by R. J. Jagger
SHE STEPPED OUT of her putrid soaked panties, threw them onto the other side of the bushes and put her shorts on. They were white but they were dry.
Five minutes later she was back at the car.
Did she dare do what she was thinking of?
Yes.
She had no option.
She got Jundee into this mess and it was her responsibility to get him out. She fired up the car, left the headlights off and motored back to the body. There she kept the engine running but shifted the clutch into neutral. She dragged the body towards the car along the hedges, got it into the trunk and took off.
No one saw her.
Two blocks away she let her mouth smile.
She did it.
In hindsight it wasn’t all that bad.
Not bad at all.
She checked the clock.
It was 2:45 in the morning.
SHE CUT OVER TO SANTA FE and drove south. The plan was to keep going until she got out of the city, way out of the city, then look for a nice quiet place to dump the body.
She wondered if she should tell Jundee that he actually killed a man.
Maybe she should just keep quiet about the whole thing.
There’d be no newspaper article of a dead body found in Capitol Hill.
He’d assume the man had simply regained consciousness and gone back to his little life of crime.
What would she want Jundee to do if the situation was reversed?
Tell her, or not?
SHE LAUGHED.
What a dumb-ass cop.
He was right there taking a piss not more than ten steps away and never had a clue. Before she died, she needed to find out who he was, call him anonymously and tell him look around better the next time he takes a piss.
THE MILES CLICKED BY.
Suddenly flashing lights appeared in her rearview mirror.
She was the only vehicle on the road.
They were for her, no question.
She looked at the speedometer—45.
She was almost positive that was the speed limit.
She wasn’t speeding.
She wasn’t weaving.
What was the issue?
Damn it.
Okay, don’t panic.
Just stay calm.
She pulled over.
The flashing lights pulled in behind her.
Almost immediately two cops got out and approached.
104
Day Six
June 14, 1952
Saturday Morning
SHADE HAD SERIOUS QUESTIONS as to what was going on but it was clear London didn’t want to talk in front of the cab driver so she kept her mouth shut and stared out the window. One of the questions related to where they were going; London was giving detailed directions, she knew what she was doing. After fifteen minutes of zigs and zags she said, “Stop here.”
They were next to railroad tracks on the west edge of the city.
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. What’s the fare?”
He checked.
“A buck thirty two.”
London dangled a ten-dollar bill in her fingers. “You never had this fare, okay?”
He smiled.
“What fare?”
She gave him the bill followed with a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Have a nice life.”
“You too.”
They watched until he was completely out of sight, then London said, “Come on,” and started walking down the tracks.
Shade fell into step.
“The cops showed up at the hotel while you were out,” London said.
The cops?
Right.
The cops.
“I got out the fire escape before they busted in. We’re going to a safe place. I have a car there.”
THEY WALKED for a half hour then cut west into an industrial area. The first structure they came to was an abandoned metal building surrounded by weeds. London pulled a key out of her purse and opened a dirty steel door at the backside.
“In case you’re wondering, this is where I was going to keep you if the need arose,” she said.
Parked inside was a newer model Packard.
“That’s how I was going to transport you,” she added. “It has a big trunk.”
Shade frowned.
“I’m claustrophobic.”
“I was going to give you the chance to sit up front handcuffed to the door,” she said. “The trunk was only a last resort, if you didn’t behave yourself.”
“I probably wouldn’t have.”
“No argument here,” London said. “There’s food and water in the back seat.”
Shade opened the driver’s door and slid in.
The seat felt good.
Her feet were tired.
The keys were in the ignition.
The front end of the car faced the street, behind an overhead door.
“Open the door,” Shade said. “We’re going to take a ride.”
London shook her head.
“It’s too dangerous. We’ll just lay low.”
“Visible Moon isn’t laying low.” Shade fired up the engine. Carbon monoxide shot out the tailpipe and choked the air. “Open the door or I’ll bust through it.”
105
Day Six
June 14, 1952
Saturday Morning
WILDE WAS ALMOST OUT of Stuart Black’s building when he paused to decide whether he really wanted to steal files out of a lawyer’s office. That was serious business. Once done, it couldn’t be undone.
He was getting too wild.
Sure, his cases justified extreme measures and maybe even demanded them, but at this rate he’d end up in jail.
He needed to be smarter.
He needed to reduce the risk.
He should read the files right here by the back door and then put them back where he found them. If someone came in the front while he was reading he’d be able to slip out the back without being seen.
He set the Jack Mack files to the side and concentrated on the expandable file, the one from the bottom drawer.
The Shadow file.
NATALIE LEVINE.
That was the top folder inside the file and the one he pulled out first. Inside was a single sheet of lined yellow paper with pencil handwriting:
Natalie Levine
March 7, 1952
South Platte Industrial Park, abandoned gray metal building, roof behind heating duct.
Dames in Danger, Jan. 1950, page 39.
Very strong.
Put up a sexy little fight.
Got all horny, bought a hooker that night.
A second piece of paper was also in the folder. It was a page torn out of a magazine that had a pinup painting that went along with a story called “A Slut by Night.” On closer examination, the page number at the bottom was 39 and the header at the top was Dames in Danger.
He opened the next file.
LANA CORBIN.
Inside, as before, was a single sheet of lined yellow paper with pencil handwriting:
Lana Corbin
June 4, 1952
Top of boxcar at old abandoned railroad yard south of Denver, off Santa Fe
Dames in Danger, April 1948, page 17
Fun to kill.
Took a long time to die.
Delicious face.
A second piece of paper was also in the folder, namely a page torn out of Dames in Danger. Wilde recognized it as the same one he found in his earlier research.
He opened the next file.
CHARLOTTE WADE.
Inside was a sheet of paper with pencil handwriting:
Charlotte Wade
July 19, 1951
Top of abandoned barn west of Brighton
Dames in Danger, Dec. 1945, page 41.
Bitchy.
Deserved to die.
The corresponding page from Dames in Danger
was also in the folder.
THERE WERE FOUR more files but they’d have to wait a few seconds. Wilde set them on a table next to the Jack Mack files, headed for the restroom and took a piss that had been too long in the making. He was just about to flush when he heard a key turning in the front door.
Someone was coming in.
He was trapped.
He opened the bathroom window as quietly as he could and found he was on the north side of the house near the back. Across the alley three hotel workers were milling around, smoking and talking animatedly. He recognized one of them as a guy who got drunk at the Larimer bars. They’d seen each other dozens of times. The guy didn’t know him by name but could finger him if he wanted to.
Damn it.
The front door slammed shut.
Whoever was coming in was in.
106
Day Six
June 14, 1952
Saturday Morning
THE COPS SHINED FLASHLIGHTS into the interior, one from the driver’s side and one from the other, lighting up the vinyl seats and Fallon’s legs. One of the lights played briefly on her crotch then moved up the front of her body. A rap came on the window.
She rolled it down.
The cop had a square jaw and mean eyes.
“Step out of the car please.”
Her heart pounded. For a brief second she considered flooring it. They didn’t have guns drawn. She’d at least get a head start.
No.
Don’t.
That would be suicide.
She pulled up on the handle and swung the door open.
“Turn the engine off first.”
She did.
Then she stepped outside. The cop backed up to give her room, but not much. He stayed closer than he should have.
“What’s your name?”
She hesitated.
“Mary Green.”
As soon as the words came out of her mouth she wanted to suck them back in and swallow them.
“Mary Green?”
She nodded.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah? You don’t sound too sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“Do you have a driver’s license, Mary Green?”
She had a license, it was right there in her purse. It didn’t belong to Mary Green though.
“Not with me.”
“Does that mean you have one?”
“I do but it’s not with me.”
The cop grabbed her elbow and led her to the back of the car.
“Put you hands on the trunk and spread your feet,” he said.
She froze.
“Do it.”
She complied.
“Don’t move a muscle, do you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“No.”
“Do you know why we pulled you over?”
“No.”
“You didn’t have your headlights on,” he said.
That wasn’t true. She knew it because she could read the speedometer.
“Yes I did.”
“You had your parking lights on but not your headlights,” he said. “Do you know who usually does a little trick like that? Someone who’s been drinking.”
“I haven’t been drinking.”
“Search it,” the cop told the other one.
The search didn’t reveal anything other than her purse. Inside that purse was a driver’s license, one belonging to Fallon Leigh.
“She’s not Mary Green,” the other cop said. “She’s really Fallon Leigh.”
The cop with the square face wrinkled his brow.
“Is that true?”
She said nothing.
“I said, is that true?”
“I guess so.”
“You guess so,” he said. “That’s a lie to a police officer. Why’d you lie to me?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” he said. “Do you know why people lie to cops? Because they have something to hide. Do you have something to hide?”
“No.”
The man paced back and forth behind her.
“This is bad,” he said. “Very bad. Don’t move.”
HE WALKED OVER to the other cop and they had a private conversation. Then he came back and got his face close to hers. “There are two ways we can handle this,” he said. “We can take you down to the station and book you. Is that what you want?”
“No.”
“The other option is this,” he said. “Our primary concern is that you were driving drunk. We haven’t found any cans or bottles in the car but that doesn’t mean you don’t have any on your person. If you want, we can search you. If we don’t find anything, you’re free to go.”
She exhaled.
“Well, what’s your pleasure?”
“Search me.”
“Is that what you want us to do? Search you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, we’ll oblige if that’s what you want. Don’t move while we’re doing it. Do you understand?”
Yes.
She did.
HE SQUATTED DOWN, put both hands on her left ankle and walked his fingers up and over her calve, up to her knee, giving her leg a good feel.
“Nothing so far,” he told the other cop.
He did the same to the right leg.
“Still nothing.”
“She’s got something, I can tell,” the other cop said. “Be thorough.”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
He went back to the first leg, started at the knee and worked his fingers slowly up her thigh, going up higher and higher until he got to the crack of her ass.
“Nice legs,” he said.
She said nothing.
He did the same to the other leg.
“She’s clean so far,” he said.
Then he reached between her legs and rubbed his fingers back and forth on her crotch, over and over and over.
“There’s something in there,” he told the other cop.
“I thought there would be.”
He slapped her on the ass.
“What do you have in there? A flask?”
“No, nothing.”
“Don’t move,” he said.
Then he reached around, unzipped her shorts and pulled them down to her ankles.
He put his hand between her legs.
“Check inside,” the other cop said. “She could have stuffed it in there.”
The man slid a finger into her.
Then two.
He slipped them in and out, again and again and again.
“Getting anything?” the other cop said.
“No bottles but she’s wet,” he said. “I think it’s beer.”
“Check between her tits.”
“Good idea.” Then to Fallon, “Lift your arms.”
She complied.
He pulled her T-shirt up and over her head, then took her bra off.
“Hands back on the trunk.”
She did it.
He reached around and cupped his hands on her breasts and tweaked her nipples.
Fallon kept her hands where they were but turned and looked over her shoulder into his eyes.
She memorized them.
She memorized his whole face.
At some point in the future at another time and place, she’d watch the life go out of those eyes.
“That’s a promise,” she mumbled.
“What’d you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Damn right nothing,” he said. To the other cop, “Your turn. Be sure I didn’t miss anything.”
“You bet I will.”
TEN MINUTES later Fallon was back on the road, pulling away naked with her clothes crumpled in a pile on the seat next to her. The cop car did a one-eighty, turning into red taillights that got smaller and dimmer and finally disappeared altogether.
Fallon’s instinct was to pull over and get dressed.
Sh
e didn’t.
She turned on the heater and kept going.
107
Day Six
June 14, 1952
Saturday Morning
FROM THE WAREHOUSE, Shade pointed the front end of the Packard towards Wilde’s office, swinging around the neighborhood three or four times first to see if she could spot Mojag’s truck. She ended up parking on Market Street, exactly where Jack Mack had been when he shot at them last night.
“This is insane,” London said as they got out.
“Insaner,” Shade said. “Is that a word?”
“If it isn’t it should be.”
They got to Wilde’s office to find the door halfway ajar. “Bryson, you here?”
No answer.
She checked the adjacent room.
He wasn’t there.
Then she looked out the window down onto the street. He wasn’t there smoking or hanging out or taking a walk.
“Strange,” she said.
“For someone who’s supposed to maintain confidentiality, I wouldn’t give the open door high marks.”
Shade sat in the chair behind the desk.
“We’ll wait.”
The remains of a half-dozen burnt matchbooks littered the ashtray together with a tangle of white butts. None of them were fresh. Shade dumped them in the wastebasket and washed the ashtray in the sink.
“Damn it, I made a clean spot.”
She wet a rag and wiped Wilde’s desk, the chairs, the windowsills, the door and doorknobs.
London watched without expression.
“You like him,” she said.
“Who?”
“Wilde. You like him.”
“No, not like that.”
“Like what, then?”
“Like nothing,” Shade said. “We’re from different worlds.”
“That’s probably why you like him.”
She didn’t answer.
Something was off.
“What’s wrong?” London said.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re really weird today,” London said. “When was the last time you were laid?”
Shade smiled.
“I can’t remember,” she said. “The only thing I remember about it was hearing a T-Rex running by outside the cave.”
TEN MINUTES LATER the door opened and Alabama walked in as she adjusted her bra, startled to find guests.