by Thomas Perry
Years ago Eddie Mastrewski had told him always to forget he was using a cover. You should be whatever you pretended to be, all the time except when you were actually working. That way there were only a few hours a year when anything could happen to you. The rest of the time you really were an insurance salesman or a truck driver or a policeman, and you weren’t in any more jeopardy than anybody else. If you slipped once your other life would go a long way toward saving your ass. Besides, it gave you something else to think about. Eddie was a butcher.
Of course that had all happened in the days before the trade got so busy. Nobody had that kind of time anymore. You were crazy if you passed up the kind of business you could get. It was easier now too. Everybody was a stranger, and everybody traveled. The only cover you needed was to look like the others and do what they did when they did it. Right now people were eating. He walked down Colfax looking for a restaurant that was crowded enough.
“DON’T BE A JACKASS, Carlson,” said the old man. “If I’m in any danger it’s not from some guy with a gun, it’s from some big corporation afraid of a bill that would take away its tax advantage. Criminals don’t give a good goddamn about tax reforms because they don’t pay any taxes.”
“What I’m saying, Senator, is that things aren’t that simple or predictable,” said Carlson, a man in his thirties who was so tastefully dressed and well groomed as to appear abnormal. “You’re a national figure now. Your picture is on the television every night. The exact composition of your politics isn’t what we’re talking about. It’s the visibility in the media. That alone makes you a target. If your picture happens to be on the screen at the moment some borderline case finally gets his big headache, you’re going to need security.”
“Fine,” Claremont said. “Get me some security, then. Meanwhile get the hell out of my way and let me do my job.”
“Right, Senator,” said Carlson, opening the door of the limousine for Claremont and climbing in after him, still talking. The black automobile moved away from the curb and into the traffic so quickly that it looked as though the two men had barely caught it in time.
THE PLANE TOUCHED DOWN at Los Angeles International and Elizabeth began to prepare herself for whatever came next. Five hours in the air after a full day of work, and now at least one more hour before she could be alone and take her shoes off. She wondered what she must look like by now, then put it out of her mind. She probably looked like a woman who had just worked a thirteen-hour day, she thought, and there wasn’t a whole lot she could do to hide it.
Elizabeth went over the notes she had taken during the long flight. First stop in the morning would be the Ventura police. Hart would handle the postmortem on the remains of the truck and the lab reports and the interview with the technicians. Elizabeth would read through the full report and interview whoever had written it, then follow whatever leads looked promising.
As the no-smoking light flickered and the engine wound down she wrote an additional note on her pad: bank records. If Veasy had a business relationship with organized crime there would be something that didn’t fit. He would have made some surprising deposits or some surprising withdrawals. Or if not, there would be a discrepancy between the bank accounts and the way he had lived—maybe a sign that he had a source of money that didn’t pass through the accounts. She added safe deposit box? to her notes, then put the pad in her purse.
Elizabeth was glad to be able to move again. Airplane seats are small for a woman five feet five. She wondered what it must be like for Hart.
They joined the line of passengers moving past the stewardesses and out the door into the movable corridor that carried them to the terminal. Then they were in an airport lobby. Hart led her down another corridor to a second lobby, where there was a check-in desk for Golden West Airlines. He had a few words with the desk manager and then waited while the man picked up a telephone and turned his back. He hung up and said, “You can board at nine fifty-five at Gate Forty-one, Mr. Hart. Your bags will be transferred automatically, of course.”
As Elizabeth and Hart wandered across the lobby, she checked the big wall clock: nine thirty. Not enough time to relax, too much time to wait comfortably in one of those blue plastic chairs. She was glad when Hart said, “How about a drink while we’re waiting?”
They sat in a dark corner of the bar with their backs to the wall. The traffic was fairly thin, so the waitress was there for their order immediately. She scurried off to get them their drinks. She was back so fast that they hadn’t said anything to each other.
“I’ve been thinking about this case,” said Elizabeth. “It’s going to be a little bewildering.”
“They always are,” said Hart. “This one is going to be more than that. You’ll be better off if you think of it as preliminary research instead of a case of its own.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re looking for professional touches. If you find any, that’s about all you’ll find, most likely. There’s not much chance we’ll make any arrests. If it’s a professional there won’t be anything to connect him with Veasy, and more likely than not we’ve never heard of him before. And this time there isn’t even a case on record of anyone who works that way, so if it’s a pattern this is the first of the series.”
“So I shouldn’t get my hopes up,” said Elizabeth. “I haven’t.”
“Oh I don’t know,” said Hart. “Hope doesn’t cost anything. But we’ve got very little this time. In a truck explosion like that there can’t be any fingerprints. But there may be something connected with the method or the circumstances that’ll be useful later.”
“I’ve got a few ideas to start with,” said Elizabeth. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
He nodded and sipped his drink. “Maybe, if we’re thorough and careful and don’t make any mistakes ourselves. But the best thing to do at the start of it is to forget about looking for anything in particular. Just look and write down everything you see or hear. It may make sense to somebody a year from now.”
Elizabeth smiled to herself. He was a man all right—telling her not to get her hopes up, and then suggesting that it would all work out in a way that was too far off for anybody to predict. The endless replay of John Wayne handing the woman a pistol and saying ominously, “Save the last bullet for yourself” before he climbs over the stockade with a knife clenched in his teeth.
Elizabeth picked up her purse. “Nine fifty. Time to go.”
He bolted the last inch of his Scotch, tossed some money on the table, and followed her out into the lobby. One more short flight, she thought, and then the chance for some rest.
HE WALKED OUT OF THE RESTAURANT and bought a Denver Post from the vending machine at the curb. Time to start doing some research on him. If they didn’t publish his schedule, at least they might have a picture of him. You had to start somewhere. He remembered hearing a story about Dave Burton trying to collect on a next-door neighbor once. Probably not true, but you never knew. Things like that could happen if you weren’t careful, and the big ones like this were worth taking a little extra time with. For that kind of money, why not? And this was the last one for awhile. Another one of Eddie Mastrewski’s proverbs. Always take it slow when you’re tired. The police can be dumb as gorillas, make a million mistakes, but at the end of it they still get paid and go home to watch television. You make one and you’re dead. If the police don’t get you the client will because he’ll get scared.
Getting out had to be the simplest part this time. He’d thought of that part right away, as soon as he’d heard the timing. A charter flight to Las Vegas, booked in advance. There was some kind of rule about that. Charter flights had to be advance booking, so the police wouldn’t look closely for fugitives there. If you couldn’t leave from another town, a charter flight wasn’t bad.
ELIZABETH HELD HER EXHAUSTION in abeyance while the little plane flew along the coast toward Ventura. At first she could see the incredible lighted expanse below her, stretching down the long v
alley to fade into a feeble fluttering like stars. Then the plane moved out across the coastal range and over the water, and there was only darkness and calm on her side of the cabin.
It seemed like only a few minutes before the little airplane began to descend. The Ventura airport wasn’t much. They put a short wooden staircase next to the fuselage for people to step on, and there was an eager young man in a gold sportcoat that seemed to belong to an absent older brother to serve as spotter for the deplaning passengers. He smiled and hovered, his hands held out silently announcing his intention to catch any passenger who might begin to fall.
The night was calm and warm, like late spring. The airport reminded her of a small town bus station, but they managed to find a cab driver lounging out front who knew the Ocean Sands Motel, where Disbursement had made their reservations. She was pleasantly surprised to see the sprawling, vaguely Spanish stucco building half-buried in luxuriant, unfamiliar vegetation. She wondered at first if Disbursement had made a mistake, but then remembered that the economies were always inconsistent: the leather-bound notepads with the cheap, thin paper in the office told it all.
Hart took charge and registered for them. Elizabeth couldn’t help wondering if it was just his faintly antiquated courtesy again, or if his experience of hotels was all of the sort where the woman didn’t sign her own name. She didn’t think about it for long, because as soon as the key to her room was in her hand she was on her way toward the cool, clean sheets. When she was lying there it occurred to her that she probably hadn’t bothered to say good-night to him. She didn’t think about that for long either.
HE ALWAYS MADE A POINT of staying away from women when he was traveling. It wasn’t that any of the ones he was likely to meet would suddenly become suspicious and make inquiries to the police, or anything like that. It was just that it was too damned complicated. You had to make up something to tell them about yourself, maybe even make up a fake address and phone number, agree to be someplace at a particular time. Things like that took most of the fun out of it anyway, and added an element of danger.
So he walked more slowly to keep from catching up with the one ahead of him on the sidewalk. She was definitely trolling for someone—maybe him. He couldn’t see her face, but her way of walking—her back arched slightly and her hips rolling a little as she strolled down Colfax Avenue—he had seen a thousand times. Women almost always walked fast when they were alone, especially on this kind of street. When they didn’t, it was usually to say, I’m not going anywhere in particular and don’t have anything to do: I’ve got all the time in the world. Another time, he thought as he watched her, his eyes moving irresistibly to the round, firm buttocks. A week from now it would be different.
She turned then and he knew that she was aware of him. She stopped to look in a store window, but he knew she was studying his reflection. He fixed his eyes in front of him and walked purposefully ahead at the same pace. As he passed her she began to walk again. If anyone else had seen it, it must have looked like an accident. A pretty lady window shopping, a man on his way to the parking ramp down the street to pick up his car. He heard her say, “If you like it, maybe you should try it.” The voice was soft and confident at the same time, perfectly modulated to establish a kind of intimacy that said I know everything you feel and desire: I know you. He felt a wave of resentment well and pass over him at the violation, the casual assumption of knowledge like an assertion of possession.
He slowed and said, “Excuse me?” feigning a look of surprise.
She smiled the satisfied-cat smile they always had, with the lips closed and the amused eyes. Then she said, “If you’re lonely, I’m not doing anything.”
In one part of his mind he was thinking she was extremely tempting—huge, bright blue eyes that seemed to peep out from behind a veil of heavy brown hair. In another part all the danger signals were reminding him that this was neither the time nor the place. To have anything to do with her now would put him in jeopardy: she was risking his life and he was angry about it. So he said, “Oh, I’m sorry, Miss. I’m a married man.” He did his best to look flustered, to make her think she’d been wrong this time, to convince her that this time she’d picked a man who hadn’t even seen her. And then he quickened his pace, behaving like a frightened businessman who wanted nothing more at the moment than to escape the place where he’d been embarrassed, but after thinking it over and smoothing out the rough edges, wouldn’t be able to resist telling his wife and one or two close friends about it because he thought it magnified him: a real prostitute came up to me on the street and … well, she offered herself to me. I couldn’t believe it.
He turned off on a side street and kept going, moving along in his preoccupied businessman’s stride. Then he turned again onto a narrow street that ran parallel with Colfax—almost an alley, really. It was darker, and on one side were the backs of stores and taverns and restaurants, nestled together and indistinguishable from one another with their steel fire doors and loading docks and navy-blue dumpsters piled with cardboard boxes.
The girl had put him into a bad mood, reminded him of how impatient he was for this trip to end so he could go back to Tucson and relax. It wasn’t easy to live for days at a time without so much as talking to anybody, and for weeks without saying more than “What’s the soup of the day?”
He glanced at his watch. A little after ten. Time to head for the motel and read the paper while he waited for the eleven-o’clock news. Then the watch disappeared in a flash of pain, and he was aware that he had heard the sound of whatever had crashed into his skull even while he felt it. But he was on the ground now and his left kneecap seemed to hurt too. Dimly he could see a rock the size of two fists beside him as he rolled in the gravel. He didn’t have time to decide whether that was what hit him. He just scooped it in and had his arm cocked when he saw a human figure bending toward him for the next blow. With all of his strength he hurled it into the darkness where the face must be, pushing off the ground with his right foot at the same time. There was a sickening thump as it hit, and a high, tentative half-scream that never got all the way out before the shape crumpled.
He was up and moving now, whirling around because the other one would be behind him. This time he wasn’t quite fast enough. A blow across his back with something long like a club electrified him with pain and terror, and he wasn’t sure he could move himself. But then something hit him in the face and he was on the ground again and the other one was winding up for a kick. He grabbed the stable leg with one hand, pulling the man off balance, and punched up into the groin with the other—a quick, hard jab. This time there was no cry of pain, only the sound of the air leaving the man’s lungs. Then the man lay on the ground doubled up like a foetus, rocking and grunting.
He stood up and looked for the others, but no, there had only been two. Muggers, he thought. Jesus! He looked down at them. The first one was probably dead. He wondered what he should do about the other. He didn’t have anything with him—not even a knife. He couldn’t leave them this way. They had almost certainly gotten a good look before they’d done anything. He walked over to the first one, picked up the bloody rock that lay by his head, and brought it down once, hard. Then he did the same to the other one. He dragged them by the ankles into the shadows behind the dumpster and moved away down the alley, limping from the pain in his left knee. His back was throbbing and he could feel a thin trickle of blood warming his right cheek, but he couldn’t tell if it was his head or his face. The face worried him. Muggers. Jesus.
THE SENATOR SAT BACK in his chair and watched a commercial for new cars. There wasn’t really anything in it about cars, but there was a small Japanese car there, and a lot of enthusiastic Americans cavorting around it, showing surprise and pleasure and amazement to a spirited musical score.
Then the news came on. Carlson went over and turned the volume up a little. Not enough so the Senator would have to take notice of the fact that Carlson knew he was old and probably didn’t hear as
well as he used to. Just enough to make explicit the view they shared, that commercials were a kind of atmospheric interference but the speech at the airport was the very essence of importance.
A newsman was saying, “Congress ended its regular session today and began its mid-session break. We’ll have footage of Senator McKinley Claremont’s return to Denver. There was a brief flareup of fighting in the Middle East, an earthquake shook Central America, and New England is wracked in the worst snowstorm in twenty years. More about these and other stories in a moment.”
The Japanese car commercial came on again. “It’s the same commercial exactly,” said the Senator, peering at the screen in amazement as the enthusiastic Americans mugged and pantomimed their way through the song again. “Carlson! When did they start doing that?”
“Doing what, Senator?”
“Playing the same damned commercial twice in a row?”
“Are they? I didn’t notice,” said Carlson.
6He moved as quickly as he could. There’d be plenty of time to baby the bumps and bruises later when there wasn’t anybody to watch him do it, but now the important thing was to get back to the motel room and out of sight before anybody found the bodies. He made a quick inventory as he walked—there was a tear in the left knee of his pants, and the whole suit was dusty. With effort he brushed himself off. There was definitely blood on his face, but that was easily taken care of. He pulled out his handkerchief and brought it to his right cheek, but had to stifle a yelp at the pain.
“Damn,” he muttered, wishing vaguely that there was something more he could do to them. There was no question it would show: by morning there would be a bruise, and the swelling had already started. He just hoped there wouldn’t be a scar. Maybe all the blood was coming from beyond the hairline. “Damn!” he said again, under his breath. “Stupid. Rocks and clubs, like animals. Baboons!”