The Pictures

by Guy Bolton

  He leaned on the bar and nodded his head in time to the music. One last drink for the road and he’d go home. He gulped the Scotch down but the liquor burned his throat. He wasn’t used to drinking so much and he began to feel dizzy, unsteady on his feet. He needed the bathroom.

  O’Neill pushed away from the bar and waded through the crowd gathering in the reception room toward the washrooms.

  Kamona followed the target as he left the reception hall. He watched him out of sight as he pressed through circles of guests into an adjacent corridor beside the kitchen. He saw him squeeze ahead of another man and then tumble through a door at the end of the hall. Kamona looked around for security guards but couldn’t see any. He strode down the corridor, stepped into the doorway and closed the door behind him.

  A tiled washroom. Two brass sinks to his left, a row of cubicles to his right and a line of urinals fifteen feet straight ahead. The target was standing at the urinal to the far left, facing the wall in front.

  Kamona reached under his arm and drew his Mauser. He inhaled deeply, leveled the pistol and aimed at the back of the target’s head. He steadied his arm, held his breath and squeezed the trigger. The pistol coughed; the brass casing tinged as it bounced off the marble flooring. He watched as the man’s head bounced off the tiled walls in a haze of red mist and his body slumped to the floor. The rich tang of gunpowder hung in the air.

  Kamona bent down to pick up the empty casing off the floor. As he went to put it in his pocket he heard movement to his right. A cubicle door was half ajar. He pushed the door open. A small man in glasses was standing over a toilet bowl. His head turned toward him but he didn’t say a word, just stared at Kamona’s pistol with his mouth agape.

  Kamona raised his gun to fire. Before he could pull the trigger he heard the washroom door open behind him. And then almost immediately a woman screamed.

  In the projectionist’s room, two bodies drew together in the half-light. Gale heard Jonathan’s breath in her ear, rhythmic and urgent. Her breathing too was harder now. She bit her lip and held her mouth shut. She was trying not to cry out. His head was buried in her neck and she could feel it as his face flared and burned. Her arms were looped around his neck and she pulled him closer, clinging onto him.

  This isn’t me, she thought. But she knew why she was doing it. It wasn’t only that she found Jonathan attractive in a way that surprised her, although that was true. It was because she wanted to feel something, anything but what she had been feeling for the past two days. Was it too much to ask—an answer to a desperate calling to feel something other than shame?

  Judy Garland’s song reached its climax, the last few feet of celluloid ran through the sprockets and the projector’s douser closed. The room fell silent but for the ruffle of heavy breathing. Then, from downstairs, they could hear the band stop playing and the sound of people running and shouting. Finally they heard the screaming.

  A crowd had gathered in the doorway of the washrooms but Craine pushed past. In the corner of the room, a man was slumped against the urinal wall in a spreading pool of blood. He lay there half headless on the washroom floor with his arms outflung. He twitched and lifted one hand up to his throat but the blood pumped steadily through his fingers. Craine stepped nearer, careful not to slip in the pools forming at his feet. He looked closer at the man with half a face: it was Rochelle.

  Jack Rochelle had been shot through the back of the head but the round had entered through the base of his skull and exited through his jaw, spreading most of the lower part of his face across the wall tiles behind him. He was bleeding heavily. He tried to speak but the bullet had torn open his windpipe and the air bubbles just gurgled through the hole in his neck.

  “Rochelle? Rochelle, can you hear me? Rochelle, look at me.”

  Rochelle’s eyes were open but glazed, the capillaries broken open and his pupils dilated. His body started to shiver and convulse before his hand fell away from his throat and his arm went slack. Within seconds the blood pouring out of his neck slowed to a steady trickle, dribbling down his chest and collecting in his lap. He was dead.

  Craine turned to face the growing crowd of onlookers. They looked at him to resolve their situation, like children staring imploringly at an adult. One of them even said, “Aren’t you going to do something?”

  Craine said, “Did anybody see the shooter?”

  No reply. Just a row of glaring faces and opened mouths.

  “Nobody at all? Nobody saw what he looked like?”

  A woman in her early fifties stepped forward and nodded her head at the open cubicle door beside her.

  “Sir, there’s a man in here.”

  Craine rushed over and peered in. Patrick O’Neill sat on the cubicle floor with his head in his hands. His knees were shaking, his shoes dancing on the tiles. A man in spectacles stood over him with a glass of water.

  “I’m a doctor. He’s okay but he’s in shock.”

  Craine pushed him aside and grabbed O’Neill by the shoulders. “O’Neill? O’Neill, look at me. What did you see?”

  “I saw him, I saw him,” he said quickly, his eyes wide and red-rimmed.

  “Who was he?”

  “I’m not sure. He had a gun. I didn’t see the shot. I thought he was going to—”

  “Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know—”

  The doctor interrupted, “We saw him run out the door, through the kitchen. I think he was headed toward the parking lot.”

  Chapter 21

  Craine hurried out of the washroom and went back through the reception hall, pushing his way into the kitchen.

  When he reached the outside door he peered around: the main entrance doors were along the wall to his right, the parking lot fifty feet ahead. He looked for signs of movement: nothing. I should never have come, he told himself. I could have been safe and sound at home. Instead I’m going to get myself killed.

  Against his better judgment, he stepped out and sprinted toward the line of parked cars, the evening breeze cooling his sweaty temples. He was half-way to his Cadillac Fleetwood when he heard the slam of a door to his left. He turned in time to see a black Packard sedan reverse out of the darkness then screech to a stop, scattering loose pebbles across the parking lot. Before he could make out the driver, there was a faint flicker of muzzle flash from the driver’s window, then a muffled pop as three silenced pistol shots whistled by, two pinging off nearby cars and one snapping off the wing mirror of his Cadillac. He dropped down, keeping low as he reached the Fleetwood’s driver’s door. More shots rattled off the ground by his feet before the Packard was thrust into gear and hared off toward the entrance gates, rubber tires screeching as they dry-skidded against the gravel.

  Craine climbed into the Fleetwood, slotting in the key and turning the ignition. The engine coughed and died. He turned the key again—nothing. He pulled out the choke, tried again—come on—and the engine finally answered. Putting the car into gear, he pressed down hard on the throttle and accelerated toward the driveway’s gates, looking out for the red taillights of the Packard as they sped toward the L.A. basin.

  Once on the two-lane road, he went through the gears, pushing the car to sixty then on to seventy. He could make out the Packard sedan ahead, the distant headlights boring through the sky then disappearing as the Packard entered the first curves of Mulholland Highway.

  Craine struggled to keep his Fleetwood in the center of the road, his tires alternately grazing the sheer rock walls to his right and the lip of the steep hillside drop to his left. He gripped the wheel and pushed his foot against the accelerator, allowing his adrenaline to wash away the worst effects of the alcohol. He tried to stop his thoughts from wandering toward Gale, sucking in air and concentrating on the car ahead. Now was the time to calm down and think about what was going to happen. If they made it to the busy coastal roads, he’d lose the Packard in traffic. All he could do was to try to gain on him on the first length of straight road, and hope a well-aimed s
hot might burst a tire or, even better, penetrate the fuel tank and blow the car clean off the road. But who was the driver? Was he James Campbell? It was starting to make sense. Rochelle must have known Florence Lloyd. But how? And what did they do to warrant being killed?

  On a short piece of straight, Craine lowered himself and, with his free hand, reached below the seat for the holster he kept in the car. He pulled out his Browning semi-automatic and dropped it into his lap.

  Ahead in the Packard, Kamona was driving with a calm urgency. There was no traffic on the road but once the police had been called, they’d start to block all connecting routes to the highway. He might have ten minutes’ head start if he was lucky.

  His eyes flicked between the road ahead and the glare of his pursuer’s headlights in the rearview mirror. He hadn’t expected to be followed, and cursed himself for failing to check the bathroom stalls before shooting Rochelle. He should have killed that boy with the glasses but the screaming woman had thrown him and he’d run out. It didn’t matter now. All that mattered was getting away.

  Craine entered the last camber in a low gear and rammed his foot down to close the gap between the cars. Fifty yards away. Forty, thirty, twenty. Just as he lined his car directly behind the Packard, he saw muzzle flash light up the night. He whipped the steering wheel right to avoid the gunfire but his reactions were too slow and his assailant too accurate; before he could correct the slew of his tail the front windshield was blown inward, two bullets angling past and thudding into the leather passenger seat barely a few inches to his right.

  Holding back the urge to vomit, Craine lowered himself behind the steering wheel, pulled back the hammer of the Browning and rapid-fired four shots through the open window. The first two pinged off the car door, the third and fourth cracked the front passenger window. He saw the driver drop his gun and twist in pain. Using his left hand to hold the steering wheel firm, Craine held his breath and raised the pistol to fire again. Only the wail of an approaching juggernaut’s horn broke his concentration.

  A hundred feet ahead and straddling the crown of the road, a four-ton, six-wheel truck charged toward them like a freight train. The horn blared again, the giant headlamps blinding both drivers. Craine dropped his pistol, hauling himself onto the steering wheel and swerving to his right. The diesel behemoth plowed between both cars, missing Craine’s Fleetwood by inches but catching the Packard’s rear bumper—the car skidded across the asphalt, the tires sidling out toward the edge of the road.

  Craine regained control of his car but his pistol was out of reach. Desperate, his only hope in stopping the shooter now lay in battering the Packard off the highway and down the mountain slope. If he could control the impact, he might keep his car on the road.

  It was a decision fueled by alcohol but it was too late now. He aimed his punctured hood toward the Packard’s vulnerable passenger door, tensed his forearms against the wheel and braced himself for the collision.

  Between the oxbow lanes that curved around the base of the Santa Monica Mountains were quarter-mile expanses of barren hillside, littered only with loose rock and stunted chaparral.

  The Fleetwood and the Packard came off the road’s escarpment with their front wheels angled downhill and dropped down the steep hillside toward a house at the very bottom of the slope.

  Through the darkness, all Craine could see were the tumbling headlights of the Packard below him. His engine stalled, his clutch gave way; Craine could do nothing but cover his face with his arms as loose shards of rubble tore through the remains of his windshield. He watched as, twenty feet downhill, the Packard jackknifed and flipped onto its side. His steering column broken, Craine’s Fleetwood careered into it, smashing into the Packard’s belly and sending it barreling downward, turning over and over toward the rear walls of the house only yards below.

  For a few seconds Kamona’s body had refused to acknowledge any pain but it had arrived now in heavy waves, each one strong enough to knock him unconscious. His energy was waning, his life ebbing out of him. The wall of the house below grew larger. He knew then that he was going to die but there was no hair-raising fear, simply acceptance. There was a sound of impact, of bending, breaking, shearing metal and then finally nothing.

  Craine’s tires were flayed from his wheels, his rims screaming against the rocks and sparks flaring up to either side of him. He saw the Packard pile into the rear wall of the house as his Fleetwood veered to the right and charged onward, hurdling a hedge and, after a brief moment of free flight, landing in the house’s courtyard swimming pool.

  In a hard second, the Fleetwood’s hood hit the base of the pool and the grille and fenders were instantly crushed. Craine’s body was flung forward with the momentum of the collision. His head cracked against the steering wheel and everything went black.

  Chapter 22

  Craine opened his eyes. He couldn’t see anything. His body was convulsing, his arms lashing out against the darkness. He remembered where he was and tried to push through the water toward the surface. No use; he couldn’t move his legs. His lungs were screaming for air, the pain in his chest sharp and raw. Unable to see, he groped blindly at his pants. His legs were trapped, pinned between the dashboard and the driver’s seat. His chest started heaving. He could feel himself slipping back into unconsciousness. He had to get to the surface of the pool. He focused, using the last of his strength to reach under his thighs and tug just under the knees. His legs loosened. He pulled again and they came free.

  Dizzy now, Craine couldn’t hold his breath any longer. He pushed away from the driver’s seat, kicked out with his feet and propelled himself through the broken windshield. With his arms and legs flailing against the water, Craine lunged desperately toward the pool’s surface.

  He choked on the first breath, the clean air too much for his lungs to bear. By the time he pulled himself to the side, he was coughing and retching on each and every breath. Too weak to pull himself out of the pool, he hugged the lip of the concrete edge and let his chest rise and fall with the motions of the water. Only a bright flashlight stopped him from drifting asleep.

  “Stay where you are.”

  Standing at the edge of the pool with a Winchester shotgun was a wispy-haired retiree in a velvet dressing gown. His wrists were shaking, struggling to hold the shotgun butt firm in his shoulder.

  “Don’t move—I said stay where you are. I’ve already called the police.”

  Craine reached for his police identification.

  “What are you doing? I said don’t move.”

  “I’m . . . my badge . . .”

  “I’ll shoot you.”

  “I’m trying to find my badge.”

  The tin insignia was still there, held tight in the wet remains of his inside breast pocket. He tossed the badge at the man’s feet.

  “Los Angeles Police Department.”

  The man slowly put the shotgun on the ground and helped pull Craine out of the water.

  “I’m sorry. The other car—”

  “Is the driver still inside?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Craine patted his pockets. Where was his gun? He stared back at the remains of his car at the bottom of the pool. The Browning was still in the footwell.

  “Your shotgun, is it loaded?”

  “Yes, sir. Buckshot. Take it.”

  Craine picked up the Winchester, cocked it and limped around to the back of the house. The building was designed in the international style, a stark cubic form with a set of right-angled facades and windows in long, horizontal rows. He pulled tight against the exterior wall, climbing up the dozen or so steps that angled up and around to the rear of the house.

  What remained of the Packard’s shattered frame was resting on its side. The radiator was crushed, the paint and nickel dented and grazed. Smoke hissed out of the engine and the cabin was already catching alight. Craine moved closer, the shotgun tight in his shoulder, index finger stroking the trigger. Through the flames, he could ma
ke out the driver draped around the steering column. He wasn’t moving. Craine shouted out to him but there was no response. Only when he was certain that he was dead did he slowly lower his weapon.

  Kamona hadn’t survived the impact. He remained trapped behind the wheel, the steering column pushed so far into his chest that his upper vertebrae had split open his back and protruded through his shoulder blades. His face was resting on the dashboard, his eyes open, gray and glazed. One of his arms was half-severed, hanging off at the elbow where Craine’s bullet had broken the skin, ripped through the articular cartilage and splintered his humerus bone. The other arm lay rigid by his side, his Mauser still grasped tight in his hand.

  In the distance, Craine heard the wail of police sirens as they made their way up the hill. He waited by the car until he saw the headlights pull into the driveway.

  The county newspaper reporters arrived shortly after downtown’s homicide division had cordoned off the hillside estate. By then the fire department had doused the fire and removed the body in the car. A contingent of uniform police quickly began scouring the hillside, returning with bags of scrap metal and glass recovered from the wreckage. Two yellow press photographers managed to creep under the police rope and take a picture of Craine’s Fleetwood being hoisted out of the swimming pool, the hood crumpled, the coachwork in pieces.

  Craine sat in the back of an ambulance wrapped in a coarse wool blanket as a doctor examined his injuries. He shuddered when he touched his ribs.

  “Sorry—I know it’s painful, but would you mind lifting up your arm? Can you clench your fist, please? And open it again. Good. You said you felt a little nauseous. That’s normal, it’s the adrenaline left in your body. Any headaches? Did you black out since the accident?”