. He was pale and he looked nauseated. “Does it help?”

  “Not as much as it used to.”

  Pike said, “How long?”

  Clark turned back to the window, almost as if he was embarrassed. “A few months.” He shrugged. Like that was the way he’d found to deal with it. Shrug and keep going.

  “That’s why you’re printing for these guys.”

  “I don’t have any savings. I don’t have insurance. I had to do something to take care of my children, and this is it. Printing is all I know how to do.”

  “Sure.”

  “I print the dong, and Dak will pay me real money that I can put into a bank. Enough to get them grown and through school. Maybe even enough for college.” He nodded to himself as he said it, almost as if he was saying it because he needed to hear it to keep himself going, telling himself that it would all work out, that his kids would be fine. It made me wan
t to cry.

  “You don’t have family who can take them?”

  “My wife and I were both only children. Our parents are dead.” Another shrug. “They don’t have anyone but me.” He finally looked at me through the mirror. “I want you to know how much I appreciate everything that you’ve done. You’re a very nice man.”

  I stared at the road.

  “When I get paid I’ll pay you for all this.”

  I stared harder and nodded.

  We made good time in the late afternoon traffic, and would’ve made even better time except that the Mercedes kept falling behind. After about the eighth time, I said, “What’s wrong with that guy?”

  Mon said, “Dak won’t go over the speed limit.”

  “He’s willing to kill us to protect his revolution, but he won’t break the speed limit.”

  “Dak wants to be a good American.”

  I could see Pike out the corner of my eye. Shaking his head.

  Clark said, “These people aren’t criminals. They’re revolutionaries.”

  “Sure. Counterfeiting dong.”

  “They have this idea that if they put a lot of counterfeit money into the Vietnamese economy, it will destabilize the Communist government and force Vietnam toward a democracy.”

  Pike said, “Patriots.”

  Clark shrugged. “It was their country. They want it back.” Same thing Eddie Ditko had said.

  I asked Clark if he wanted to stop at their house first, but he said no. I asked if there was anything we could get for him at the drugstore, but he said no again. He just wanted to pick up his children and go back to Orange Country and print the dong. He sounded tired when he said it.

  “I’ve got a doctor friend, Clark.”

  “It wouldn’t do any good.” Like he wanted to lie down and go to sleep for a long time.

  I drove harder, and kept waving Dak faster. Dak didn’t like it much, but as long as I didn’t go too fast he kept up.

  The late afternoon rush caught us in Hollywood and traffic began to back up, but twenty minutes later we were through the Cahuenga Pass and dropping off the freeway into Studio City. When I exited the freeway at Coldwater Canyon in Studio City, Clark sat up and seemed more alert. I wondered at the dull ache he must live with, and what it must be like for him to keep it muted by shooting drugs. Jasper was right. There was a lot more to Clark than it seemed.