Tightrope

by Teri White

  Blue shoved the telephone away viciously. “Excuse me,” he said in a quiet, polite voice. “I need to get some fresh air.” He glared at Spaceman. “Doesn’t anybody else ever notice that this place stinks?” He got up and walked out, pausing only long enough to kick the Christmas tree halfway cross the room.

  Spaceman stopped at the cigarette machine before going on into the bar. Business was slow; the cops who usually came here were either on duty now or off and out for a big time someplace much grander than the old Lock-up. He had no trouble spotting Blue at a rear booth. He walked on back and slumped down across from him.

  Blue had a drink, but it didn’t look like he’d done much more than taste it.

  Spaceman played with the new pack of cigarettes, not opening it yet. “Morell did himself in, right?”

  “Right,” Blue muttered.

  “Too bad.”

  “Right,” he said again.

  Spaceman got tired of looking at the untouched whiskey and he picked it up for a swallow. “You’re not blaming yourself, I hope.”

  “He was a sick man.”

  “True.”

  “Sick and hurting. Who did he come to for help? Me. God, the poor bastard made the wrong choice there, didn’t he?”

  “I think he was way beyond help before he ever called you. And I also think that his choice wasn’t so bad.”

  “So why is he dead? I should have been able to do something.”

  “How? You just found out who the son of a bitch was. You were trying to do something.”

  Blue picked up the glass, stared at it, then set it down again without drinking. “I meant to call again, but we’ve been so damned busy.”

  “And we’re still busy. Roy the snitch called a couple minutes ago.”

  “Yeah?” Blue looked interested. “What’d he have to say?”

  “Street talk has it that something is coming down tonight. That’s all he had.”

  “Tonight? Just knowing that doesn’t give us anything to move on.”

  “True. But maybe somebody else knows more. I think we should go make some calls. Rattle a few cages.” Spaceman drained the rest of the whiskey. “So much for New Year’s Eve,” he said glumly.

  “Well, it’s early yet. You might make it to Lainie’s.”

  “Maybe. Come on, Sherlock.”

  Blue tossed a bill onto the table and followed Spaceman from the bar.

  47

  The old ice cream factory was on the eastern edge of the city, almost not in Los Angeles at all. In the early dark of December, the building was a hulking, almost frightening presence behind its chain link fence.

  Maybe even Lars felt some of the threat of the place. He didn’t park immediately, but instead drove around the block three times, casing the nearly empty streets. No New Year’s revelers in this neighborhood.

  Finally, after Devlin jumped out and pushed open the unlocked gate, Lars pulled the car into a brick cul-de-sac by the loading dock at the side of the building and turned off the engine. Suddenly it was very quiet and nobody said anything for a moment.

  “Something funny, I just thought of,” Devlin said finally.

  “What?” Lars cracked the door open a little so that the overhead light came on. He began to check his pockets for extra clips.

  “Not so long ago the most important thing in my life was whether or not the Times would like my damned pictures.” He smiled wryly, hefting the pistol. “It’s just funny, is all. I never even saw the bloody review.”

  Lars peered at the illuminated green dial of his watch. “I saw it,” he said. “They loved the pictures. Said you were some kind of emerging genius or something like that.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Devlin muttered.

  Toby, in the backseat, opened the bottle of whiskey again. “I’ll drink to that,” he said.

  Devlin glanced at him. “I don’t think you’re in any shape for this thing,” he said.

  Toby felt like hell, but he only grunted.

  Lars looked at him, then at Devlin. “This is the fucking climax. Nobody wants to miss it.”

  Devlin didn’t say anything. He met Lars’ gaze.

  After a moment, Lars shrugged. “Fuck it. Tobias, remember what you were doing in ’seventy?”

  “’Seventy … oh, yeah. My year on the point. Big thrill.”

  “Well, you’re about to be point man again.”

  Toby sat up a little in the seat, ignoring the hurt in his side. “What?”

  “Just so things don’t get screwed up again, I want you to play forward man now.”

  “Which means?”

  “Find a place out here where you can see just who comes in. How many. Make sure none of them are cops. That kind of thing.” He reached under the seat for the Uzi. “If things go wrong, they’ll go very wrong. You can make better use of this. Do something. Whatever you think will work.”

  Toby took the gun. “Sure, Lars,” he said, “no problem.” He grinned as he said it. No problem. When Lars had turned away, Toby mimicked putting the barrel of the weapon into his mouth and pulling the trigger. He realized that Devlin was watching him and grimaced.

  Devlin nodded.

  “So we’ll see you later,” Lars said, getting out of the car.

  “Uh-huh,” Toby said.

  They were gone too quickly and Toby felt utterly alone.

  He sipped once more, thoughtfully, from the bottle. Well, okay. A joke: Why do old point men never die? Answer: Because they all die young. Ha, ha.

  Toby closed the bottle and got out of the car, the Uzi cradled in his arm. He tried to remember if, during his wild youth, he’d ever dropped acid. He didn’t think so, but this sure as hell felt like a bad-trip flashback. He moved his battered body through the darkness as lightly as he could. Black night, the feel of the gun, the taste of fear. It was all so familiar. Round and round for all these years, only to look up now and find himself right back where he’d started from.

  He found a good spot: an ancient brick incinerator, the position of which would allow him a view of both the front and back entrances of the building. Perfect.

  Toby settled into the dark cubby provided by the incinerator and rested the Uzi across both knees. The glow from a few unbroken street lights let him see all he needed to. More than he wanted to, in fact.

  He rubbed the surface of the gun with his fingertips. Life was funny, if you stopped to think about it. Yeah, funny as hell. Who could have guessed back in Nam, playing fucking point man for crazy Lars Morgan that, all these years later, he’d be sitting on this cold brick doing the same fucking thing.

  He chuckled.

  It was another five minutes before something happened. That was: A van pulled up to the rear of the ice cream factory. Toby pressed himself against the grimy bricks, counting the shapes that emerged from the van. At this distance he couldn’t tell who the men were, only that there were seven of them and each one was armed.

  Seven, in his opinion, seemed like overkill.

  While he mulled that over, two cars approached the front of the building. Five shapes got out of one and four out of the other.

  Shit, this was starting to look like the fucking D-Day invasion.

  Toby chewed his lower lip furiously.

  Five and four and seven. Even somebody who’d flunked math could figure that out. It added up to disaster for the two men already inside the building. Not to mention the clod playing point.

  Toby realized suddenly and with a knife-edged jolt of fear that what was happening here was more than just a simple exchange of diamonds. It was an ending. Delvecchio and the Saigon bunch were tired of the whole damned charade and they were finishing it.

  Toby leaned forward and closed his eyes tightly, trying to think. He wanted to throw up, the fear was so bad. He swallowed hard to get rid of the bile threatening.

  Another precious minute passed before he knew what had to be done. Toby shoved the Uzi away, hiding it, and got to his feet. The only sound was that of distant traffic
. No one else was in sight.

  Toby took a deep breath and ran.

  48

  The dust on the floor tickled Devlin’s nose, making him want to sneeze. He rubbed the back of one hand across his nose. How absurd. At a moment like this, all he could think of was not sneezing.

  Next thing you know, he thought, I’ll have to piss.

  Lars scooted back and settled next to him. “Almost time,” he whispered.

  Devlin rubbed his nose again. “Lars,” he said in a low voice, “I don’t think I can kill anybody.” He stared at his hands wrapped around the gun.

  Lars didn’t seem especially upset or even very surprised by the revelation. He just shook his head. “Well, could you at least point the damned thing at the ceiling and pull the fucking trigger? Could you do that much for me, lover?”

  “Yes, sure.”

  “Good. Thank you very much.”

  Someplace, they could hear a door open and then footsteps. Devlin began to breathe through his mouth. Lars gave a deep sigh and Devlin could feel the warm, damp breath against his ear.

  Spaceman tapped the dashboard impatiently. “Can’t you move this thing any faster?”

  Without saying anything, Blue took one hand from the steering wheel long enough to point at the speedometer. The needle hovered at about the eighty-five MPH mark. Behind them, they could hear the sirens of several squad cars converging on the scene.

  Blue returned his hand to the wheel. “Reardon didn’t have an address for this place?”

  “Not exactly. But I think I remember where it is. Couple years ago we busted an LSD plant there. Two of Delvecchio’s men trying to go freelance. Make a left here.”

  The Porsche made a wheel-squealing turn. “You might give me a little more warning,” Blue said with some exasperation.

  Spaceman was still holding on to the dash. “What I want to know is why Reardon called us. Right here.”

  Blue yanked the wheel again. “He got scared,” he said tightly, working to keep the car where it should be. “Toby finally got scared.”

  The sound of gunshots echoed from inside the factory.

  Toby experienced what happened next as a series of separate moments, instants frozen in time, almost like images from Devlin’s camera. It started when he kicked open the door and ran into the building. As he moved, he fired the recovered Uzi into the air.

  The corridor was empty.

  He ran down the hallway, toward the sound of gunshots.

  Crouching in the doorway of the vast factory area, he put down a burst of covering fire. Devlin and Lars appeared, as everyone else scattered.

  Lars fired at the man holding the briefcase and he fell, apparently dead.

  Toby kept shooting as Lars stopped to pick up the case and then started for the door, Devlin at his side. The Uzi sent a burst of bullets over their heads. Damn, Toby thought, damn, we’re going to pull this fucking thing off. Distantly, he was aware of two things suddenly: the sound of approaching sirens and the sense of someone behind him.

  Before he could respond to either, a single shot rang out, very close to his ear.

  Lars took one more step, started to say something, then fell.

  Toby watched, stunned, as Devlin went down, too, and then picked up the fallen Walther. Scarcely seeming to aim, he fired past Toby. As the woman’s body toppled over, she almost fell against Toby. He pushed her away.

  “Come on,” Toby yelled. “Get him up.” He fired at several shadowy figures.

  But Devlin didn’t get up. Instead, he stayed on the ground, using his body as a shield over Lars.

  Time stopped, it seemed.

  Lars opened his eyes. “Put the … gun in my hand,” he said hoarsely. “Do … it.”

  Devlin obeyed, at the same time trying uselessly to stop the blood that was gushing from Lars’ chest.

  “Come on, guys,” Toby pleaded, scared. Someone got off a shot that hit the wall very close to his head. “Please, come on!”

  Devlin picked up the briefcase and threw it at him. “Take them,” he yelled. “Go!”

  Toby hesitated.

  As several more shots rang out, Devlin crouched lower, trying to protect Lars. Toby fired once more, then turned and got out of the building as fast as he could. No time for the car; he just kept running, clutching the briefcase to his chest.

  Behind him, he could hear sirens, more shots, voices.

  Blue had not been shot at since the war.

  He hadn’t liked it then and he didn’t like it now. As they jumped from the car and headed for the door, people in dark suits seemed to be everywhere. And they all seemed to be trying to kill him.

  As things turned out, it wasn’t Blue who got shot.

  He wanted to ask Spaceman if maybe they shouldn’t wait for somebody else to do this, maybe SWAT or something, but by that time they were already inside the building, heading for the action.

  A shot exploded. “Ohdamn,” Spaceman said. He stumbled and fell against the wall.

  Blue turned around quickly. He swore softly, then yanked a white silk handkerchief from his pocket. He dragged Spaceman out of the way. “You okay?”

  “It’s just a flesh wound,” Spaceman said. Then he grimaced. “Flesh wounds hurt, damnit.”

  Some more cops ran past. Blue checked the flow of blood from Spaceman’s arm; it was messy, but didn’t look immediately life-threatening. “Stay here,” he said, making it an order. He joined the uniforms in cleaning up the few creeps who still thought about making a fight of it.

  It took only a couple more minutes to get the whole area secured. Several bodies, including that of Angel Tran, still lay where they had fallen. Blue stepped over the woman’s still form and walked to where Devlin Conway sat huddled on the floor. He knelt and reached for Morgan’s wrist.

  “Oh, he’s dead,” Conway said quietly.

  “You hit?”

  “No.” Conway smiled. “I was lucky.”

  Blue sighed and shook his head. He glanced back to check on Spaceman and saw the medic bent over him. That was being taken care of. Because he wanted to do this just right, he took out the Miranda card. “You’re under arrest, Conway. You have the right to remain silent. If you choose to give up that right, everything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  They went through the whole routine, slowly and quietly, ignoring the mayhem going on all around them.

  Finally Conway said, “I probably better have a lawyer before I say anything.”

  “Where’s Reardon?” Blue asked anyway, just for the hell of it.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How about the diamonds?”

  “I don’t know. And, please, no more questions until I have an attorney.”

  Blue nodded, pocketing the Miranda card again. “Okay.”

  Spaceman, still looking shaky, came over to them. “On your feet,” he said to Conway. His right arm was bandaged and in a sling.

  Conway nodded. He took one more look at the dead man in his lap, then carefully moved the body to the floor, and stood. Blue snapped the cuffs on him. “He’ll be taken care of, right? Lars, I mean.”

  Spaceman snorted and walked off.

  Blue put a hand on Conway’s shoulder, urging him toward the door. “Don’t worry about it,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  Neither man spoke again until Conway was in the car. Blue shut the door, then leaned down to the window. “Would it do any good for me to ask you why?”

  Conway leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. There was blood all over the front of his shirt and pants, but he didn’t seem aware of it. “Probably not,” he said after a moment.

  Blue nodded and straightened. As he did so, the glare of the police lights hit his jacket and he saw that it, too, was stained with another man’s blood.

  49

  The bottle was empty.

  Didn’t matter, because there was more. And he didn’t even
have to get up from the table for it. Nice thing about living on a little boat like this was that everything was so convenient.

  It had been a helluva job getting back here, though. Toby giggled. Three rides he managed to thumb. A Catholic priest, nice old man, but sort of befuddled, he thought Toby was an altar boy. Second car was a silver Mercedes, driven by a plump blond who invited him home for a private party. But he told her that it was against his rules to work on a holiday. The final ride, the one that delivered him almost home, was from a man Toby recognized as a former television cowboy. He was a little more diffident than the broad, but the invitation was as clear. Toby repeated his line about holidays.

  Now here he was, Homeport, just him and a new bottle of vodka. Oh, and by the way, four million dollars worth of diamonds. His fingers trailed slowly through the stones. Maybe he should just untie the old Homeport and head for international waters.

  But the effort involved in doing that seemed too great.

  Instead, he picked up the bottle and the diamonds and went out on deck. A nice cool breeze was blowing. Across the water somebody was having a noisy party. The sound of a Lionel Richie song floated toward him. Farther away, he could hear the pop of firecrackers.

  Happy New Year.

  Toby picked up one of the diamonds and rubbed it thoughtfully. Pretty. Smooth. But cold. And so bloody. Too damned bloody. Without really thinking about what he was doing, Toby threw the diamond into the water. It made a small plop, a nice sound. Toby smiled a little and took a drink.

  He picked up another stone and threw this one with more force. “There you go, Lars,” he said. “That’s for you, you crazy son of a bitch.”

  It was like a game. Swallow a gulp of the vodka, throw a diamond into the Pacific. The music got louder and Toby joined in on a couple of songs.

  When there were just two diamonds left, Toby looked at the dock and saw those cops Kowalski and Maguire coming toward his boat. They stopped, watching him. He tossed another stone and they seemed, suddenly, to realize what he was doing. As they began to run, Toby picked up the last diamond and pitched it overboard.