by R. J. Jagger
“Good luck.”
He was gone.
Walking to Blondie under a crisp blue sky, on his mind was one thought and one thought only, namely Secret St. Rain. He needed her in his arms. He needed her breath on his lips. He needed her body against his. He’d been a fool to think about London, even for a moment. That particular piece of weakness was over, dead and buried and forever gone.
He headed to Secret’s hotel.
She wasn’t there.
“She left a half hour ago,” the guy at the front desk said.
“Did she say where?”
“No but she was dressed to kill.”
Wilde tilted his head.
“She couldn’t have been too dressed to kill. After all, you’re still alive.”
The man smiled.
“Barely.”
Wilde hoped that Secret was at the office. She wasn’t but Alabama was. Wilde dangled a Camel from his lips, set a book of matches on fire, lit the cigarette from the flames and let them burn as he poured a cup of caffeine. Alabama dangled her feet off the edge of the desk and watched. Then she said, “How’d it go with London?”
“Bad.”
“Bad?”
“Right, bad.”
“How bad?”
“Real.”
“I knew it.”
Wilde filled her in on what a fool he’d been. Alabama’s face got tighter and tighter. When the full story was out she said, “She set you up to kill someone? That bitch is going to rot in hell.”
Wilde couldn’t disagree.
Alabama hopped off the desk.
“You want me to go over and beat the shit out of her?”
Wilde frowned.
Then he opened the desk drawer, pulled out an envelope full of money—London’s retainer—and counted what was inside. It was drawn down $75 from when it was fresh. He took that amount out of his wallet, shoved it in and handed the envelope to Alabama.
“Do me a favor and deliver this to London.”
The woman grabbed it.
“With pleasure.”
Wilde squeezed her arm.
“Don’t hurt her. Don’t even say anything. If she’s not home just slip it under the door and leave.”
Suddenly the door opened and the last person Wilde expected to see stepped in—London. She hesitated briefly as she caught the look on Alabama’s face and then walked towards Wilde.
She didn’t get two steps before Alabama grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked her to the floor.
86
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Afternoon
Waverly didn’t go to her apartment when she landed, just in case Bristol was laying in wait. She couldn’t rule out the possibility that his trip to Denver was orchestrated, knowing the whole time she was watching and would follow. It would be brilliant, actually. Luring her out of town would split her from Su-Moon plus get her away from whatever evidence was still in San Francisco that she hadn’t yet found. More importantly, by luring her to Denver as opposed to some other city, he’d know where she’d be staying. It would be easier to kill someone in an apartment than a hotel.
The money Shelby Tilt gave her was almost gone.
Denver was hot.
The sky was packed with sunshine.
From an airport payphone, she called Emmanuelle LeFavre at the Clemont and got patched through to the woman’s room. The phone rang but no one answered.
“Would you like to leave a message?”
“No. She’s still registered there though, right?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks.”
She took a cab into the city and checked into the Ambassador Motel on Larimer Street under the name Marilyn White. For 25 cents she got the key to room 212, which turned out to be a smoke-stained cube with a squeaky bed and a cracked window. She checked the hot water to see if it worked.
It did.
So did the door lock.
She headed outside to a phone booth, opened the yellow pages and started calling the most expensive hotels. Bristol and his little spankee woman, it turned out, were staying at the Brown Palace.
“Would you like me to ring their room?”
“No, that’s okay. What room are they in?”
A beat.
“Four-sixteen.”
“Four-sixteen.”
“Right.”
“Do me a favor, will you? Don’t tell them anyone called. I’m going to surprise them later.”
“Sure.”
“Thanks, you’re a peach.”
The man chuckled.
“Then peaches smoke cigars.”
Waverly pulled up an image, one that made the corner of her mouth turn up.
“What’s your name?”
“Jake.”
“You have a good day, Jake.”
“You too, whoever you are.”
Waverly had been inside the Brown Palace on only a few occasions—all for work, never for pleasure. It was historic and opulent, full of dark wood, important conversations and pockets stuffed with money. She wouldn’t fit in, not dressed the way she was.
She headed over to 16th Street and bought a black dress, matching high heels and fresh lingerie, then took a shower back at the hotel, towel-dried her hair, fluffed it out with her hands and painted her face.
There.
The room had only one mirror, a small book-sized deal over the bathroom sink. She checked herself out as much as it allowed and found the reflection passable, assuming she kept moving and put on airs.
Then she headed down the dark, cinderblock stairwell.
The man at the front desk—a study of grease framed in a white sleeveless undershirt—was impressed.
“You changed,” he said.
She sensed trouble.
“Nice of you to notice.”
“I can stop up later if you want.” He smiled, pulled a half empty bottle of wine out from under the counter and waved it seductively. “Me and my friend, that is. Room 212, see, I remembered. I don’t remember everyone’s, so take it as a compliment.”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
His face tightened.
“Okay, but your loss.”
“Have a nice evening.”
“I’ll see you around.”
Outside the city smelled like a combination of exhaust fumes, French-fries and bar carpet. Seventeenth Street was two blocks north; the financial district was five or six blocks to the right. That’s where the Brown Palace was—a cab ride for someone with money, within walking distance otherwise.
For her it was a walk.
She spotted a street vendor and stopped long enough to buy a hot dog and an RC.
The streets buzzed.
The workday just ended.
Everyone was scampering to get home or to the bars or wherever it was they were headed.
The Brown Palace appeared up ahead.
Waverly wiped grease off her mouth with the back of her hand and headed for it.
She didn’t have a plan, at least nothing conscious. All she knew is that she had to make contact with the spanked woman.
That was first and foremost.
That was the priority.
She told herself it was mostly to warn her.
In reality though it was just as much to convert her, to solicit her help, to get inside Bristol’s world without him knowing it.
She walked past a doorman dressed in a monkey-suit who gave her a curious look, then pushed through heavy revolving doors before he could say anything.
The smell of money assaulted her.
Bristol wasn’t in the lobby.
She walked to the elevators like she owned the place, pressed the Up button and stepped inside when the doors opened. Her hand went towards the floor buttons and almost pressed 4. Then she drew an image of the doors opening ten seconds later with Bristol standing right there.
It would be better to press 3.
Get off at 3 then take the stairs up to 4.
Then what?
She still wasn’t sure.
Press her ear to Bristol’s door and see if he was in?
Try to get a maid to open the door if he wasn’t?
Then, just like that, a saner plan came to her. She stepped out of the elevator, headed across the lobby and walked up to the man at the registration desk.
“Are you the cigar-smoking peach?”
He smiled.
“That’s me. It’s nice to put a face to a voice.”
“Likewise,” she said. “I need paper, pencil and an envelope. Please and thank you.”
87
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Morning
The man pushed the barrel harder into January’s forehead, turned his cold steely eyes to River and said, “You got two seconds asshole.” The tone was unmistakable. The man was serious. He’d pull the trigger and that would be that.
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay, I’ll take you to her.”
The man twisted his face, almost as if upset that River gave in before he got to splatter January’s brains all over the inside of the trunk. He froze for a heartbeat before pulling the gun away from January’s face and letting it fall to the side.
“Where is she?”
“Not far. Five or six miles up the road.” A beat then, “January’s not part of any of this. Let her go.”
The man tilted his head.
Then he looked around, saw no cars coming from either direction and said, “Get on the ground, facedown.”
River’s instinct was to resist but he saw no rage in the man’s eyes. The man’s plan wasn’t to shoot him in the back.
He complied.
“Don’t move a muscle.”
“I won’t.”
The man tucked the gun in his belt, snatched January out of the trunk and flung her over his shoulder. “Get up and start walking. Stay in front of me.” They headed into the brush and didn’t stop for two hundred yards. Then the man set January’s hogtied body on the ground behind a rabbit bush and checked the ropes.
They were tight.
They were inescapable.
He patted her head.
Then he said to River, “You can come back and get her later. If you screw up, you die and she rots to death. Do we have an understanding?”
River nodded.
“Good. Let’s go.”
River took a last look at January and said, “I’ll be back. I promise.” Then he turned and headed for the car with the man three steps behind. Halfway there he stopped and stared into the man’s eyes.
“What’s your name?”
The man smiled.
“Now there’s a question I didn’t expect,” he said. “Keep walking.”
River complied.
Twenty steps later the man said, “Spencer.”
“Spencer?”
“Right, Spencer.”
“Is that your first name or last name?”
“Last.”
“What’s your first name?”
“Vaughn.”
“Vaughn Spencer.”
“Right.”
“Nice to meet you, Vaughn Spencer. I’m Dayton River.”
“I know. Keep walking.”
At the car, River got in the back and said, “Just drive straight. I’ll tell you where to pull over.”
“No tricks.”
“No, no tricks. Do me a favor, though. If you kill me, come back and let January go. She doesn’t have anything to do with any of this.”
The man tilted the rearview mirror down until he got River’s face in the glass.
“What’s your obsession with that girl? She’s dirt.”
“We’re all dirt,” River said.
The man chuckled.
“Can’t argue with that.”
“She won’t rat you out if you let her go,” River said. “She’ll just disappear. Give her that.”
“Just do what you’re supposed to and you can let her go yourself.”
The vehicle sped forward.
A thought sprang into River’s head.
“You killed Charley-Anna Blackridge,” he said. “You put her in a red dress and dropped her off a roof.”
The man turned from the road long enough to look into River’s face.
“Someone got dropped off a roof?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“Not by me.”
“Sure by you.”
“Nice try but you’re wrong.”
“Friday night,” River said.
“Friday night I was in San Francisco. Whatever you think happened, it didn’t happen by me.”
River stared at the back of the man’s head.
He could twist his foot up and kick him hard, right in the back of the skull. If he got a good enough contact, he might knock him out. Even if he only got a glancing blow, he might get enough contact to make the guy lose control of the wheel. The car would roll and eventually come to a stop. River might get a chance to kick the guy to death. The key to the cuffs was probably in one of his pockets. He’d get loose then go back and get January.
His heart raced.
Try it or not?
“How much farther?”
River looked out the windshield.
“Just around that bend.”
“There’s nothing out here.”
“Trust me.”
The man raised his hand over the edge of the seat. In it was the gun, held in a tight grip. The barrel pointed into River’s face. “If she’s not there you had your last chance.”
“She’s there.”
“We’ll see.”
“Keep your feet flat on the floor and don’t even breathe.”
River swallowed.
It was time to decide.
The man had told him his name.
Vaughn Spencer.
He wouldn’t have done that if he was going to let River live.
88
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Morning
Alabama wasn’t a match for London, not in the long run, but had enough anger and surprise going to get the woman to the ground and then use the momentum to pin her arms above her head. London struggled but Alabama straddled higher up on the woman’s chest and reigned down with all her weight.
Wilde looked at London and said, “What are you doing here?”
“Get her off me.”
Wilde exhaled.
“Okay, Alabama, enough.”
The woman didn’t move, not for a few heartbeats, then stood up and said, “When I get back you better not be here.” Then she was gone, slamming the door behind her. Wilde listened to her heavy steps pounding down the stairs, then ran to the window.
“Hey, you’re sexy when you’re mad.”
She looked up.
“Prove it.”
He laughed.
Suddenly London was right behind him, straightening her hair.
“How about me? Am I sexy when I’m mad?”
“I don’t know. It didn’t look like you were mad.” He picked up a pack of Camels from the desk, tapped one out and lit up. “So, now we’re back to my original question. What are you doing here?”
“I have something for you.”
She pulled a piece of folded paper out of her purse and handed it to him.
“That’s the original map,” she said. “You were right this morning to walk out. I got weak. I let the map change me. It’s time to get my old self back. Whatever riches I might get aren’t worth turning into who I was becoming.”
Wilde unfolded the paper.
The drawing was quicker and sketchier than the last paper she’d given him. It looked more like what you’d expect if you were alone in a dark tomb copying something by flashlight from the underside of a casket.
“It’s real,” London said.
Wilde took a deep drag and blew a ring.
“What am I supposed to
do with it?”
London came close.
She ran a finger down the outside of Wilde’s arm.
“Give it to Bluetone,” she said. “Get him off my back. Negotiate a truce. He gets the map but he has to promise to leave me alone. Make him understand that the only thing I want at this point is out. I want to be left alone. He goes his way, I go mine. I’m going to stay in Denver but quit the law firm.”
Wilde frowned.
“I’d do it if it would work, but it won’t work so I won’t do it.”
London wrinkled her face.
“Why won’t it work?”
He tapped ashes into the tray.
“Lots of reasons. This is a simple map. You could have a copy or even have it memorized. You might secretly have a plan to beat him to it. The only way he can know for certain that you’re going your way is to kill you. That’s what I’d do if I was him.”
London shifted feet.
“We could go to the police,” she said. “We’ll tell them everything. If I end up dead they’ll know he did it.”
Wilde wasn’t impressed.
“He could hire somebody, he could make it look like an accident,” he said. “He’ll have an alibi. It won’t work. If he wants you dead—which he does—you’re going to end up dead. The only reason he didn’t kill you this morning is because I was there.”
He handed the map back.
“Get out of Denver and do it now,” he said. “If you want, I’ll escort you down to the train station or the airport.”
She laid the map on the desk.
“I don’t need an escort because I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “Get Bluetone off my back, please. At least try.”
She gave him a worried look.
Then she was gone.
Wilde watched from the window as she headed up Larimer and disappeared around the corner. As much as he hated to admit it, if Secret didn’t work out, London was the one.
There was something between them.
It was animalistic but it was real.
Alabama showed up five minutes later, took a quick look at the map and tossed it back on the desk. “It’s another fake,” she said. “All she’s doing it trying to get Bluetone off her back. She’s playing you again, just like before.”
Wilde lit a book of matches on fire.