Blues in the Night

by Dick Lochte

  ‘If I told you that, I’d have to kill you,’ he said.

  She gave him a brief, wintery smile. ‘No more jokes,’ she said.

  ‘All right. Serious and from the heart. I’m concerned that as soon as you get the coin Paulie and I will go the way of Pender and my old friend Gulik.’

  She frowned. ‘They said some rather foolish things and Thomas reacted in his usual hasty manner.’

  ‘They said they were going to the police, madam,’ Thomas said. ‘Should I have stood aside and wished them “bon chance”?’

  Angela gave him a bored look, then said to Mace, ‘I think we can assume neither you nor Paulie is likely to run to the police.’

  ‘Not our style,’ Mace said.

  She lowered her eyes to his beltline. ‘Glad to see me?’ she asked.

  He looked down and saw that the Sig Sauer was causing his shirt to tent slightly. He shifted on the chair and the shirt flattened out.

  She was now staring at him, eye to eye. It had been a warning, but could he really trust her? Could he trust himself?

  ‘Sweets,’ Angela said, not breaking eye contact, ‘place your gun against Mr Lacotta’s forehead. If Mr Mason has not told us the location of the coin before I reach the count of ten, pull the trigger.’

  Mace heard Paulie yapping like a muzzled mongrel. His eyes and Angela’s were still locked. ‘It’s at Paulie’s house up on Mulholland,’ he said. ‘I used gum to stick it to the back of his TV screen.’

  ‘If this turns out to be a delaying tactic,’ she said, ‘it’ll get very ugly, very quickly.’

  ‘Nobody likes ugly,’ Mace said.

  FORTY-SIX

  There were several things Honest Abe Garfein preferred to be doing that morning, lolling about in bed with a nasty brunette being first and foremost. He could not think of anything he’d less prefer doing than rattling along Santa Monica Boulevard in Simon Symon’s Cherokee clunker.

  The faded color of the vehicle reminded him of a ghastly vat drink called Purple Jesus. Symon’s personality and conversation were on a par with his hygiene, which was wanting in every possible way. And Abe was depressed by the section of the boulevard they were traveling through, which had been a bar-and-grill, hooker-rich hipster playground during his young adulthood, but now had been transformed, apparently overnight, into a family-oriented, super-malled neighborhood that looked considerably cleaner than the man sitting beside him at the steering wheel.

  ‘What’s this meeting all about anyway?’ Symon whined. ‘I was planning on hanging out in Burbank this morning, trying to get a shot of Brad and Megan during their break.’

  Abe had answered that question several times already, but he figured he might as well give it another try. ‘As I was told, Jerry wants to discuss the sequel to Kid Gal-I-Had.’

  ‘I get that,’ Symon snapped. ‘What I don’t get is: what’s there to discuss? Either we shoot the fucking porno or we don’t. It’s not like we’re making Green Hornet Two.’

  ‘I believe we still have to sell him,’ Abe said, staring sadly at a corner where he’d once received oral sex from a beautiful, black hooker with bright platinum hair. Now there was a crossing guard helping an old lady across the street.

  ‘It’s the way of the world,’ he said.

  ‘Shit. It’s not like I’m getting DGA pay, Abe. And I don’t like working with that big freak.’ They’d made several movies with the huge Elvis-like man-boy, Symon behind the camera, Abe producing, Jerry Monte financing on the QT.

  ‘Timmie’s OK, as long as you stay on his good side,’ Abe said. ‘And you have to admit, the boy does have a million-dollar package.’

  That seemed to quiet Symon for the moment.

  As they turned right on Formosa, Abe stared wistfully at a restaurant on the corner that still matched the image in his memory. It used to be one of the few places where you could be sure of getting an excellent gin martini. He wondered if that was still the case. ‘Ever go the Formosa?’ he asked Simon.

  ‘Jesus, Abe, do I look like Army Archerd? How old do you think I am?’

  Abe sighed and said nothing more until Symon started to turn into the former Brigston lot. ‘Watch out for the dog!’ he shouted.

  Symon hit the brakes and a mutt, apparently unhurt but frightened, slunk from under the front of the Cherokee, his ribs showing beneath his mottled and patchy coat.

  ‘Fucking dog,’ Symon shouted, hiding his own fear. ‘Kill yourself on your own time.’

  The dog gave them a furtive backward glance before trotting off and Abe, ordinarily not one to put much stock in signs or portents, wondered if this might be a bad time to visit the lot.

  ‘Simon . . .’ he began, and paused.

  ‘What?’

  This was foolish, Abe thought. There was business to be done. ‘Let’s go close the deal,’ he said.

  Symon coughed, rubbed the underside of his nose with a finger and drove on to the lot. His first sign that something wasn’t quite right was the absence of sound. No roaring engines, no cement mixers, no grinding, rending, collapsing.

  ‘What the hell?’ Symon said. ‘What happened to the construction? Where are the workmen? Tell me Jerry hasn’t tapped out.’

  ‘The country will tap out before Jerry,’ Abe said. ‘Some kind of holiday, maybe.’

  ‘My fucking bank is open,’ Symon said. He slowed down the Cherokee, looking right and left for a sign of . . . something. ‘Dead as old man Brigston,’ he said. ‘You sure Jerry wanted to see us today?’

  ‘So the broad said.’

  ‘He took her back, huh? Last night it looked like the romance was over.’

  ‘These things ebb and flow,’ Abe said.

  Symon parked the vehicle in front of the office bungalow. ‘Don’t see any of his cars,’ he said. ‘Don’t see Rufe’s black ass anywhere. You ever know Jerry to go anywhere without Rufe?’

  ‘Actually, no,’ Abe said, looking around now himself.

  Getting out of the car, he saw the door to Sound Stage Three open. Two men exited the building. ‘Here’s somebody,’ he said to Symon.

  ‘The fucking Brit and Sweets,’ Symon said with some disgust. ‘Key-rist. Don’t tell me they’re gonna be at the meeting?’

  The black man was taking his time, but Thomas marched hurriedly toward them. ‘Hello, chaps.’

  Symon shot a nervous look past him and Sweets. ‘That whack-job brother of yours around somewhere?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s in building three –’ Thomas said genially, removing his gun – ‘my whack job brother, as you so quaintly put it, you insipid, odoriferous little vermin.’

  ‘Hey, look, I—’ was about all Symon was able to articulate before Thomas blew the top of his head off.

  He turned the gun on Abe. ‘Comment?’ he asked.

  For the first time, Abe realized that, while it had not been obvious before, Thomas was as much a whack job as his brother. He shook his head and said nothing.

  ‘What the hell you doin’, Thomas?’ Sweets whined.

  ‘Ridding the world of one more impossibly rude cretin,’ Thomas said, as unruffled as a calm sea. ‘Care to make it two?’

  Sweets blinked and immediately dropped his attitude. ‘Uh, I better get goin’,’ he said.

  ‘Put this garbage somewhere out of sight, first,’ Thomas said, indicating Symon’s corpse.

  Sweets started to hold up his plastered wrist, but thought better of it. ‘I’ll stick ’im in the workmen’s with the other one.’

  Looking at the man’s narrow face and wide fearful eyes, Abe was reminded of the dog at the entrance to the lot. It had been a portent after all.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  There had been some discussion about who should retrieve the coin. Since the least crucial member of their group, the man known as Klebek, was deemed a bit less than trustworthy, Sweets was tapped for the trip.

  Angela told him to phone in as soon as he found the coin.

  ‘Or, more likely, as soon as I don’t find it,’
Sweets said.

  He crossed the room and opened the door. He started to exit, then stepped back. ‘Car parked by the office,’ he shouted. ‘Somebody out there.’

  Thomas’ face lit up.

  ‘Know them?’ Angela asked.

  ‘Didn’t get a good look,’ Sweets said.

  ‘I’ll find out,’ Thomas said with a grin.

  ‘No, wait a—’ Angela began.

  ‘Timmie, take this,’ Thomas interrupted her, holding out the sub-machine gun. ‘Keep our friends at bay.’

  His brother lumbered toward him and accepted the weapon. ‘Bang-bang.’

  ‘Use it only if you must,’ Thomas said and left with Sweets to check on the newcomers.

  Mace thought this might be the time to make his move, with Timmie holding the useless weapon, the other two men more than halfway on his side. And Angela . . . ? He might as well find out where she stood.

  He dropped his hand to his lap.

  ‘Don’t,’ Angela whispered. ‘Not yet.’

  He was being foolish but he decided to play along. He was gambling his life and Paulie’s. Not all that much, really.

  He settled back to wonder who’d just arrived and if or how it would alter the dynamics of the situation.

  ‘I like guns,’ Timmie said, distracting him. ‘But pistols are my favorite. Cowboy pistols.’

  Mace shifted in his chair to observe the big man. Corrigan was doing the same. Standing slightly behind Timmie, he glared venomously at the giant.

  ‘A man strong as you doesn’t really need a gun, Timmie,’ Mace said. ‘You do pretty well bare-handed.’

  Timmie smiled. ‘I am strong. I lifted two pretty girls in Wild Sex in the Country.’

  Mace was about to drop the late Drier’s name into the conversation when a popping sound made its way through the soundproofed walls of the building.

  ‘Gun,’ Corrigan said.

  ‘Thomas,’ Timmie said gleefully. ‘He only needs one shot.’

  Mace looked at Angela, who seemed troubled. ‘Expecting someone?’ he asked.

  ‘You never know who’ll drop by,’ she said. Her mind seemed to be working furiously.

  When the door opened, all of them but Timmie turned toward it.

  Two men entered, one holding a gun, the other with his arms raised. The gunman was Thomas. The other, tall, weary-looking and wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt, looked the room over. His eyes locked on Mace’s.

  ‘Hi, Abe,’ Mace said. ‘You here on business or pleasure?’

  ‘I . . .’ Abe seemed shaken. He shifted his attention to Angela and said, ‘He just killed . . . Simon.’

  ‘Vermin eradication,’ the Brit said.

  ‘Damnit, Thomas,’ Angela said, getting to her feet. ‘That shoot-first attitude is what got us into this mess.’

  ‘No big loss, I assure you,’ Thomas said. He casually gestured toward Abe with his gun. ‘It’s not as if I kill everyone I see.’

  ‘Don’t be mad at Thomas,’ Timmie told her. The big man was now facing Angela, as if trying to decide if he should use the weapon in his hand. She leaned forward, her hand just inches from the pistol on the table. Thomas was walking toward his brother. None of them was paying attention to Corrigan.

  The stocky man picked that moment to attack Thomas, knocking the gunman off his feet. They struggled on the ground. It wasn’t much of a contest. Thomas had age on his side, but that was no match for Corrigan’s weight, strength and experience at hand-to-hand combat. Avoiding the Brit’s kicks and flailing, he concentrated on his goal, which was getting and using Thomas’ gun.

  But Thomas refused to release the weapon. Corrigan tore it loose, accompanied by the sound of finger bones cracking.

  Thomas let out a scream of pain as Corrigan rolled free of him. He rose on one knee, the gun aimed at Timmie, who was still transfixed by the image of his brother writhing in agony. Corrigan’s first shot was high, tearing a ridge in the big man’s upper arm.

  It did little damage but it caught Timmie’s attention. He swung the sub-machine until it was pointed directly at Corrigan, who was halfway to a standing position. Timmie pulled the trigger. When nothing happened, he looked down at the gun, perplexed. He shook it and tried the trigger again. Nothing. ‘Is this a real gun?’ he asked.

  Corrigan was standing now, apparently cured of arthritis. He sent his second shot into Timmie’s right side. It angered the giant, but didn’t seem to do much else. ‘That hurt Timmie,’ he said, running toward Corrigan.

  The CIA agent fired another bullet into the big man’s body. But it wasn’t enough to stop his advance. Timmie drew back his useless weapon and smashed it against Corrigan’s face.

  Mace saw the blood spray from Corrigan’s broken nose as he fell backward, losing the gun.

  Thomas, holding his hand with broken fingers close to his body, reached out his other hand for the fallen weapon and scooped it up. He tried to get a clear shot at the man who’d hurt him, but his brother had Corrigan wrapped in a bear hug, crushing him. The Brit then turned his gun on the fake Russian, Klebek, who’d had more than enough and was running for the door. ‘Quisling bastard,’ Thomas shouted. Before he could pull the trigger, Mace placed a shot in the center of his back.

  Mace had drawn the Sig Sauer to use on Timmie. He wasn’t sure why he’d switched targets. Maybe it was because he felt the fake Russian deserved the assist more than Corrigan. Maybe it was because he believed an armed Thomas posed a more serious threat than his already wounded brother.

  He didn’t have time to give it a lot of thought.

  Timmie, responding to his brother’s death cry, tossed the now-lifeless Corrigan aside. Emitting a wail of sorrow mixed with fury, he turned and stomped toward Mace, his big Elvis-like head swinging from side to side.

  Mace held his ground and placed two bullets into Timmie’s chest. They forced the big man to take a few backward steps. ‘That really hurts,’ he said and continued forward.

  Time for a head shot, Mace thought. But he missed by inches. And Timmie was on him, wrapping his massive arms around him until they met, then squeezing, lifting the smaller man off his feet.

  Mace couldn’t breathe. The Sig Sauer was still in his hand, but it was trapped in a flat position between their bodies. With a final struggle, Mace was able to angle it slightly toward Timmie and fired.

  He felt the big man react as the bullet tore through a fleshy portion of his gut. But his squeeze intensified and Mace was too weak and too woozy to try for another shot. He knew his ribs were at the cracking point. He was struggling for breath.

  And the old familiar anger kicked in.

  With a growl of fury more animal than human, he shoved his head forward, pressed his mouth against Timmie’s chest and bit hard enough to tear through the big man’s shirt and remove his right nipple.

  Timmie screamed and relaxed his hold for just a beat. But it was long enough for Mace to spit the torn flesh in the giant’s face, lower his weapon to his pelvic area and continue firing until he was out of ammunition.

  With a screech, Timmie unwrapped his arms and Mace fell to the floor, not quite realizing what was happening. He was trying to breathe, but the effort was too painful. Gasping, he let go of the gun and pressed his hand against his chest.

  His own touch seemed to have some therapeutic value.

  He calmed a bit. That allowed him to inhale a little in spite of his aching ribs.

  As his mind cleared, he became aware of the huge figure still standing just a few feet away. Standing, but swaying. Timmie’s huge hands, covered with blood, were squeezing his ruined penis and testicles. ‘Where . . . are . . . you . . . Thomas?’ he yelled. ‘I hurt baaaad.’ He began crying like a baby.

  Which is what he was, Mace supposed.

  Suddenly, Timmie sat down hard on the concrete. He looked surprised. He whimpered and fell over on his side. His breathing was ragged. Then it stopped.

  Mace pushed himself to his feet. He stumbled toward the card table. He leaned on
it and when it began to slide on the concrete floor, settled back on his own two feet.

  He heard Paulie making a keening sound through his tape gag and recognized it as a warning. He looked up and saw Angela standing several feet away. She had her gun in her hand, pointed in his general direction.

  ‘Wait,’ he said, but she fired anyway.

  If he’d been in any better shape, he might have realized she’d meant him no harm. Instead he was still gawking at her when he heard the male half cry, half grunt just behind him. Followed by a soft thud.

  He turned to find Honest Abe lying on his back on the concrete floor. Angela’s bullet had pierced his chest at an evidently fatal location. Even after the fall, he still clutched the gun he’d been about to use on Mace.

  Angela moved to Abe, stepped on his wrist and used her other foot to kick the gun away.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Mace said.

  ‘Thanks for the affirmation,’ she said sarcastically. ‘The problem is, he’s no fucking good to me dead.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Mace said.

  ‘Clearly. We needed this piece of crap to help us nail the real Brox.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘I’d show you my ID,’ she said, ‘if I was lame enough to be carrying one into this snake pit. I’m a member of the same club as the late Mr Corrigan, only I pay more attention to the rules.’

  Mace was experiencing chest pains when he breathed. He felt dizzy. Mainly, he felt like a fool. ‘I . . .’ he began. But he wasn’t foolish enough to finish the very personal thing he was thinking. Instead, he improvised, ‘I thought the rules said your club wasn’t supposed to play in this country.’

  She turned her blue eyes on him. If there was a hint of warmth in them, he couldn’t see it past the frost. ‘Mason,’ she said, ‘you and I shared a memorable night of fucking. And I just blew my assignment by saving your life. So don’t be a putz.’

  He suddenly realized she was right and, in spite of everything, he felt like laughing. But the joke wasn’t quite complete. ‘Brox was your assignment?’