by T. N. Robb
"Jesse," she said. She eyed him curiously.
Betts looked back at Larry. He was a good-looking greaser, with the exception of a knife scar on his right cheek. "Looks like you saved the last dance for me."
"What do we got here, anyhow?" He walked around the Merc, eyeing its V-D windshield, and Frenched headlights with cat's eyes. He grudgingly admired the shark-toothed '55 De Soto grille, flicked a finger at the hood ornament, a chrome falcon in mid-flight, and walked around the side where he casually studied the chopped roofline, the dark, wicked flank, the full rear skirts.
When he got to the back, he looked at the license plate. "Long way from home, aren't you, Mr. Tennessee?"
"You got a problem with that?"
Larry laughed. "My only problem is that this good ol' boy ain't gonna have twenty-five bucks for me when he loses. That's what I'm thinking."
"Don't worry about it."
"Well, I'll tell you in advance. If you don't fork it over, my boys and I will have to take your pretty, black Mercury apart piece by piece. That's after we're done with you, Slick."
"Stop flapping your jaw, and let's do it." Without another word, Larry strolled over to his Chevy.
Billy Ray's "Gone Ridin'" was blasting out of the radios from the Scorpions' cars as Betts lined up in the outside lane next to the Bel Air. Both drivers revved their engines to a throaty roar, cranking up the tension under the flood of headlights.
Jesse, the blonde, joined Larry, and stood up on the front seat of the convertible. As Betts looked over at her, she smiled and suddenly ripped off her blouse. Facing the lights in her bra, she raised a hand and waved her shirt wildly. To one side of the road, a Scorpion signaled the start of the race, and both cars roared away. Jesse was thrown down in her seat, and her laughter was buried in a shriek of burning rubber and smoke as they howled into the night.
For the first mile the two cars played tag. One would take the lead, then the other would catch up and surge ahead. At times only inches separated the two vehicles. On the turns, the Mercury skimmed the shoulder of the road, spewing gravel that tumbled down into the canyon. The cars were so close they touched as they screamed around the curves.
Jesse, laughing, her hair flying in the wind, leaned over the side of the Scorpion's convertible. She gazed at Betts through the windshield, and waved her blouse. His headlights illumined the soft skin of her shoulders, her throat, and the swell of her breasts. The look on Betts's face as he concentrated on the road was that of a lover in the heat of passion. She saw it and knew that Betts would either win or die. No way he was going to lose.
The distraction of the girl's face in the window lasted only a second, but it was enough for Betts to lose the edge of his concentration. His tires skidded on the shoulder as he attempted to maneuver around another curve. He squeezed the wheel as tight as he could, turning it, fighting the tremendous centrifugal force that threatened to hurtle him into the canyon.
He had almost lost control when he managed to straighten the wheels as the Merc shot out of the curve. The Chevy was ahead of him, hogging the center of the road. He pulled within inches of the rear bumper, and when the road curved again, he took the inside lane. He kept gaining on the Chevy and finally, as they came out of the last curve and headed for the finish, he pulled ahead by a few feet.
Betts could almost feel Larry's astonishment as he realized for the first time that he had taken on more of a car, and more of a man than he had expected he would ever face. He pulled up next to Betts on the straightaway, the two drivers shifting like madmen, double clutching to save every second. Their racing skills were as finely tuned as their cars.
Betts saw Jesse watching him, her face within reach. From her steadfast gaze, he realized he had already won. He was the one she wanted. And for Betts, that was all the lift he needed. He downshifted, and with a screaming of gears, he surged ahead.
The only way left for the Scorpion to win was for him to pass Betts on the outside at a speed that was critically dangerous, maybe fatal. He pressed his foot to the floorboard, and strained to stay on the road. His tires were smoking, and it was taking every ounce of his strength to keep the Chevy from flipping over. He let up on the gas.
Jesse, realizing they might lose, jammed her foot on the gas pedal, held it to the floor. Suddenly the Chevy fishtailed dangerously near the edge. Betts crossed the finish line as the Scorpion leader slammed on the brake, fighting to control the slide. Just as the right front wheel of the car slipped over the edge, the Chevy ground to a halt. Larry cut the engine, jumped out, and ran toward the Mercury.
Betts leaned against his open car door with the Merc still idling as the leader and several Scorpions closed in on him. The leader, who looked like he had had enough of Betts for the night, motioned for his boys to circle him.
Jesse shrugged on her blouse as she pushed her way through the gathering crowd, and stood next to Larry. Betts thought he saw the hint of a smile on her lips as she looked at him.
"I believe that's twenty-five bucks you owe me, sport," Betts said.
Larry held out the money. "Why don't you come over here and get it... sport?"
Betts caught the glint of metal: a couple of Scorpion boys had pulled out switchblades, and held the blades down at their sides, almost out of sight. Almost. The steel gleamed in a headlight. The crowd waited excitedly, watching to see if Betts would cut and run. Or stay and get cut.
It sure as hell wasn't much of a choice, Betts thought, looking at the switchblades, then at the hoods for a long, tense moment. If he was planning on settling down, getting married, having kids or whatever, this sure didn't seem like such a good way to start. Maybe the blonde was another one of his mistakes. There'd been a lot of them over the years. Too many. But something in him wouldn't let him just slide behind the Merc's wheel and race away. He couldn't do it.
Instead, he stepped away from the car, signaling his intentions, and maybe his demise. Suddenly Jesse grabbed the money out of Larry's hand and, like a cat, nimbly curled into Johnny's front seat.
Betts, astonished, jumped into the Merc, stepped on the gas, and roared away. Behind them, the Scorpions gave momentary chase, hurling curses at them. Betts and the girl drove off into the night, pursued by the sound of their own laughter. Jesse, her hair flying wildly around her head, leaned back in her seat, threw the money up in the air, letting it fly out of the window.
The bills fluttered gently through the air, landing on the pavement and roadside.
THREE
Picking up the Pieces
A hand reached down to the pavement, picking up a ten-dollar bill. Cleary stared at the bill, which had blown out of his pocket in the explosion. There were flash burns on his suit, and black powder smudges on his face. But besides a few scratches and bruises, he was okay.
"You're damn lucky, Jack," said Charlie Fontana. "What happened?"
"The guy hires me, we walk out here, he gets into his car, and next thing I know I'm on my ass and he's falling down all around me."
"Real pretty." The LAPD detective gave his longtime friend and former partner an appraising look. "Good to see you in one piece."
Nearby, Hammond's car was a blackened frame with four shredded tires that were still smoldering.
Fontana had removed his coat and loosened his tie. His shirt was wet with sweat from the heat and lingering smoke. He kneeled, carefully picked up something that looked like a piece of scalp from the pavement, and placed it into a plastic bag that said Scientific Investigation Division. He leaned over again, picked up a powder-burned Bass Weejun shoe, and dropped it into the bag.
Shreds of brightly colored clothes were scattered up and down the alley, along with pieces of metal bent in odd shapes. The walls on either side were charred and stained. Homicide cops were dusting the garbage cans, and uniformed cops were setting up a rope, cordoning off the ends of the alley, where curious locals, rockers from The Crescendo, and a few bums stared at the bombed car.
Fontana stood up and ha
nded the bag to Pete Hogan, whose suit jacket was still on, his tie cinched to the collar. He looked uncomfortable, and more than a little grim. From the way he snatched the bag from Fontana, it was obvious he didn't appreciate the help. "Just let my SID boys handle it, Charlie, will ya?" He pointed an index finger at him. "Stick to your own territory."
Hogan turned and walked past a fire truck and through the carnage. He hadn't changed a bit, Cleary thought. He had never cared for the SID detective, considered him an officious bastard more concerned with petty bureaucratic procedure than solving cases. From what Fontana had told him, hardly anything had changed for the better since he had been ousted from the detective division. He was glad he had made up his mind to go it on his own, taking over his late brother's detective agency rather than returning to the LAPD after he had been cleared of the corruption charge.
He had been pleased that the captain had apologized and offered him his old job back, but a guy had to move ahead. He looked around. Even if it included finding himself amid carnage like this.
He walked over to his car, where Billy Ray sat in his snazzy suit with the door open. He looked dazed and defeated. Cleary patted him on the shoulder, but the kid didn't look up. He gripped the steering wheel and held on.
Cleary knew there wasn't much he could do to help him. Wasn't much he could do at all, but wait. He had already explained several times what had happened, and had been told he could go. But he wasn't leaving until he found out everything the SID knew.
Calvin Pettys completed his interview with a detective, and was trying to collect the band members and send them home. At the same time, he sidled up to Cleary. "So what do they know so far? They got any leads?"
Cleary stared at Pettys. He looked frazzled, jumpy. He kept glancing around at the band members to see if they were staying together. "Nothing I've heard."
Pettys nodded nervously. "Listen. Guys like you, I mean private eyes, you protect people, don't you?"
"It happens."
"Well, I'll tell ya, I'm a little nervous. I'd like to hire you to take care of my boy."
"You think they were after Billy Ray?"
"One less song and he would have been in that Packard when it blew."
Cleary nodded. "I'll have a man pick him up in the morning. He'll baby-sit for a week. Then we'll see."
"I figure you might have some time on your hands yourself now, with Archie gone."
"The man paid me three hundred and fifty dollars for a week of my time to get back his lost tapes. I'm gonna give it to him."
Pettys's brow furrowed. He looked down at his cowboy boots. It seemed that it wasn't the answer he had expected. He looked up, nodded thoughtfully. "Good. We've gotta get those tapes back if we're ever gonna finish this album."
"Did Archie owe anyone big money? Someone who would like to see him like this?" Cleary pointed toward the debris-covered alley.
"Nobody."
Cleary noticed Fontana and a homicide cop had finished interviewing the slickly dressed man he had seen Hammond with inside the club. Noticing Cleary's stare, the man smiled and walked over to him. He patted Pettys on the shoulder, and handed Cleary a business card.
"I'm Tommy Slade, Archie's partner." They shook hands, and Cleary noticed Slade's hand was cool and clammy despite the heat.
"Archie was a likeable guy. He had everything going for him." Slade studied Cleary a moment. "My partner wasn't much of a businessman, but he made Silhouette Records the hottest label in town." He looked down, shook his head. "What a tragedy."
He said it with the right expression on his face, but there was something missing in his voice, Cleary thought.
"Ever hear of the golden touch?" Pettys asked. "Well, he really had it, Cleary. He was the only guy in town over twenty that could hear it and know."
"And all the other labels knew it. You can be sure of that," Slade added.
Cleary glanced between the two men. "You're telling me someone put four sticks of dynamite under his car and blew him up because of music?"
"Listen," Pettys said, leaning forward. "Rock and roll ain't just music anymore. It's business. Big business."
"So I'm finding out."
It was close to four A.M. and nearly all the onlookers had drifted away when Cleary's wait ended. The wreck had been photographed from every angle. The remains of Hammond had been scraped from the alley and car, bagged, and removed. A cleanup crew from the city waited for the signal to move in and cart off the gutted hulk. The efficiency with which death was treated nauseated Cleary somewhat, but it was finally going to result in some facts.
Fontana walked up to him. "I think we're going to get a little cooperation, at last," he said, nodding to his left. "Just let me deal with him."
Hogan walked over to them carrying the SID report. He looked wearily between the two. "All right. Here we go. Dynamite, three sticks at least, maybe four. Probably wired direct to the ignition. Pro job, taped under the seat. If we find a big enough piece from a stick, crime lab might pull a few letters from the manufacturer's name."
Fontana removed his hat, and wiped his brow. "What're the chances of that?
Hogan shrugged. "Slim to none."
Fontana nodded, and Hogan walked off. He stared at the wreck one last time, then tapped his fist against Cleary's shoulder. "Gotta go. Stay in one piece, Jack."
Cleary put his coat on. He would've liked to have quizzed Hogan for more details, but he abided by Fontana's request. He would call Charlie in the morning and see if they had traced any prints or found out any more about the explosives.
He was beat and dirty, and looking forward to washing the grime and death away before catching a couple of hours of sleep.
On the outskirts of town at four A.M., a neon sign above a juke joint blinked off word by word: OPEN went dark; REFRIGERATED AIR turned to dark tubes; and BEER AND WINE disappeared. Finally the name of the place, THE BLUE HOTEL, quavered and vanished.
The parking lot was empty except for a black '49 Merc parked in one comer. A slow ballad by Billy Ray was floating out through the worn screen door. Inside, Johnny Betts and Jesse were slow dancing, holding each other close, swaying to the music. Behind them, the jukebox glowed softly. The walls were lined with tables, all of them empty. Bordering the dance floor on one side was a long bar, presently empty of patrons. A lone bartender washed glasses behind it, and kept an eye on them.
The song ended, but the couple kept swaying. "Closin' up now," announced the bartender, a gray-haired, grizzled old coot.
"Where you think I'm from, Johnny?" Jesse said, ignoring the bartender.
"You're not from around here, I can tell ya that much," Betts answered, and eyed the bartender over her shoulder. "Give us a couple more minutes, man. We got a late start."
"Newlyweds," the old man grumbled.
Jesse smiled, took Betts's hand, and led him to the table. She pulled a pint of booze from the tattered bag she wore over her shoulder, and poured some into their Cokes.
Betts smiled. "I don't care where you're from. Doesn't matter."
"Well, you're gonna find out, anyway. Every town has its bad girl... even Lubbock, Texas."
He looked up at her. "That's where Billy Ray comes from."
"So they say." She gave him a haunted look that suggested she was more than casually acquainted with that fact. "Yeah, I know him. We had a thing going, you know. I came up here with him."
He nodded; a look crossed his face that suggested some puzzle about her had been solved. "That's why you left in the middle of 'Blue Hotel.'" He stared at her, somewhat in awe. "It's about you."
She smiled. "You catch on fast"
She looked around at the empty bar, her eyes settling for a moment on the bartender, who was unplugging the jukebox, just in case they decided on another dance. "Now you know how I got to this damn place," she said, turning back to Betts. "Let me tell you how you got here."
He smiled, not sure what to expect. "Shoot."
"Back home, you were just white
trash, Johnny. No one gave you an inch, and you sure as hell weren't gonna ask for it. You held up some gas station, maybe... just to prove them right."
She leaned forward. "Then you noticed something funny. You liked it. You liked being on the outside. You liked going for a day or two without eating anything, and driving a hundred and fifty miles an hour just to know you could do it. Then when the law came down on you, you barreled out of town and you didn't stop till you hit the ocean."
Who are you, lady?
His look told her she had hit dead center. She lifted her straw from the glass, aimed it at him, and playfully blew Coke through it. The stuff dripped from his nose, his cheeks, as he smiled. "So how come you know so much about me?"
"'Cause I'm like you, Johnny Betts. We're cut from the same cloth. Me, I'm wild." She gave him a look, a glare that softened, smoldered, and then touched him inside. "Wild just like you."
She patted his face dry with a napkin and smiled.
Betts leaned over, and they kissed for the first time, gentle and cautious.
His tongue curled around hers; it tasted faintly of Coke and booze, of West Texas dust, of dreams gone bad and sour.
They left the table, weaving across the floor, high more from sexual fire than alcohol. They leaned heavily against each other, passed the bartender, who looked after them with a knowing smile. "Good night, mister," Jesse said in a sweet voice.
"Good night, kids," he answered with a sigh, relieved that he could finally close.
They stepped outside into the heat Betts's arm was threaded around her waist; Jesse's arm gripped his shoulder, her head was pressed against his chest. When they reached the Merc, Betts's heart was pounding, his loins throbbed. He had one thing in mind, and so did she.
"The backseat looks kinda comfortable," he said, casually.
"Hmm, so it does," she murmured.
Without another word, they crawled into the back. Betts nuzzled her neck, tasted her sweet skin. His hand climbed over her ribs, settled on her breast.