by Sue Grafton
“If he did, you’d be a dead man. Dawna got picked up before she could tell him everything. Why don’t you get out while you can,” I murmured.
Tate took my arm, moving me toward the pool table. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
I closed my eyes briefly. “Jesus, Tate. Get away from me. What are you doing here?”
He took my hand. I was forced to follow as we crossed to the rack of pool cues, where I watched Tate select one. “I had to see Bibianna. She tell you about us?”
“Of course. You could have told me yourself if you’d trusted me.”
“Who had time? I’ve busy shooting bad guys.” He raised the cue to shoulder height and sighted down the length of it like a rifle. “Boom.”
“How’d you know where we’d be?”
“Pick a cue stick,” he said.
I chose one at random, too distracted to be particular, not that I have a clue about the qualities of a good cue.
“Not that one.” He handed me another cue stick and then continued casually. “This is Raymond’s hangout. You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out where he’ll be. By the way, if Raymond comes over and wants to know what’s going on, tell him the truth ��� we went to grade school together.”
“How’d you get out of the slammer? I thought you were broke. What’s bail on a murder charge, two hundred thousand bucks?”
“Two fifty. I got a friend in Montebello who put up his house. My attorney got bail knocked down to a hundred grand. I’m out on OR plus bail…”
“And they let you leave the county?”
“Quit worryin. It’s legitimate. I talked my probation officer into an eight-hour turnaround. My wife’s sick, I said. I’m due back in Santa Teresa by six A.M. or they’ll throw me in the can again.” Tate arranged the balls in the rack and broke. Balls scattered everywhere with a satisfying crack.
“What are we doing? I haven’t played pool for years.”
“Eight-ball. It’s your shot.”
“You’re very cute,” I said without much conviction. “Just tell me what to hit and let’s get on with it.”
“You think I can have time alone with her?”
“No.”
“Would you give her a message? Would you tell her I’m doing everything I can to get her out of here?”
“Sure.”
We played pool. Jimmy Tate pretended to tutor me and I took instruction, all in the interest of conducting a tense conversation overlaid with bright smiles. From a distance, I hoped we’d look like potential bedmates to someone who would kill us if he figured out what was actually happening. Tate loved it, of course. This was just the sort of situation he thrived on ��� out there on the front line, taking flak, taking risks in the name of I don’t even know what. I was feeling that same sick sensation that prefaces a tetanus shot. Something bad was going to happen and I couldn’t figure out how to escape it.
Tate said, “You taking good care of her for me?”
“I’m a real champ,” I said. “This is the last time I’m ever doing shit like this for anyone.”
He smiled. “That’s because you’d rather kick butt.”
“You got that right.”
Tate cleaned up the table and we joined the other three, who were bunched into the booth. Luis got up and I slid in beside Tate, who remained carefully attentive to me in the process. Luis found an empty chair and pulled it over to the table. I think it was the first time I ever served as a “beard” in a dangerous liaison. Liar that I am under ordinary circumstances, I found it a tricky business to fake a flirtation. I felt awkward and false, reactions not lost on Raymond, whose radar was telling him enemy aircraft were somewhere in the area. I felt his eyes scan my face with a half-formed question. Maybe he’d write me off as a hopeless social oaf. Certainly the woodenness of my response to Tate was obvious.
Tate proceeded to tease me outrageously under Bibianna’s watchful gaze. She was feigning indifference, but her interest was obvious. Aside from the fact the situation scared me silly, I was glad to have Tate on the scene. I hadn’t realized, before he showed up, how isolated I was feeling. I was still vulnerable, of course ��� more so with him there ��� but at least I had a friend, and I knew, from my long experience, he’d lay down his life for me if it came to that.
Bibianna, in range of Jimmy Tate again, began to do the ritual dance. There was nothing overt in her behavior. She went out of her way to cater to Raymond, tucking her arm in his, leaning against him so that her breast brushed his arm enticingly. She and Tate avoided eye contact, ignoring one another so pointedly I’d have thought them rude if I hadn’t known their true relationship. As it was, the game they played was far riskier. The color crept up in her cheeks unbidden. I watched the sexuality emerge, some ancient, unspeakable response to her mate. I couldn’t believe Raymond didn’t pick up on it. The only clue I had about his inner state was the eruption of the tics, which were running once a minute.
He was clearly feeling territorial. Whether he was sensitive to what was actually going on or not, Tate was still a male, not only on Raymond’s turf, but in close proximity to his woman. Raymond seemed to swell, trying to engage Tate in a shoving match of boasts and braggadocio, a verbal pissing match. I don’t know what, among women, would constitute an equivalent. I tuned out the talk because it was all chest-thumping bullshit, fueled by alcohol and testosterone. I couldn’t even begin to compute what Tale’s response might be when he found out Bibianna was sleeping with Raymond. The whole situation might have amused me if I hadn’t been so eaten up with tension.
Luis was watchful. The usual blank mask fell away and I saw, for the first time, a wily intelligence at work. Behind his dead eyes, a lively animal lurked, all the more dangerous for its cunning at concealment. The spark died. He slouched in his seat, flinging an arm across the back of the chair. He lifted his beer bottle by the neck and drank deeply. By the time he looked at me again, the arrogance was back, the superiority of the male lording it over lesser mortals.
I thought the night would never end. The Spanish music was jarring, either loud and frenetic or emotionally oppressive. The air was cloudy with smoke and the smell of beer. The only thing I cared about was staying very close to Tate, whose sun-weathered face was the only refuge I could see. I made him dance with me, in part to keep him away from Raymond, who was no fool. In the stress of the moment, we all drank way too much. I’d be sick in the morning, but I didn’t care at this point. Maybe I could carve out a quiet life for myself on the bathroom floor, head hanging over the toilet bowl.
We closed the place down at 2:00 A.M. Outside the bar, we parted company with Tate. I was just relieved to get out of the situation in one piece, with no fisticuffs, no confrontations, no tears. Luis left the three of us out in front of the apartment, peeling off in the Cadillac. I preceded Raymond and Bibianna up the stairs, waiting while Raymond unlocked the door and let us in. The dog lay in the doorway like a sentinel, lifting his heavy bony head to give me a look as I passed. At least he had the good grace not to growl.
I went into my room and slipped into my nightie, then headed for the bathroom. The door to the master bedroom was closed. I knew from the way Raymond had been looking at Bibianna that his desires were at a peak again. In the interest of keeping peace, she was going to have to submit. I felt for her. What could be worse than making love to someone you didn’t want to be with, caught up in a situation that dictated intimacy? I washed my face and brushed my teeth, turned the bathroom light out, and padded barefoot into my room. I opened one of the windows and leaned out, gazing briefly along the street, first in one direction, then the other. No one was stirring. In the quiet of the hour, by the pale wash of moonlight, even poverty can look appealing. The shabbiness is cleansed, all the broken parts made whole. The concrete sidewalk seemed to glow with silver, the street a darker tone. A car passed, driven slowly. Jimmy Tate, perhaps? Was he wild with the notion of Bibianna in bed with someone else? I remembered Dan
iel, my second ex-husband, whose sexual betrayal had been a source of such anguish once. Later, after love dies, it’s hard to remember how it could have ever mattered so much.
From the other room, I heard the muffled thumping as the king-size bed banged into the wall. I lifted my head, suddenly sobered by the realization that this was the perfect time to get some work done if I moved fast enough. I peeled off my nightie and pulled on some jeans. I yanked a T-shirt over my head and slipped my bare feet into Bibianna’s tennis shoes, which I tied in haste. I unlocked the sliding glass window and shoved it open, aluminum frame rasping in its track.
The night air was cold and a light breeze whipped across my face. Below, the passageway between buildings looked dark and empty. I could smell smog and briny ocean in a heady mix. I boosted myself up onto the windowsill and scrambled out onto the metal landing between flights of stairs. The alcohol I’d consumed was acting as a sedative for any anxiety I might have felt. My heart was pumping hard and the effect was energizing. I was thrilled to be on the move again, excited to be looking at some action after all the enforced passivity.
Chapter 17
*
My tennis shoes made hardly any sound as I eased past Raymond’s darkened window. I held my breath, but the closed bedroom drapes were still being flattened rhythmically as the headboard banged against them. I felt my way down the stairs, my footsteps making soft linking sounds where my rubber soles touched the metal. At the bottom of the steps, I paused to orient myself. I was sheltered in the dark shadow of the apartment complex. It was close to 3:00 A.M., the street deserted, the neighborhood cloaked in silence. Even traffic on the big boulevard half a block away was only intermittent. The moon was full and rode high in the night sky. The Los Angeles city lights projected an ashen reflection across the heavens, blotting out the stars. As my eyes became accustomed to the dark, I began to distinguish the clear, pale light being cast by the moon. I emerged from the gap between Raymond’s building and the apartment complex next door. I turned left, clinging to the shadows as I crossed the street, moving toward the auto salvage yard. I touched the fence and felt my way along the perimeter, sometimes traversing the circular glow of streetlights. I chose a spot halfway down the block where a driveway cut through the fence. A cluster of tall weeds and ratty shrubs flanked the gate. By day, the dirt lane was used by the tow trucks bringing in disabled vehicles. At night, when the yard closed, a wide gate was rolled across the opening, looped with a chain, and secured by a padlock. I pushed at the gate, forcing it open as far as the chain would permit. A ten-inch gap appeared. I hunkered, holding to the gatepost with both hands as I slid my right leg through. By pushing back with my hips, I could force the fence post back by another couple of inches. I rotated my shoulders, slipped my head through the gap, and then pivoted on my feet, neatly inserting myself into the yard on the other side.
The chunky mountains of rusted metal were lightly frosted by moonlight. I felt as if I’d entered a charnel house of wrecked autos. Some cars had flipped, their tops squashed flat. Some had been torn in two on impact with trees, bridge abutments, and telephone poles. The roll call of destruction conjured up awesome images of the attendant human suffering: ripped chrome and cracked glass, smashed fenders, splayed and flattened tires, engines rammed through hoods, steering columns crammed up against broken front seats. Every vehicle I saw represented a chapter in somebody’s life ��� sometimes the last ��� sirens and flashing lights signaling injury and death, the loss of a loved one, or the opening scene in a nightmare of mending and medical expenses.
I waited until my heart had stopped pounding in my ears and then I picked my way down the dirt lane toward the offices of Buddy’s Auto Body Shop. The pickup truck I’d seen earlier was no longer parked near the trailer, but Brutus had been left behind to stand guard over the property. I could see him, black and bulky near the single-wide, keeping watch as I approached. I sank down on my heels, calling to him softly, making little kissing sounds in the quiet. He gathered his hind feet under him, launched himself into a standing position, and began to toddle toward me carefully. He seemed to tiptoe, bones creaking, his forward motion fueled by memories of a vigorous youth.
I held my hand out and he sniffed it, making hoarse sounds of joy and recognition. I spent a few minutes with him, assuring him of my benign intentions. When I rose to my feet, he accompanied me to the trailer and watched politely while I removed all the louvers from the window. I stuck a hand through the opening and felt a solid wooden surface, which I guessed was a desk shoved up against the wall just below the window. I stacked the louvers neatly on the desk top inside.
I hoisted myself up, whispering compliments to Brutus, who wagged his tail so hard he nearly toppled sideways in the process. “Back in a flash,” I said. I swung my feet through the window and eased myself into the pitch black of the office. I was now sitting on a desk. I could feel an adding machine, the telephone, and miscellaneous office supplies. I replaced the glass louvers in the metal brackets made for them.
I eased down off the desk. I stood there for a few minutes until I got used to the darkness. I usually don’t do these breaking-and-entering gigs unless I have my little tool kit in tow: flashlight and lockpicks, adhesive tape, and jimmies. Here, I was empty-handed and I felt distinctly disadvantaged. All I wanted was to check the file cabinets to see if Raymond kept his papers on the premises. Once I established the whereabouts of the records, I was out of here. I was going to have to risk a light. I kept in mind the sign I’d seen, indicating an alarm system. Would Raymond actually have such a system, or was he the kind who thought he could deter all the burglars and vandals by pretending to have security? Hard to say with him. He was so righteous about the law when it suited his purposes.
I felt along the wall until I found the switch. I hesitated for a moment and then flipped the light on. The forty-watt bulb revealed an inner office maybe ten feet by twelve, wall paneled halfway up with sheets of fake knotty pine. Girlie calendars from the last six years were tacked up above a work bench where some front windshields had been piled. Three extension cords were plugged into a socket in the inner office and looped through the doorway to service the outer office. Every surface in the room was a jumble of cardboard boxes and greasy car parts. Two gray metal file cabinets were tucked into the corner on the far side of the room. As I crossed the open door leading to the outer office, I caught a blink of light out of the corner of my eye. The passive infrared “seeing eye” of Raymond’s alarm picked up my body heat and set off the entire system.
A horn, probably adequate to announce the end of the world, began a great whooping noise that alternated between high notes and low notes and seemed to include some kind of bell clanging in between. We are programmed from birth to react to sudden loud noises. Of course I jumped and my heart kicked up into high gear. At the same time, I could feel my emotions disconnect as they do in certain emergencies. I wondered belatedly if Raymond’s alarm was set up to signal the police. I better count on it, I thought. I glanced at my watch. It was 3:12 A.M. I figured I had about five minutes max before the black-and-whites showed up. Might have been a charitable estimate on my part. Maybe the LAPD didn’t even bother with alarms. Maybe they’d respond in their own sweet time. What did I know about the machinations of big-city police procedure? While the alarm system bleated and shrieked and pointed an auditory finger, I crossed to the file cabinet and opened the first drawer. Invoices, car parts. I shut that one and tried the next. More invoices, financial records, correspondence, blank forms. Drawer three was a repeat. I skipped to the next file cabinet and started with the top, working my way down. The bottom three drawers were packed with manila folders full of claim forms. I glanced at dates in haste, noting that the claims seemed to extend back about three years. Outside, Brutus was offering up an occasional hoarse bark, apparently overjoyed that I had hit the jackpot. I closed the file drawers, checked to see that the louvered window was shut, tidied some papers on the desk, and b
rushed some dirt off the Month-at-a-Glance that was lying there. I walked into the outer office, moved around the corner to the front door, which I opened, ducked back to the inner office, and flipped out the light there, then felt my way in the dark to the front door again. I stepped out and gave the door a hard pull behind me, effectively locking it again. The alarm clamoring against the night air seemed to have aroused no particular interest among the neighbors. I wondered if Raymond could hear it from across the street and two doors down. I set off at a run, jogging down the dirt path toward the gate, with Brutus bringing up the rear. I could hear him loping along behind me, panting happily as he maneuvered his legs in some dimly remembered sequence. I glanced back. For an old pooch, he was really truckin’, determined to keep up with me in my little nighttime ramble. I reached the gate and pushed it, reversing the procedure by which I angled my way in. I heard a car squeal around the corner and looked back just in time to see the black-and-white appear on the scene. I shoved back hard on the fence post and pivoted my way through the narrow opening.
I heard a sound like the equivalent of a canine rebuke. When I looked over I saw that Brutus had his head stuck in the gap between the gate and the fence post. He was yanking backward, his bony head and the thick muscular neck pinched in a vise of fencing. Car doors slammed and one uniformed cop headed toward the front entrance while the second one walked in my direction.
“Oh, God,” I said. I jerked the gate forward and pushed the dog’s head to free him. Then I plunged into the bushes and crouched down. I was shielded temporarily by a tangle of shrubbery, but the oncoming cop was scanning every inch of the fence with a heavy-duty flashlight. Meanwhile, inside the fence, Brutus had discovered what I was doing. He put his nose against the chain link and made a worried sound, half growl, half celebration of our newly cemented friendship.
The cop down the block near the office gave a whistle and the officer closer to me turned and headed back the way he’d come. I pulled myself to my feet and extracted myself from the bushes, inching away from the squad car as inconspicuously as I could. Brutus began to bark, unwilling to be abandoned just when the game was getting good. There was a line of parked cars at the curb. I reached the first and ducked behind it, using the cars as concealment until I reached the comer. I crossed the street at an angle and doubled back toward Raymond’s, cutting into the heavy shadows between apartment buildings. Above me, the window in his bedroom blazed with light. I took the metal stairs three at a time, pulling myself up by the railing. Out of breath, I eased past the bedroom, found my open window, and plunged into the bedroom again. I whipped my shoes off, pulled my jeans down, and stuck my head out the door, squinting at the lights that were now flipped on in the hall. Bibianna, in a silk robe, was just emerging from the bedroom. I could hear Raymond in the living room on the phone with someone.