Beach pushed the beret back on his head as his foot marked an awkward rhythm against Jordan’s. “That’s more like it.”
They went over the inlet past Absecon Light, and headed up the coast on empty nighttime roads. The rotten egg smell hanging over the salt marshes made Jordan gag. After a while the breeze shifted, bringing fresh air off the ocean, but Jordan’s guts didn’t stop churning. Miles ahead the Brigantine Light cut the fog. A returning fisherman’s boat played hide and seek in the reeds.
“There yet?” Narvin said. “Why we wastin’ the night goin’ nowhere?”
“Sit back,” Beach said. “Enjoy the scenery.”
A marsh hawk swooped across the hood. Before it veered into blackness Jordan noticed a squirming packet of fur in its talons. The Packard was cruising at an even 50 when Jordan felt a bump. His right leg stiffened as the driver slammed the brakes.
“What’s that?” Beach said. “Squash a bunny?”
“I lost the road.”
Highbeams spiraling in fog were refocused over a frayed tangle of swamp grass. The hood ornament pointed the fastest way into a ditch. The driver cut the wheel sharply, throwing Jordan into Beach’s lap. The big car shimmied, straightened, gained speed again, and lost it fighting for traction. Beach shoved Jordan away as they ground to a halt.
“You put a scratch in this baby, and it’s comin’ outta your pay,” Beach said. “Try rockin’ her.”
The motor growled. The wheels churned soft sand, and the Packard settled deep in the ruts.
Beach hurried out. Two feet from the car he was invisible. The flame from a match congealed into the orange tip of a cigarette. Jordan watched it through the back window as Beach kicked the tires. “Good and stuck,” he said into Narvin’s window.
“I can take care of him here.”
“Wanna be sittin’ with his dead corpse when the sun comes up?”
Jordan couldn’t see Narvin’s face. It didn’t stop him from picturing it breaking into a smile.
“How ’bout we bury him?”
“Feel like diggin’ a grave tonight?”
“Let him dig it himself. He the one gonna be usin’ it.”
Narvin showed a gun. Jordan slid out of the car and marched into the reeds. Knotted roots clutched at his ankles, pulled his shoes from his heels. In a patch of sand with little vegetation Beach stopped him. “What you lookin’ for? A pretty view? You ain’t a little boy been brought to play on the shore. Get to work.”
“Ain’t gonna get it done without a shovel,” Narvin said.
“Go on now,” Beach said, “get down and start diggin’ with your paws like the dog you are.”
Jordan fashioned a filthy look for them. It was the bright side of being out on a night when no one could see in front of his face.
Narvin kicked him behind his knees. “You heard...”
Jordan scooped sand. The wind blew it back. A shallow trench grew large under his hands. He steepened the sides till they collapsed.
A story came to mind, a Greek myth about a man in a situation something like the one he was in who couldn’t dig his way out of a hole because the walls kept caving in. Jordan had felt sorry for the Greek because he couldn’t stop the hole from filling in, but would have been happy to trade places with him now.
Narvin rested his foot on Jordan’s back as a four-sided depression took shape around them. The wind shifted, helping to clear the sand away.
“Fella workin’ up a sweat for nothin’,” Narvin said to Beach. “He can stop where he at, and you and me, we’ll build a little castle over him. Nobody gonna see him from the road anyhow.”
“He’s just funnin’ with you,” Beach said to Jordan. “Do a good job here, you’ll come back to the car and dig it out before we shoot you. How’s that sound?”
What it sounded like was the most he could expect. He pushed sand back into the hole while they laughed.
A jagged shell cut his hand. The sand was damp now, and the digging came easy, which was no favor. Narvin dipped his toe in the center of the hole, measuring the depth.
“Watchin’ him’s wearin’ me out,” Beach said. “I’ll wait in the car.”
A root tangled around Jordan’s arm. Tough and fibrous, it was the closest thing to a weapon he was going to find. He moved more sand, but couldn’t pull it loose. It shredded while he worked it from side to side.
“Not too deep y’all,” Narvin said.
“Beach says different.”
“Who you think he gonna tell fill in your grave when you lyin’ in it? You? Stop where you at.”
If this was his final resting place, at least till the next big storm washed his body out to sea, he wanted plenty of room. He kept digging. It was a long shot, but if he made it big enough he might get Narvin to trade places with him.
“Stand by the front,” Narvin said. “When I shoot you, try and fall back on your ass. I don’t want blood on my new threads layin’ out your body, okay?”
Narvin laughed again. Jordan had to admit it was funny. But not that funny. He smoothed the bottom of the hole, and then he stood up.
Narvin pointed the gun where he wanted him. Oh yeah, he was a bundle of laughs. Jordan hit his mark, and emptied a fistful of sand in Narvin’s face.
Narvin spit, but didn’t blink. “What the fuck?” he said. Jordan tossed the second handful in his eyes, brought up his toe into the big man’s crotch.
The gun going off beside his head wasn’t louder than Narvin’s howls. Jordan swiped for it, deflecting the barrel away from his ear. Narvin clouted him with his free hand. Jordan hit back with an uppercut, a glancing blow connecting with more stubble than chin, and pulled Narvin into the grave. Using the big man for a footstool, he jumped out.
The second shot was another miss. Narvin, shouting “You a dead motherfucker,” was last to know. Jordan heard Beach call out to ask if he’d been killed yet. Narvin said, “No, motherfucker gettin’ ‘way,” and Beach, too angry to sound colored, said, “Idiot, can’t you do anything right?”
The voices became indistinct as Jordan ran. Clearer were the tide lapping against the mud, the buzz of insects, a night-hawk’s metallic cry. He had little idea where he was going. On his left was the water. The road was to his right. At his back were two men determined to kill him. A third could almost be anywhere. He ran blindly. Later there might be time to find his bearings.
Lacking structures and trees, the tidal flats were cut haphazardly by shallow drainages. Where the grass grew thick Jordan could have been running over a wet sponge. The going was slower still in the dry sand. Thank God for a moonless night and adrenaline.
Narvin, not far behind, said, “Stop where you at, motherfucker.” While Jordan had been thinking, Narvin had been running fast. Jordan ran harder. Where had thinking ever gotten him?
Near the water the grass thinned, and the damp sand allowed him to open his stride. His lungs burned as they sucked air through the residue left by millions of Luckys. Coming down in a hole his knee buckled, but the crack he heard was from dry brush, not cartilage. He was running easily when he stumbled into cold water.
He was up to his hips in a ditch that returned the tide to the sea, ankle-deep in a soft bottom with the consistency of quicksand. The first rule for anyone caught in quicksand, as he’d learned as a nine-year-old at the Saturday serials, was not to struggle. A gunshot kicking into the bank suggested the rule didn’t apply here, and he exhausted himself slogging to dry ground. He wished the wet, sandy shoes pinching his feet on Narvin, who was splashing through the ditch with a string of “Dead motherfucker” and “Worthless motherfucker” on his lips.
Narvin had fired off four bullets, and was down to two. Unless his gun was an eight- or nine-shooter. Or he had extra bullets, or a second gun. Did Beach have a gun, too? Jordan stopped thinking about it. It was the best idea he had.
A splintered hulk half-buried in the sand tripped him up. Barrel-shaped, bigger than a rowboat, it was probably a round-bottom skiff. Gasping wind,
he listened for Narvin. No motherfuckers from the big man chugging like a steam boiler about to blow.
Jordan was too tired to move. What he had strength for was to squeeze between the broken timbers and hold still. A brilliant idea—unless Narvin had it, too, and put a bullet through the wood. He forced himself back on his feet. Just an idea.
One foot followed the other, then did it again. His second wind would kick in soon, and he’d leave Narvin in the dust. He pushed himself on drunken legs. The wind parted the mist, and a yellow eye reflecting moonglow brought him up short. Had Narvin circled around? Had Beach freed the Packard, and cut him off? He said, “Boo,” and a doe bolted for the road.
Narvin shot again. The sand kicked up where the deer had been, and Jordan ran after it. What kept Narvin in the chase? What had Beach promised for the scalp of Adam Jordan? And for coming back without it? Another bullet exploded some clam shells into fragments that stung his ankles. Number six.
“C’mere,” Narvin said. “Only playin’ with you.”
Jordan pumped his legs, alarmed at how little ground they covered.
“Quit tryin’ to get ‘way, an’ you can rest long as you want.”
The gun hit him between the shoulders. He looked back as Narvin shortened the gap. He was still waiting for his second wind. Maybe he’d missed it.
They were eight feet apart. Four. Three, Narvin clawing at his back. Jordan dipped his right shoulder. Narvin veered right as Jordan cut to the left.
“Motherfucker stop.”
Narvin was on his heels again before they’d covered thirty feet. He snagged Jordan’s collar, gathered cloth, tightening his grip, was reeling him in when Jordan broke free.
“Gonna wish you was dead.”
A surge of adrenaline gave Jordan a short lead. Narvin put his head down, and matched him stride for stride. Again Jordan lowered his right shoulder. Narvin, guessing left, fell behind as Jordan broke right.
The boiler hissed and sputtered. If Narvin didn’t smoke, Jordan was counting on other bad habits taking a toll on his stamina. Seven feet separated them. Four again. Less. Then Jordan was ten feet ahead, fifteen.
He was out of adrenaline. There wouldn’t be more. But when he stole a look the big man wasn’t moving. Narvin’s chest heaved as he lifted a foot and put it down in almost the same place. Then he bent over with his hands on his knees, and puked his guts.
Jordan managed not to. He couldn’t run, so he walked. Narvin jogged after him, stopping to heave again.
“Why you makin’ this hard?”
“What will you do if you catch me?” Jordan said.
“It’ll be quick. What else you want?”
Jordan could walk, or he could talk. He didn’t have breath for both. He moved off dragging his feet, and when he turned around the next time Narvin hadn’t budged. Wouldn’t be budging any time soon.
Jordan stopped to rest. Crouching, he fell over in the sand. Narvin coughed, and said, “When I get my hands on you, gonna wish you was never born.”
Jordan had been wishing something like that since he was put in Beach’s car. But not now. Narvin wasn’t going to lay a finger on him tonight. Jordan flattened his palm under his lips, prepared to blow him a kiss. Why make it personal? He picked himself up, and quietly walked away, moving easily as his second wind kicked in.
CHAPTER 12
Mollie put down her bag, watched the couples traipse around the floor. They were out of step with the music, a waltz, and with each other, limber young women with frozen smiles partnered by stiff-kneed men. Atlantic City made its name on girls playing to the fantasies of old men, the sweet, public face of blood sport. Similar rules applied in a dance studio.
The pop tune pouring over the transom one floor up was more to her liking. She freshened her makeup to a Rodgers and Hammerstein ballad. Pix Pixley came to the door wearing a light meter around his neck. A rigid smile patterned after those downstairs made her feel she was being laughed at behind her back. The same rules for a game turned on its head.
He put his cheek against hers, and kissed the air. All men, she believed, wanted to have her. Even the air-kissers, who put up a shy front, but whose fevered skin gave them away. Pixley was different, clammy cool.
He moved her bag inside. “You just got in?”
“I took a cab straight from the train station.”
“Do you have a place to stay? I’ve got tons of room.”
“My old roommate will be glad to have me back,” she said, “for the weekend. You’re kind to ask.”
“No trouble. If you change your mind—”
In front of a backdrop representing a desert landscape a man as short and slight as Pixley lay on his back in bright light resting a spear against his thigh. Make that a javelin, she told herself. Aside from leather sandals he was nude, not the least self-conscious. He was around twenty, with short bleached blond hair, and the physique of a prepubescent boy. The sharp point of the javelin was aimed at a camera on a tripod.
“Marcel and I,” Pixley said, “are doing a spread for Today’s Sun Worshiper.”
Marcel tilted his head to imaginary high noon, a heroic pose with the javelin raised above his ear.
“Lower your stick, Marcel,” Pixley said. “You might puncture someone.” He turned to Mollie. “I’m so happy to see you again. If we had to count on Adam Jordan to arrange a session, we’d be waiting forever. He’s one of those fellows—yours truly excepted—who make promises they have no intention of keeping. Sometimes I don’t know why we have anything to do with them.”
Marcel laughed, and shook his spear.
“Not you, dear,” Pixley said to him. “I know precisely why.”
“When can you find time for me?” Mollie said.
“When are you going back to New York?”
“Maybe never.”
“Poor girl, you must be delirious. Are you certain you wouldn’t rather stay with me?”
She glanced at Marcel, who seemed ready to let fly with the javelin. “You’re busy. I don’t want to be in the way. I’ll call in the morning.”
“You traveled all this way just for me?”
“Well, one or two other things.”
“I won’t ask who they are,” Pixley said. “I do hope you’ll stay a while. I have friends, influential people, who would love to meet you.”
“Can they do anything for me?”
“It depends on what you do for them...” Pixley balanced his chin on the back of his hand, and smiled. “...when they see your look.”
She was at the door when he said, “Oh, Mollie?” A flash went off as she turned around, and she rushed her hand in front of her face. “You shouldn’t,” she said. “I look dreadful.”
“You couldn’t.”
He watched her down the stairs, then went back inside and squared Marcel in the viewfinder.
“Who’s that?” Marcel said.
“Hold still.” He got the shot. “A new friend.”
Marcel thought it was hilarious. Pixley snapped him laughing.
“I didn’t know you had girlfriends.”
“There’s plenty you don’t know about me, Marcel.”
“Fill me in.”
“If you don’t quit annoying me, I’m going to shove that pigsticker where it hurts. Oh, but that much you already knew.”
Marcel’s nostrils flared. Pix took more shots. “Good,” he said, “just what the doctor ordered. A few more, and you can put on your pants. You did bring pants?”
“Very funny.”
“Is it? What we’ll do next time, you’ll come back Tuesday in a middie blouse and bell bottoms. I have some ideas for This Man’s Navy.”
Pixley rolled up the backdrop, sat down with a magazine while Marcel dressed.
“What are you reading?”
Pixley showed him the cover.
“Real Detective? You can’t be interested in that trash.”
“It so happens I do a lot of work for them.”
“I get it.
You like looking at the pictures.”
“You don’t get anything, Marcel. You should pick up a detective magazine, you might learn something. Can you read? You’ve never mentioned it.” He didn’t wait long for a comeback before supplying one himself. “Frowning will put lines in your face.”
Marcel smiled.
“Better,” Pixley said. “Actually, it’s the articles I enjoy most. Every issue is a sort of handbook full of practical information.”
“For detectives?”
“Yes, for them, too.”
“Good day, it’s two o’clock. Two p.m.”
“What the hell if it is? You woke me,” Jordan said. “Who are you?”
“Your wake-up call, sir.”
“Oh,” Jordan said. “Uh, thank you.” He let the receiver down three times before it found the cradle.
He felt as if he’d been put through the wringer, and decided that he had. His legs ached from the long run over sand. A painful bruise on his shoulder was a mystery with a hundred solutions. He stepped into the shower, brushed his teeth, got dressed. His foot didn’t fit inside his shoe. He checked for swelling, filled an ashtray with sand.
It had been 6:30 when he’d gotten in after catching a ride with a Press delivery truck. When he mentioned that he used to work for the paper himself, the driver launched into a damning tirade against management, capitalist exploiters, the ruling class, and the hoity-toity sons of bitches in the new Packard sedan racing from Brigantine who cut him off.
It was too late for breakfast from the coffee shop. There was a television in the room. What he wanted to do was to get under the covers and spend the day watching it. He slouched against the headboard keeping his feet on the floor. If he pulled them into bed, he’d go out like a light. He reached for the phone again, asked the switchboard for an outside line.
“PixleyPix!”
“It’s Adam Jordan.”
“You have a terrible connection, or a hangover. Where are you?”
Jordan guzzled tepid water from a tumbler on the nightstand. “The Columbus Hotel.”
False Negative (Hard Case Crime) Page 20