by R. J. Jagger
“What do you know about a lawyer named Crockett Bluetone?”
“How do you know about him?”
River explained.
He found two airplane tickets to San Francisco.
He paid a little visit to the attorney this afternoon.
“He said he had a brief affair with Charley-Anna but it died out more than three months ago. Is that true?”
She woman wrinkled her forehead.
“Let me see the tickets.”
River pulled them out of his wallet.
The woman took a quick look and stuffed them in her bra.
“I’ll hang onto these,” she said.
River almost pulled them out but decided he didn’t need them. He needed information more.
“So, were they having an affair and did it die out three months ago?”
“No.”
“No affair?”
“Yes, affair, but no, it didn’t die out three months ago. Exploded is more the word. And the explosion wasn’t three months ago. It was last week.”
River looked at the wine bottle.
“You know what? Is that offer still open?”
It was.
She got him a glass.
It was red and sweet and dropped tingly down his throat, then straight into his blood.
Everything softened.
“What caused the explosion?”
“I don’t know. She was pretty private about it.”
River studied the woman’s eyes.
They darted.
“Was she blackmailing him?”
The woman looked away as if contemplating an exit, then held River’s eyes for a heartbeat before diverting.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Okay, yes.”
“Was she threatening to go to the wife about the affair?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“I don’t know. It was something else.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was it something she found out about him?”
The woman nodded.
“Yes but I don’t know what.”
“Sure you do.”
“Honest, I don’t,” she said. “All I know is that it was something big. Charley-Anna kept a diary. I tore this place apart looking for it but couldn’t find it.”
River took a long swallow of wine.
“Did you tell all this to the police?”
No.
She didn’t.
“Why not?”
“I didn’t think it was relevant.”
River tilted his head.
“Bullshit,” he said. “You didn’t tell them because you were in on the whole thing with Charley-Anna.”
“You have a wild imagination.”
“That’s why you just now took the tickets,” he said. “If nothing else, you can threaten to tell the wife about the affair.”
“That’s crazy.”
River stood up.
“My guess is that Charley-Anna never told Bluetone about your involvement,” he said. “That’s why you’re still alive. My advice is to drop the whole thing while the dropping’s good.”
The woman wrinkled her nose.
“If everything was as you say, why would I have told you all the stuff I just did?”
“Because you’re scared.”
She shook her head.
“You have a wild imagination.”
River headed for the door.
Over his shoulder he said, “You got yourself in deep. Get yourself out if you can.”
Then he was gone.
Ten seconds later he was back.
“Give me a pencil.”
She did.
River scribbled something down.
“That’s my phone number,” he said. “Use it if you need it.”
“Sure.”
“Promise me.”
“I said sure.”
“Sure isn’t a promise.”
The woman exhaled.
“Okay, I promise.”
River nodded.
“That’s better.”
Then he was gone.
Back at the car he slid behind the wheel, gave January a kiss and cranked over the engine.
“Where’s the gun?”
She handed it to him.
“Prepare to get wet,” he said.
“Why?”
“We’re going home but we’re going to park a half-mile out and head in on foot.”
Silence.
“You’re going to let me come with you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if I say no you’re not going to listen anyway.”
She smiled.
“You’re starting to get to know me.”
67
Day Two
July 22, 1952
Tuesday Night
Wilde snuck silently in the raven-haired lawyer’s back door using the key she gave him. He listened for intruders and heard nothing other than the storm slamming against the windows. With the lights out, he made a pass through each room and then dialed his office.
A tender, timid voice answered.
“Hello?”
“London, it’s me,” Wilde said. “Are you still up for this?”
A pause then, “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. Don’t let me get killed.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise?”
“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “If you get killed, I’ll give you your retainer back.”
She laughed faintly and said, “Fair enough.”
“Okay, I’m at your house now and the coast is clear. Come home and follow your normal routine when you get here. I’ll be upstairs lying on the floor behind the bed. Don’t worry about turning on the lights, no one from outside will have a line of sight on me.”
“Okay.”
“Do you normally close your window coverings at night?”
“Yes.”
“Leave one or two of them open a crack so he can see you moving around. I want to be sure he knows you’re home.”
“Okay.”
“You sound nervous.”
“I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
Wilde smiled.
“See you soon.” A beat then, “One more thing. Don’t talk to me if your face is pointed towards a window. I don’t want him to see your lips moving.”
“Good idea. You brought a weapon, right?”
Right.
He did.
“A gun?”
Right.
That.
He laid in the dark behind the bed, memorizing every sound, every play of light from the streetlights, every engine in the night.
Fifteen minutes later a car pulled into the driveway.
The front door opened and the lights downstairs kicked on.
Curtains swung closed across rods.
More lights kicked on.
A refrigerator door opened. An ice tray got cracked and ice fell into a glass, followed by something poured over it. The sound made Wilde thirstier than he already was. A bottle of RC would be nice—no, not a cola, a beer; an ice-cold beer, straight from the freezer right before it froze.
The suit jacket was next to him on the floor.
Inside the left pocket was the pack of Camels.
Wilde resisted the urge to tap one out.
The resistance lasted all of a minute before he broke one loose and lit up. The smoke in his lungs was so damn perfect. The roughness in his brain softened.
The bedroom lights suddenly turned on.
Curtains swung closed across rods.
With his head at floor level, Wilde had a view of the woman’s feet. They walked towards him and turned at the bed, followed by the woman’s body sitting on the mattress.
“So far, nothing unusual,” she said.
&
nbsp; “He’ll wait for you to go to bed. Just keep doing what you do.”
Wilde watched as shoes came off followed by nylons.
A dress dropped to the floor.
Then a blouse.
Then a bra.
Then panties.
“I usually take a shower before I go to bed,” London said.
“Then do it. Don’t break your routine.”
The bathroom was across the hall in line of sight from Wilde’s position. As the woman walked to it, her body came into view.
She was naked.
Her ass was taut and smooth.
Her back was strong.
Her raven hair cascaded.
Her left hand carried a glass of wine.
She left the bathroom door open, got the shower up to temperature and stepped in. The curtain didn’t close all the way. Wilde had a good reflection of her in the mirror. He watched her until his conscience made him stop. Then he rolled onto his back, lit another Camel and stared at the ceiling, being careful to blow the smoke under the bed where it wouldn’t be seen from the outside.
The shower shut off.
Don’t look.
Don’t look.
Don’t look.
That’s what his brain said.
His eyes didn’t listen.
He watched the woman’s every move as she toweled off, swallowed the rest of the wine and slipped into a T-shirt—nothing else, just the T. When she headed back across the hall, Wilde didn’t drop his eyes. The woman’s body was still moist. Her breasts pressed against the cotton.
She flicked the lights off.
The room dropped into darkness.
Then she stepped over him and got into bed.
“Good night,” she said.
Before Wilde could answer, lightning exploded outside, so close that the walls shook.
“Good night.”
“Thanks for being here.”
“No problem.”
68
Day Two
July 22, 1952
Tuesday Night
Waverly pulled the hotel curtains back just far enough to get a sideways peek of the nightscape, saw nothing but the storm and a few errant headlights punching through it, and let them fall back. On the bed was Bristol’s money, being pushed around by Su-Moon’s index finger. Ten thousand dollars was a lot, more than Waverly made in six years. It made her palms sweat. “If Bristol isn’t out to kill us yet, he will be when he finds his little friends gone.”
Su-Moon looked up.
“We’ll split it evenly,” she said. “Five G’s apiece.”
Waverly shook her head.
“I don’t want it. It’s all yours.”
“What’s wrong? Are you afraid he’s going to call the cops?” She laughed. “Don’t worry, his reputation’s worth more than that.” She tapped a finger on the black book. “That’s his reputation, right there. That’s every bit of everything he is and ever will be.”
“That’s my point.”
“What’s your point?”
“He’ll kill to get it back,” Waverly said.
Su-Moon pushed the money and then looked up.
Her face was serious.
She scooped the bills up, stuffed ’em back in the envelope and stood up.
“Come on.”
“Where we going?”
“Out.”
“You mean down to the bar?”
“No, I mean out.”
“Outside? I’m just finally getting dry—”
They took a cab to Chinatown and pulled over two blocks short of Su-Moon’s apartment. Su-Moon paid the fare, then tore a ten-dollar bill in two, gave half to the driver and said, “Me and my friend are going to take a little walk. We’ll be back within a half hour. If you’re here when we get back, you get the other half.” The driver turned off the headlights and killed the engine.
“I’m already waiting,” he said.
The women stepped out.
The storm assaulted them.
They walked briskly, hugging the lee side of the street and taking as much refuge as they could. Inside Waverly’s left sweatpants pocket was Bristol’s black book. Su-Moon had the money in hers.
The streets were empty.
By the time they got to the corner Su-Moon’s pants were close to dropping off from the weight. She stopped long enough to tighten the drawstring as she studied the street.
No one was there, not a soul.
Su-Moon grabbed Waverly’s hand and pulled her into the street, on the opposite side of the massage parlor, which was closed.
Suddenly she stopped.
“My apartment lights are on,” she said.
Waverly looked.
The curtains were drawn.
Light came from behind them.
“Did you leave them on?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
Yes.
She was.
Positive.
“So what do we do?” Waverly said.
Su-Moon exhaled.
“We’ll walk past and see if we can see who’s inside,” she said.
They did.
They saw no movement.
They kept going and stopped at the end of the street.
When they looked back, the lights were off.
69
Day Two
July 22, 1952
Tuesday Night
River dumped the car at the BNSF service lot a half-mile from his place and walked west through the pitch-black silhouettes of boxcars and gondolas. The gun was in his left hand, cold and wet. January followed two steps behind, saying nothing, hunkered against the rain.
The storm was dangerously wicked.
Wild arcs of lightning flashed low and mean.
His heart raced.
Someone was positioned to kill him.
Someone was waiting silently in a black recess with one thing and one thing only on his mind.
River could feel him.
He slowed from a brisk walk to a timid one, then stopped altogether and put his arms around January.
“Stay here,” he said.
“No.”
“Yes.”
He kissed her hard and headed into the darkness without looking back. The gun was slippery in his hand. His aim—if he got a chance to have one—might well be off, in fact would probably be.
Shoot again.
Fast.
A hundred yards away, that’s how far he was now. Where are you hiding, you little bastard? His blood raced. You’re watching for my headlights, aren’t you? You’re going to shoot me in the back while I’m walking to the door.
Yeah.
That was it.
That was definitely it.
That’s how River would do it.
You’re positioned but not all the way in. You won’t crawl all the way into your little crack until you see the headlights. That little mistake is going to cost you. It’s going to cost you big-time.
River got to the end boxcar, took a position under it on his stomach with the gun pointed outward and waited for an explosion of lightning. It didn’t take long. A wild electric jolt punched the nightscape.
Shapes lit up.
Tracks.
Cars.
No killer.
River turned his eyes slightly to the right and waited for the next jolt.
Come on.
Show yourself.
Storm lights exploded in the distant skies, this way and that, but not close enough to cut through the mess and light the immediate area.
Thunder roller over Denver.
Come on.
Get closer.
A chill worked its way into River’s bones. He was getting stiff. That wasn’t good. He needed to be limber. He rolled over to get the circulation flowing. Just as he got back to his stomach, the world shook with a violent explosion and lit up brighter than daylight.
No human shapes appeared.
River saw nothing he shouldn’t
.
Maybe tonight wasn’t the night.
Or maybe it was the night but the attack was something different than River thought. Could the guy have anticipated River coming in on foot?
January.
January.
January.
River crawled out from under the boxcar. The storm pounded him with a wild force but he paid no attention. Every fiber of his being was focused on getting to January. He needed to know she was all right. He needed to know he hadn’t been outsmarted.
Ten steps into the open, lightning exploded.
The yard lit up.
Every inch of River’s face and body lit up.
He dove.
Gravel cut into his face.
The gun flew out of his hand.
70
Day Two
July 22, 1952
Tuesday Night
London was ripe for the taking, that’s what the whole shower-in-sight thing was all about. Wilde could swing up into her bed right now and take her like she’d never been taken in her life. He could turn her into a sweaty, lust-soaked animal. It wouldn’t blow his cover. No one from outside would be able to tell.
The problem was Secret.
She was in his blood.
His blood needed to be sure he didn’t screw things up. An hour of pleasure, no matter how pleasurable that pleasure might be, wasn’t worth turning Secret into someone who trusted the wrong man.
No.
No.
No.
If things didn’t work out with Secret, it wouldn’t be because of anything Wilde did.
That’s what his brain said.
Still, the rest of his body couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to swing up top.
“Are you still there?”
The voice came from above.
It was laced with erotic vibration.
“Yeah.”
“If the floor’s too hard, you can come up here. There’s room.”
Wilde exhaled.
“The floor’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Go to sleep.”
“I can’t,” London said. “I’m too wound up.”
“Try.”
The storm raged against the windows, rattling them to the edge of shattering. In other circumstances, Wilde would have nestled into the MG with a couple of beers and let the weather beat down on the rag inches above his head. Tonight, however, all he could do was try to hear over it, listening for sounds of intrusion.