Kiss

by John Lutz

  Sun, sand, sails, drugs, God, and the army of the retired. Social Security checks worth hundreds of dollars, and execution-style murders over millions.

  Ah, Florida!

  7

  DR. DAN PAULY LIVED not in an apartment but in a house on Verde Avenue, in a moderately wealthy part of town. It was a very small, brick-and-stucco home with wooden flower boxes beneath the front windows and a curved stone walk that led from the driveway to the front porch. Perfect red geraniums, and some kind of leafy vine, thrived in the flower boxes, which were in glaring sunlight. The grass in the front yard was thick; it was so weed-free and uniform in length that it appeared shorter than Carver found it to be when he probed the ground with his cane. How high could it get and still look like a putting green?

  He went through his friend-come-to-call act again. Appeared curious as to why no one had come to the door. Went to a window and peered inside, as if concerned that something might be wrong or that Dr. Pauly maybe had the TV on too loud and hadn’t heard him. Then a walk around back, to see if maybe Pauly was in the yard. Another bold peek in a window. All for the benefit of any neighbor who might be watching.

  The Pauly home was expensively furnished, but it wasn’t nearly as neat as Nurse Rule’s apartment. There were newspapers stacked on the sofa, a glass and a coffee cup resting on an end table. A pair of shoes, or maybe house slippers, was on the floor near a chair, one of them flipped upside down as if it had been removed hastily and forgotten. A bachelor lived here, Carver reminded himself. A busy and not very tidy one.

  Feeling as if he had a better idea of the who and what of Dr. Dan Pauly, as well as of the other Sunhaven staff members whose homes he’d seen today, Carver negotiated the curved walk back to the street. Dr. Macklin’s home wasn’t on his agenda; the Sunhaven administrator had family quarters at the retirement home itself. The better to rule the kingdom of the old.

  It would have been convenient if Carver had seen something through a window that gave him some idea of what was going on at Sunhaven and who was making it go on, but real-life detective work didn’t fall into place that way. Real detective work was more routine, and usually uneventful. Something like real police work, until when you least expected it a hyped-up punk with a cheap handgun zapped a bullet through your knee.

  Carver had parked the car around the corner from Dr. Pauly’s house, near a Chinese carry-out restaurant. Across the street from the restaurant was a small park with a playground, but it was too hot today for even kids to play outside. The grass was burned brown. Plastic swing seats swayed gently in the warm breeze. An American flag rippled just enough to send ropes and pulleys clanking rhythmically against its metal pole.

  When Carver was a few feet from the Olds, his cane suddenly flew out of his grip and he was on the hot concrete before he realized what had happened. The heel of his right hand stung, where he’d caught himself and for a second taken the weight of his fall.

  A medium-height but incredibly broad Latin man was standing about six feet away and smiling down at him. He had on faded Levi’s and a sleeveless black muscle shirt. Had muscles, too. His arms were leg-size and layered with brawn in a way that only years of weight training could provide. His shoulders were stacked with the same hard muscle. The man’s thighs threatened to pop the stitches on his strained jeans. His waist was slimmer than Twiggy’s.

  He was holding Carver’s cane delicately with both hands, as if he might decide to tap-dance and use it as a prop. Maybe tell a few jokes. His thick black hair was waved high in an attempt to make him appear taller. It made him look as if his head came to a point. No matter; he was a mile short of handsome anyway.

  Carver worked his way up to a sitting position, his stiff leg extended awkwardly in front of him. He felt foolish and knew he couldn’t get up all the way without his cane.

  The Latin with the muscles looked around. Carver looked around. They were alone beneath the cruel sun. Across the street, the rope and pulleys clink-clanked lazily against the metal flagpole.

  “You should find some other way to spend your time, compadre,” the man said. He had a Spanish accent and a smooth voice that was oily with meanness and a dark kind of humor. He was getting a tickle out of this.

  Carver wished he’d get near enough so his legs were within reach. If he could grasp a handful of Levi’s and drag the man down with him, so they were both off their feet . . . Well, the guy would probably dismember him like a Colonel Sanders chicken. Sometimes it was wise to admit you were outclassed. Sometimes it meant survival.

  The wide man was irritated by Carver’s neglecting to answer. He gripped the cane like a baseball bat, swung it as if trying to hit the ball out of the park, but whipped his hands back halfway through the powerful swing. The cane snapped in half, and the end with the crook flew into the street and clattered against the opposite curb. The laws of physics had defeated hard walnut. Carver had even seen the cane bend before it had reversed direction and split apart.

  “You should pay closer attention to what I say, eh, fuckface?”

  “Right,” Carver said. “Better way to spend my time.”

  “Some other way’s what I said. I don’t much give a shit if it’s better. It’s your time. But it just goes to show how you don’t pay close enough attention when you’re told something.”

  “Other way,” Carver repeated dutifully.

  The man’s smile broadened. He had deep-set and twinkling cruel eyes. He was a menace, all right. A bandito who’d stumbled upon Nautilus training. “Be some bad luck if your one good leg got broke up, you think?”

  “Bad luck,” Carver agreed. He felt a hollow coldness in the pit of his stomach.

  “Human bone, it don’t take much to snap it. Not like this cane.” He tossed the broken end of the cane on the sidewalk in front of Carver, within reach. “Sharp. A weapon. You want to use it?”

  “I’ll pass.” Come closer, you bastard!

  “You got no guts, my man?”

  Carver didn’t answer. See if the musclehead would lose his temper. Carver was prepared to grab the broken piece of cane and use its sharp tip to penetrate flesh. His body was tensed, his fingertips almost tingling with anticipation. For the moment, fear was pushed to a far part of his mind.

  The broad, smiling man edged nearer, but not quite near enough. He’d had experience. He was playing a familiar game. “Fuckin’ cripple, you got no right to live anyway. Law of the jungle, you be dead meat in no time, you know?”

  Carver stayed quiet, looking the man calmly in the eye. The Latin stared back at him in the way little boys observe insects being devoured alive by ants. No mercy. In fact, if any help was offered it would be to the ants.

  “Goddamn straggler some bigger animal get an’ eat. Chew up the good parts of you, spit out the bad.” He spat a large glob of phlegm on the street to lend emphasis to his words.

  “There a point to this?” Carver asked.

  “Point is, fuckhead, you’re playin’ in a jungle. You understand?”

  With a speed and grace Carver would have thought impossible, the man danced in, kicked him in the good leg, and danced out before Carver could react. Pain sliced like a hot blade deep into Carver’s thigh. Then the leg started to go numb. Fear shriveled him. He didn’t want to lose all mobility. Not my one good leg! Oh Christ, no!

  “I guess you got the message, my man,” the muscular Latin said. He spat again, artfully, through his broad white smile. Some of the warm spittle struck Carver in the face; a fleck of it got on his lower lip. “You take care of yourself, hear? Way to do that is to change your work habits. Maybe change your job, you think? You gonna do that?”

  Carver began rubbing his leg, trying to coax feeling back into it. “Whatever you say.”

  “Thought so.”

  The broad man swaggered away toward the corner, proud of his bulk and what it had just enabled him to do. Should be wearing a truck license and he knew it. He didn’t bother glancing back at Carver; he was moving on to more impor
tant matters and fresh game.

  Carver dragged himself to the Olds, managed to get the door open, and struggled inside.

  God, it was hot in there! Sweat was rolling down his face and the back of his neck. Within seconds his shirt was plastered to him. His arms were doing all the work; his hands were raw from clutching the sidewalk. He slapped at his thigh where the man had kicked him, glad to feel pain. Anything but numbness, helplessness.

  Finally he managed to sit up behind the steering wheel. His eyes stung from perspiration, causing him to squint. But he saw a white Cadillac flash past the intersection, his assailant in the driver’s seat.

  He smiled grimly and started the Olds.

  8

  THE WHITE CADILLAC STAYED dead on the speed limit, cut east toward the ocean, then drove north along Beachside Avenue for a while, parallel with the shore. The wide and gleaming Atlantic made the car look small.

  After about five minutes it leaned into a left turn and headed inland. Carver stayed well back and didn’t think the Caddie’s ominous driver had seen him, but there was no way to be sure. The broad and powerful Latino seemed to be an expert in his dubious profession of intimidator.

  In the older, industrial section of Del Moray, the Cadillac suddenly picked up speed and rounded a corner with a scream of rubber on pavement. That was okay; the Olds could keep up. Carver goosed the vintage convertible up to sixty, played the brake and accelerator, and two-wheeled it around the corner in pursuit of the Cadillac.

  Another screech of heat-softened tires on concrete. He leaned forward to peer intently through the windshield.

  But the Caddie wasn’t in sight on the narrow street. It must have taken the corner at the end of the short block, at the north side of a long, abandoned building that looked as if it might have been some kind of factory but was now obsolete and gradually surrendering to weeds and weather,

  Carver sped to the intersection, braked to a skidding halt, and glanced east and west. No white Cadillac. The driver must have realized at some point that he was being followed and driven to this area of narrow avenues where he could lose Carver. The knowledge gave Carver the creeps; maybe the Latino had cunning in proportion to his muscle. Which would make him very dangerous indeed.

  Carver cursed, made a left turn, and decided it was time to drive back to Edwina’s and think things through. Past time, actually. This hadn’t been one of his better days. He was feeling distinctly mortal.

  Whack!

  The right side of the Olds’s windshield shattered and fogged. Tentacles of the webbed crack zagged over to the driver’s side and tiny, glistening shards of glass fell and sparkled like bright sequins on the dashboard.

  Carver sucked in his breath and dropped low in the seat, scrunched sideways and half on the floor. He did this almost instantly, but not before he saw the white Cadillac filling the rearview mirror. Fear shot through him with the suddenness of the bullet through the windshield.

  With his head just high enough so he could peer over the dashboard, he kept one hand on the steering wheel and used the other to press down on the accelerator. All he could really see was the long expanse of the Olds’s gleaming hood. He tried to picture the straight, narrow street, tried to remember if there were any parked cars. Any oncoming traffic. Tried to forget his fear.

  Hell with it. No choice but to stay close to the center line and go.

  Go!

  The Olds jumped forward, engine roaring and tires screaming. Carver’s heart kept pace with the racing engine. His hip battered against the transmission hump. After a few seconds, he chanced bouncing up high enough to get a fix on what was ahead, ducking back down immediately so he wouldn’t provide a target.

  It looked clear all the way to the intersection. He risked giving the car more gas, picking up speed. Flying low! He was going to make it!

  There was a loud grinding sound and the steering wheel bent his thumb back painfully and jerked out of his damp and slippery hand. The Olds lurched sideways, rocked, shuddered, stopped. The engine died.

  Carver didn’t want to die next, but that seemed to be the idea.

  Wishing like crazy he’d brought his old Colt automatic that was taped to the back of a dresser drawer in Edwina’s bedroom, he lunged sideways and worked the passenger door handle. He shoved the door open, gripped the side of the seat and pulled, gaining enough leverage to help him clamber out the right side of the car.

  As soon as he struck the pavement he was up on one elbow, looking in every direction, tensed for a bullet, trying to figure out which way to roll. He swiveled his head this way and that so violently he hurt his neck.

  The white Cadillac was gone.

  He was alone in the middle of the street.

  It wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where citizens rushed outside at the sound of an accident, even when the temperature wasn’t in the nineties. There weren’t many people living in the degenerating industrial neighborhood at all. He thought he heard a door slam. An old man carrying a bottle in a crinkled paper sack glanced over at him and shuffled on out of sight. A dog began barking incessantly in the next block, as if to warn everyone that something unusual was going down and for God’s sake don’t get involved.

  The Olds was angled at forty-five degrees in the street. Carver used the side of the car for support to lever himself to his feet. The elbow he’d landed on was throbbing, but he didn’t think it was broken. But what the hell, he wasn’t a doctor. Better wait to see if it swelled.

  On the left of the Olds and slightly behind it was an old black pickup truck. Carver had sideswiped it, adding to its lifetime collection of dents. The driver’s-side door was creased, and flakes of rust jarred loose from the impact lay like dried blood on the street.

  No choice but to stay inside the law. Carver kept his palms on the Olds’s sun-heated metal and limped around to the damaged truck. He fished in his pocket and got out one of his business cards, then reached through the truck’s open window and got a yellow stub of a pencil that was lying on the dash. He wrote “Sorry—call me” on the back of the card and stuck it beneath one of the truck’s wipers, then tossed the pencil back inside. He didn’t really expect to hear from the truck’s owner, who might not even notice the new dent.

  The man in the Cadillac had only been trying to frighten him further, he was sure. The bullet that had starred the Olds’s windshield had penetrated the plastic rear window in the convertible top and snapped over the passenger seat next to Carver. The white Cadillac had been only a few feet behind the Olds; the shot had been a deliberate miss.

  Carver could still see out the driver’s side of the smashed windshield, and damage to the Olds from the accident was minimal. Anyway, the car was almost as dented and rusty as the truck it had hit. Here was an accident to make an insurance adjuster shake his head.

  Carver eased his sore body back behind the steering wheel, started the Olds’s engine, and slipped the shift lever into Drive. He was tentative at first, but within a few blocks he was sure the massive and outdated car was running as well as ever. It was a rolling symbol of Detroit’s long-ago best; it wasn’t easy to harm a monument. After winding around side streets in the depressing neighborhood, he found his way back to Beachside Avenue and drove home.

  He knew Edwina would still be out trying to sell real estate, but there was someone seated at the table on the veranda. It was dusk and Carver couldn’t make out who it was.

  There was an old umbrella on the backseat of the car. Carver twisted around and managed to reach it.

  Using it as a cane, he climbed out of the car. The unopened umbrella supported him okay, but he had to stoop slightly to walk, and he had to be careful to plant the pointed metal tip on hard surfaces.

  He swung the gate open and limped toward the seated figure, trying to think who it might be. A man, very tall—basketball-player tall. Loose-jointed and slouched in a casual—almost insolent—attitude. As if this were his home and Carver was dropping by to see him. Though almost entirely in outl
ine, the man was familiar to Carver. Familiar in a way that stirred something unpleasant in the murky depths of memory.

  When he got closer and the figure raised a can or glass in a mock toast, Carver still didn’t know for sure who it was. Didn’t know until the man spoke:

  “Heard my old asshole buddy had some trouble, so I hustled right over here. Lock on your cunt’s house is cheap shit, easy to pick, so I wandered on in and helped myself to a beer while I waited.” A loud belch. “Knew you wouldn’t mind.”

  McGregor.

  9

  CARVER LIMPED TOWARD the table where McGregor sat sipping beer. McGregor watched him silently, and when Carver was about ten feet away extended a huge foot and shoved out the chair opposite him in an invitation to sit down. Playing the genial host as if he lived here. The grating noise of the metal chair legs on the bricks irritated Carver. He said nothing as he scooted the chair nearer to the table and sat down. He hooked the handle of the unopened umbrella over the back of the chair next to him.

  McGregor hadn’t changed much since Carver had last seen him. He was a lanky tower of a man, awkward yet with a suggestion of coiled strength. Homely, elongated face to match his long body, with a prognathous jaw, pale blue eyes, and straight blond hair and bleached-looking eyebrows. Nobody had ever told him about good grooming. His clothes were always wrinkled, he substituted cheap lemony cologne for bathing, and he looked as if he gave himself haircuts with a dull knife. There was a wide gap between his front teeth, contributing to the most lascivious grin Carver had ever seen. He gave no indication that he’d noticed anything about Carver, but Carver knew he’d noticed everything.