Race with Death

by Gilbert, Morris

  He stopped at the grocery store and picked up a pound of turkey bacon and six cans of tuna, then drove straight to his apartment. Darkness cloaked the street in front of the building. As he locked the Studebaker, he hoped the hubcaps would still be there at dawn. Not much of a market for 1963 Studebaker hubcaps, he thought, but in New Orleans nothing was certain. A sixteen-year-old had been killed for a Saints jacket only the day before, and sneaker hijacking was big. Some of the new athletic shoes cost over a hundred dollars, and there were those in the Projects who would kill for the five dollars needed to buy a fix.

  Turning toward the steps that led up to the landing, Savage’s mind was on his encounter at the Leonard Hotel. He had the type of mind that zeroed in on a problem and moved through the ordinary duties of life in a mechanical fashion as he gnawed at the facts, much as a dog gnawed on an old bone.

  The touch on his arm and the sudden voice that came out of the dark recess beside the door took him completely off guard. His reaction was totally automatic, a matter of nerve endings. Years of training and almost constant brushes with danger had created an alarm system that worked apart from his rational senses, and at the sudden touch, he dropped the sack of groceries he carried in his left hand and lashed out with a vicious chop that struck something soft. As the person who’d stepped beside him was driven backward, falling to the concrete, Savage whipped out the Colt Python he carried under his left arm and threw down on the dim figure.

  A quick glance assured him that nobody else lurked in the shadows, and he released his breath. Kneeling down, he grabbed an arm, and at that same moment heard a gasping voice say, “Ben—”

  The voice and the rounded arm Savage held was feminine, and he shoved the gun back into the holster, saying, “Are you hurt?”

  “I—think so.”

  Savage bent forward, but in the darkness could not make out the woman’s features. “We better get inside,” he muttered, ashamed of his overreaction. He pulled her to her feet, and after opening the door, the two of them passed into the lighted foyer. He stared at her, and felt even worse, for the woman had apparently struck her head on the cement. “You’ve got a scrape on your cheek, Sunny,” he said. “Come on—I’ll put something on it.”

  The woman was trembling, but tried to smile. “Touchy, aren’t you, Ben?” She was no more than twenty-five and had the classic face of a fashion model. Long blonde hair fell over the short blue jacket she was wearing, and her dark blue eyes reflected some of the fear and shock that had come to her. Reaching up with her left hand, she touched her right shoulder. “I’m going to have the grandmother of all bruises, I think.”

  “Come on.” Savage walked with her down the hall and, taking a key from his pocket, unlocked the door. He reached in and threw the switch, then stepped back for the woman to enter. “Sit down. I’ll get something for that scrape.”

  “All right, Ben.”

  Savage moved across the apartment, thinking of the last time he’d seen Sunny Sloan. They’d had a brief romance, which she had ended abruptly, and he’d seen her only on TV since. He’d always thought she’d dropped him because there had been some chance of their relationship getting serious—and Sunny Sloan lusted for a career, not for romance with a private detective. In a way, Ben had been relieved, for although he liked Sunny, she had become too immersed in show business for his taste. It was her ambition to become a news analyst for one of the big networks, and she had done well enough on one of the local New Orleans shows to draw some attention from CBS.

  Returning from the bathroom with a bottle of antiseptic and some cotton balls, Ben sat down beside her, saying awkwardly, “I’m sorry.”

  Sunny smiled at him, and put her hand on his arm as he removed the top from the disinfectant. “I should have known better than to come out of the dark at you, but I’d forgotten how you react to things like that.”

  Savage soaked a cotton ball with the medicine and dabbed it on the spot on her cheek. “Not too bad,” he said. “You can cover it up with makeup before you go on camera.”

  “Good thing I don’t have to cover my arm up with makeup.” Sunny lifted her right arm, grimaced, then shrugged. “It’ll be all right.”

  “If you’ve got a whirlpool, that’ll help. Or soak in the tub with water as hot as you can take.” Savage put the medicine down, leaned back and said, “What’s going on, Sunny?”

  “Do I need an excuse to drop by and see you, Ben? I never did before.” A memory came to Sunny, and a smile turned her wide mouth upward. She was an attractive woman, and well aware of it. It was her stock in trade—or part of it at least. She resented with a white-hot intensity any suggestion that her success came as a result of her good looks. Once Savage had said, “You never see any ugly lady news analysts, do you?” and she walked out at once, leaving him alone at the restaurant where they were dining.

  But Savage had grown to know her pretty well, and was aware that she hadn’t stopped by on a friendly call. “Come on, Sunny,” he shrugged. “You don’t need a boyfriend to take you to the movies.”

  Sunny started to answer, but a muffled sound from the bedroom caught her attention. Startled, she cut her eyes toward Ben. “Who’s that?”

  “Jane.”

  The monosyllabic reply irritated Sunny. “I didn’t know you had a—a friend. Maybe I ought to come back later.”

  “She’ll be here when you do,” Savage shrugged, then added, “unless I get rid of her.”

  “Oh? You might throw her out?” Sunny’s lips grew tight, for the cavalier fashion of Savage’s speech irked her. “You don’t think she might get tired of you first?”

  “She’s got it good. I pay all the bills and all she does is loll around this place. If she wasn’t so good-looking I’d have chucked her out long ago.” He fixed his eyes on Sunny, adding, “You two have a lot in common.”

  “Really?” The tone was icy, and Sunny’s back grew stiff. “I doubt that.”

  “Sure you do. Both good-looking females, and both so independent you’ll never be able to please a man.” Savage saw the anger in the woman’s eyes, and got to his feet. “I’ll introduce you.”

  Sunny stood up, saying, “Never mind, I’ll just—”

  But Savage had crossed the room and opened the door, saying, “Come out, Jane.”

  A beautiful, pure white Persian cat with large green eyes moved into the room, her gait arrogant and graceful. “This is Miss Sunny Sloan—this is Miss Jane Eyre,” Savage said with a straight face. “You two get acquainted while I fix Miss Eyre’s dinner.”

  Sunny laughed, her anger gone at once. “You’re a case, Ben Savage!” she said. He had always had a dry sense of humor that attracted her, though it often had a bite. As Savage moved to the kitchen to open a can of tuna, Sunny sat down and patted the couch, but the cat merely stared at her, then yawned. When Savage came back with a small dish filled with tuna, she said, “I never saw such a stuck-up cat. Not your type at all, I’d think.”

  “No, she isn’t.” Savage put the dish down, then seated himself in a chair. “I like earthy women—just folks.” He saw the remark struck Sunny, and grinned. “I called her Jane Eyre because she’s so blasted independent. Guess I’ll spend my life waiting on her.”

  Sunny looked at the beautiful cat, then sobered as she glanced at Savage. “I gave you a bad time, Ben.”

  “No problem.”

  “It really wasn’t—not for you,” Sunny nodded. “We’d have made a terrible pair if we’d gotten married.”

  “Probably.” Savage leaned back, asking, “What’s the problem, Sunny?”

  Sunny offered a slight smile. “You know me too well, Ben. Well, here it is—I’m in some kind of danger.”

  “You mean someone’s going to beat you up? That kind of danger?”

  ‘Yes, that kind.” She leaned toward him and shook her head.”It sounds like something in a detective story—an old dime novel. At first I paid it no attention, but now I’m worried.”

  “Tell me.”


  “I’ve got a big chance to go up, Ben,” Sunny said quickly. “For the last three months I’ve been working on a story about the petrochemical industry. And it’s got some hackles up.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Savage gave the woman a curious look. “Did you come because of the Prejean case?”

  “Why, no, I didn’t. Of course I know he was getting on the governor’s nerves. As a matter of fact, I talked with him a couple of times—before he killed that girl.” Sunny stared at him curiously. “What made you ask that?”

  Savage thought quickly, then shrugged. “My boss is interested in him. We’re doing a little poking around. He says he’s got a book almost ready to print that’s going to blow Russell out of the water.”

  “I heard that, Ben. That’s why I went to talk with him.” Sunny was excited. “He wouldn’t tell me too much about what he had, but I was convinced he had something big.”

  “What about you, Sunny? Somebody making threats?”

  “I’ve gotten two phone calls. It was the same man both times, and he says if I don’t stop asking questions, I’m going to get hurt.”

  “You didn’t know the voice?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Savage thought for a moment, then asked, “You take it seriously? I mean, you TV people who stir things up, you must get hate mail.”

  “Oh, there’s always someone who doesn’t like what we say, but this is different.” Sunny hesitated, then said, “I was nearly run down by a car this morning, Ben. And it wasn’t accidental. Last night when I got the second call, I got mad, so I told him to bug off. He laughed and said, ‘Hope your insurance is paid up.’ I was a little worried, but not much. But when I left my apartment early this morning, I was almost run down.”

  “You see who it was?”

  “N-no, not really.” The memory of the thing made her nervous, and she said quickly, “I was crossing the street, and this car started up. I didn’t pay much attention, but then I heard the engine roaring, and when I looked up, the car was racing toward me. I jumped back, but then he swerved right at me, Ben!” Her eyes opened wide, and she put her hands on her cheeks. “I was close to a lamppost, and I just scrambled behind it in time. If it hadn’t been there, he’d have run me down.”

  “Might have been some wild kid,” Savage suggested.

  “No. I got a call this afternoon. The same man, and he said, ‘Better watch yourself, Sunny. You’re going to get run down sooner or later—unless you lay off that story.’”

  Savage studied her carefully, then asked, “What are you going to do?”

  Sunny bit her lip, then shook her head. Her long blonde hair swept her shoulders, and she said, “Ben, this is my big chance. It may be the only one I’ll ever get.”

  “Won’t do you much good to get on CBS if you’re in traction.”

  “I know, but I thought—” Sunny hesitated. There had always been a competence in her, but now she was afraid. “I thought you might help me. The police can’t do anything, but if you could just—”

  Savage looked at her as her voice trailed off. “If somebody wants to get you bad enough, Sunny, they can’t be stopped.” He saw fear touch her eyes, and added, “Why don’t we go talk to my boss?”

  “Ben, I don’t have a lot of money to spend.”

  Savage shrugged. “She’s interested in this Prejean thing. Maybe we’ll help each other. Dani and I both think Prejean’s case had something to do with corruption in the capitol.” He looked over toward the Persian who was licking her lips with a pink tongue, and smiled.

  “Just what I need,” he said. “To get hooked up with three liberated females!”

  5

  Sunny Sloan

  * * *

  A fine mist was falling over New Orleans, joining itself to a soupy fog that clung to the Mississippi. “It’s like driving underwater,” Dani complained as she drove through the narrow streets that led to the Quarter. Later, she knew, the sun would rise and burn the blanket of white fog and mist away, but that was no help now as she strained her eyes to see through the haze. A cab pulled out in front of her, abruptly ignoring a stop sign. She jammed on her brakes, thinking unkind thoughts about New Orleans cab drivers. It gave her some satisfaction when she saw a police car pull out, blue lights blinking, and she smiled grimly. “Do your duty, men,” she urged.

  Dani had skipped breakfast and was aware that she was hungry, so she turned toward Jackson Square, found a parking place easily at that early hour, and walked to the Cafe du Monde, beating the crowds of tourists that would gather later. As she ate an English muffin covered with butter and red raspberry jam, she read the front page and the editorial section of the Times-Picayune. The headlines were filled with evil tidings, as usual, and the editorial section set forth edicts on how to eliminate them—as well as dire prophecies as to what lay down the ominous road that comprised the future. She turned to the comics and read “Calvin and Hobbes,” “The Far Side,” “B.C.,” and “The Wizard of Id,” ignoring the pseudo strips that were added to fill up space. More truth in “Calvin and Hobbes,” she thought wryly, than in the rest of the paper put together.

  The sun burned a slight opening through the watery haze and shouldered its way through. Dani sat for half an hour drinking several cups of café au lait as the Square came to life. The con artists came first, then their prey, the tourists from the Midwest aching to be taken. She watched as one of her favorites, C. L. Dinwiddie, transferred cash by some sort of mysterious alchemy from the pockets of the people who passed by into his own. C. L. sat in a wheelchair and played an ocarina, very badly out of time and tune, and cast his sad looks at those who passed by. He played hymns for people who looked churchy and rock-and-roll for the swingers. Dani had heard him go from “Amazing Grace” to the latest Michael Bolton hit without missing a beat—and had seen him fleece both sets of clients.

  As Dani watched people drop bills into C. L.’s old hat, which he kept on his lap, she wondered what would happen if she would step beside the wheelchair and say to the people, “Hey, this is no cripple. He plays tennis every day of his life. And these duds are his working clothes. When he’s off duty, he wears Girbauds and Tony Lama ostrich boots that cost two hundred and fifty bucks a boot!”

  A smile crossed her lips as she thought, They’d get mad at me if I told them the truth. People like to be fooled—they pay big money for it. And I guess C. L. is harmless enough.

  And then a memory came floating into her mind, something Ben had said to her once when they’d been having a blazing argument about a case. Dani had forgotten what the argument was about, but she remembered that she’d been trying to steamroller Ben. He’d taken her arm and his dark eyes had riveted her as he’d said, Boss, you’ve been educated beyond your capacity. You’ve spent a lot of time and effort trying to cover up the fact that you’re a woman. Stop fooling yourself—or you’ll pile up somewhere down the road!

  The coffee suddenly tasted bitter to Dani as she remembered how she’d yanked her arm away from his grasp, given him a scalding reply, and gone roaring off to do whatever it was that he was trying to prevent her from doing. And as she thought of it, she had a faint memory that he’d been right in the matter, and that she’d wound up with egg on her face in the middle of a large mess.

  Dani pushed her cup away and rose, disturbed by her train of thought. As she left the Cafe du Monde, a notion came to her, and she walked across the square past the sidewalk artists and entered the cathedral. Barely noticing the few people that were inside, she slipped into a back pew, bowed her head, and began to pray. The quietness soaked into her spirit, and she didn’t think it strange at all—coming into a Catholic church to pray. It was a habit she had, especially when traveling. She liked to stop and enter churches and pray for a brief time. This always left her refreshed. A friend had once asked, Don’t you feel out of place, praying in all kinds of different churches? Dani had tried to explain that she went to talk to God, not to discuss doctrine, and that a Shaker
meeting house, a Catholic cathedral, or a modern Baptist church were all the same to her.

  For ten minutes she sat there quietly, her thoughts fluttering in her head like a captured bird inside a cage. She’d long envied those people who were, apparently, single-minded enough to simply drop all thoughts of worldly things and focus on God. Her mind was not of that sort, and she had learned that the best thing was to let the bird flutter around, bouncing all sorts of thoughts off her mind, knowing that sooner or later those wandering thoughts would grow faint and she would be able to concentrate on God.

  The odor of old wood and melting candle wax filled the large space, and the silence was so profound that she could hear the faint sobs of a woman who knelt at the front, muffled and sad. Dani prayed, Lord, help that woman—meet her needs and take away her grief. Give her your joy and your peace.

  She often prayed like that, for people she didn’t know and would never know. Help that old man—Give that little girl a good day at school—Lord, heal that woman of the cold that’s worn her down—

  For some time she summoned up those dear to her—her mother, Allison, Rob. She didn’t pray long for them—just a simple request for God to surround them, to keep them. Then she prayed for the country and its leadership—though this was hard for her. She did it in obedience to the Bible’s injunction, the clear command to pray for those in charge of government. Finally, she put all out of her mind except God, and for some time sat there, thanking him for his gifts and blessings—and finally, just praising him for who he was.

  Her father had taught her well, for he’d said often, We ought to give thanks for our blessings, Dani. But those things aren’t God. We ought to love God no matter how poor our circumstances—no matter how much we hurt. God made us to love him and to worship him. Most people never really learn to do that—but as that’s what heaven will be like, I want us to learn here so we’ll be right at home there.