by Ken Douglas
Nowhere to go. No time.
The door burst open.
He stopped, breathing hard, caught her with a hard glare.
“What are you doing here?” It was Gordon.
“I was worried?” Maggie pushed herself to her feet.
“You should have stayed in the car.”
“You took so long.”
“I was waiting outside that PI’s office. After a few minutes I figured out I made a mistake.”
“A few minutes, more like fifteen.” Maggie was whispering, but frantic.
“Not so loud. I heard the elevator, thought I could catch them,” Gordon said. Then, “Did you get a look at them?”
“No.”
“Damn!” Now Gordon was loud.
“But I know who it was, not the guy in the BMW, but the one he came to see.”
“How?” Gordon said.
“Fifth floor.” Maggie pointed up at the legend.
“What?” Gordon followed her finger. “The Congressional Office?”
“Yeah,” Maggie said, “the Congressional Office. You know, where the Honorable J.L. Nishikawa works when he’s in the district.”
“Johnny Nishikawa got the medal of honor in Vietnam,” Gordon said. “ He’s honest to a fault, beyond reproach. You’ve gotta be mistaken, that can’t be where the BMW guy went.”
“He was talking to someone when he went out. I heard his voice. It was him, I know, I’ve heard him enough times on television.”
“The only thing that proves is the congressman was in his office tonight. The guy in the BMW could still be up there.”
“No, the other guy sounded like the man who followed me into the liquor store.”
“You sure?”
“I bet the Beemer’s gone,” Maggie said.
“Let’s see.” Gordon crossed the lobby, pushed his way through the double doors, looked down the street. The BMW was gone.
“I forgot to tell you something.” Maggie passed him, got in his Ford.
He got in after her, slid behind the wheel. “What?”
She told him about Ichiro Yamamoto who used to work for Congressman Nishikawa and who went to the police with a story about conflict diamonds and weapons. She told him about the man Striker, who used to be Nishikawa’s administrative assistant and now worked for Nakano Construction, which used Yakuza money. And she told him that Ichiro Yamamoto was in that convenience store when Frankie Fujimori was shot to death.
“That was a lot to leave out,” he said when she’d finished.
Chapter Sixteen
Jesus wept, he’d been shot. His head was ringing. Horace couldn’t hear. He forced himself out of the fetal position, struggled to sit, back against the wall. He had to move, any second the place was gonna to be crawling with cops. Pain wracked his side. He put a hand inside his jacket, pulled it out. Wet, sticky. Blood.
Using the wall as support, he fought his way to his feet. Standing, he took a few breaths. The breathing hurt, but he didn’t taste blood, didn’t think he’d been lung shot. He moved along the wall to the kitchen. The room was spinning. The pain was intense. He left a bloody trail across the carpet from the bathroom to the dining room, then across the white kitchen tile.
Bloody prints on the knob as he opened the back door. More prints on the rail. Thank God for the gloves. Blood on the stairs as he stumbled down the steps. Blood on the side of the garage as he scooted around it. Blood on the wall. Blood on the driveway. So much blood.
He climbed into the van, expecting any second to be bathed in light, covered in guns as hands wrested him to the ground. But it didn’t happen. Lights came on. But they were lighting up the front of the house. No one out back. He fumbled the key into the ignition.
He was barely conscious as he drove down Lakewood Boulevard toward the motel. Blood ran down his face, getting in his eyes. He couldn’t understand that, he’d been shot in the side. He pulled off the surgical gloves, ran a hand against the wet on his forehead. It came back sticky.
A head wound and it was throwing blood like a squall does rain. He’d been shot twice. How could he have been so dumb? The house felt alive because it was. He’d never even considered the bathroom. And that woman had been there all along, with that gun, waiting. Was she clairvoyant or something?
He passed the turn to the airport, turned into the motel parking lot, parked in front of his room, grateful the place was doing lousy business. In the room, he hustled to the bath, stood before the mirror. He bit his lip to keep from passing out. He looked like he’d lost a fight with a Rottweiler or something worse, an alligator. He ran water in the sink, wetted a washcloth and went to work.
He’d heard head wounds bleed worse than they are. Now he knew it was true. It was only a graze, but it took the better part of an hour to clean up and stop the flow of blood. He should have stitches, but hospitals and doctors had to report gunshot wounds to the cops. He’d suffer enough for ten men before he’d allow that. He’d been busted before, barely escaped jail. That’s all he wanted of that. The thought of it sent cold blades knifing up his spine.
He still had the wound in his side to worry about. He should get the bomber jacket off and give it a look, but it would have to wait. Besides, it didn’t hurt too much now. He left the bathroom, started toward the phone, took two steps, got light-headed, the room started spinning. He turned, grabbed onto the door jamb, held himself up. The nausea passed in a few seconds. He took slow steps to the bed, sat and eased his way to the phone on the nightstand.
He punched nine, then Striker’s number.
No answer.
Horace clenched his teeth, stood and went back to the bathroom, where he pulled off the jacket. He didn’t want to get blood all over the motel room, too. The bloody shirt came after the jacket. He tossed it in the wastebasket. Then he took the still damp washcloth and dabbed at the wound. The bleeding had stopped. Another graze, but it hurt like hell.
His lucky night.
“Not,” he grumbled. He’d been shot, no luck there. But it could have been so much worse. Maybe he was lucky after all. Lucky the broad was such a lousy shot.
Convinced he didn’t have to go to the hospital, he picked up the bomber jacket from the floor, turned it inside out and scrubbed as much of the blood off the lining as he could with hand soap and the washcloth. Then he hung it over the shower railing. He loved that jacket.
He couldn’t have the maid come in tomorrow morning and find blood in the sink, so he washed it up. Then he rinsed out the cloth, wrung it out, dumped it in the trash.
The bathroom clean, he examined his wounds again. Although the bleeding had stopped, they were going to have to be bandaged or it would start up as soon as he strained himself or bumped into something. Besides, he could hardly walk around with that gash in his forehead.
In pain, but able to walk, he went out to the van, that too he was going to have to clean, but it could wait till he took care of himself. He had no first aid kit, but he had a tool box and in it a roll of duct tape. Back in the bathroom, he folded a clean washcloth and duct taped it over the wound on his side. Then using a utility knife from the tool box, he cut a one by two inch piece from one of the motel towels, placed it over the wound on his forehead and taped it into place.
Finished, he studied his handiwork in the mirror above the sink. He looked daring, he thought, like a pirate with that great hunk of grey tape covering his forehead. And unforgettable. That wasn’t good. He had more work to do this night and if seen, he didn’t want to be remembered.
Horace left the bathroom, went to the closet, where he pulled another pair of slacks from a hanger, another silk shirt. At the bureau, he took out a clean pair of Jockey shorts. He slipped off his loafers, stripped the pants and underwear from his body, thought about a shower, rejected the idea. He didn’t want to get the makeshift dressings wet. Then he put on the clean clothes and cleaned the blood out of the van, but he couldn’t clean away what he was setting out to do. Horrible as it was, he had no cho
ice.
Twenty minutes later he drove by the Ocean View Towers on Ocean Avenue, a nineteen story luxury apartment complex on the beach. He parked half a block away and took the steps down to the beach. Stars lit the sky, the moon was up, a sliver of a sideways smile. He was on the sand, two stories below Ocean Avenue. He walked along the bike trail toward the Towers.
He missed his bomber jacket. He hated stuff in his pants pockets. Shit in pockets broke up the natural look of his profile, made him look cheap. He pulled the picks out of a hip pocket, grit his teeth and sauntered up to the Tower’s beach door. He had it open in seconds.
Inside, he walked through an underground parking garage. He was breathing heavily now, his side on fire. Walking was difficult, painful, as if stabs of hot fire were shooting from his side down his right leg with every step. He couldn’t walk without a limp. He caught his reflection in a round overhead mirror used to warn residents of cars coming around the ramp from the floor above. He looked like a stroke victim.
He shuffled to the elevator. Lifting his feet caused bolts of pain in his side. He pushed the call button. After a minute that seemed like a month, the doors opened. It was empty. He stepped in, pushed the button for the seventeenth floor.
During the ride up, he tried to shut out the pain. Eyes closed, he imagined a cool place. A ski lodge in the mountains. A log fire, girls laughing, drinking. By the time the doors opened, he was focused, the pain gone, for now. He didn’t know the time, didn’t have a watch, but he guessed it was around midnight, maybe a little later. He was taking a chance, he knew it. He’d left the Beretta back at the motel in case he got stopped by a cop because his driving wasn’t what it should be. A cop saw the tape on his forehead, he might search the van. Busted with a handgun was the last thing he needed.
He walked out of the elevator toward the Wolfe apartment. He stopped at the door, listened for the sound of a television, music, anything. Nothing was what he heard. Odds were they were asleep. Horace always played the odds. Again the picks were out.
Inside, the place was dark. He stood still as stone, left the door open a crack. He heard the steady breathing of someone in a deep sleep coming from the back of the apartment. Horace slipped off his loafers, walked to the full window which ran the length of the living room, looked out upon the beach, the sky, the stars, the moon.
This was the kind of view he could have if it wasn’t for Ma. She insisted on staying in Lakewood. And like a good son, Horace couldn’t leave her. He saw the lights of a small plane over the ocean. A night flyer. Horace loved flying in the dark. The sense of freedom.
All of a sudden he knew how he was going to do the kid. At first he’d planned on quietly smothering him in his sleep, but now he didn’t know if he could keep holding the pillow while the kid struggled.
There was a balcony to the right of the living room. Horace eased open the sliding glass door. It wasn’t locked. Stupid Mom. He stepped out into the night, went to the railing, looked down at the beach below.
Time for work.
Back in the apartment, he followed the sound of the sleepy breathing. There was a bedroom at the end of a hall. Mom was curled, all scrunched up with the covers. He backed out of her bedroom, found the kid’s room across from the bathroom.
Horace stood in the doorway for a second, then took three quick steps into the room and was at the kid’s bedside. A blanket went up to the kid’s waist. Horace pulled it down. It would be best if he could do this without waking him. A small mercy. Horace scooped his hands under the tiny body, lifted it.
A silent gasp as pain racked his ribs. Horace clenched his teeth as he made his way out to the living room. He moved through the apartment like an apparition, silent and quick. In seconds he was out on the balcony. The kid was still asleep. Horace resisted an urge to kiss his forehead.
The kid opened his eyes. Wide, afraid.
Horace tossed the boy into the night.
He fought puking his guts out as he took the elevator down to the parking garage. Outside, back on the beach, he heard someone screaming. Head down, he jogged along the bike trail to the stairs up to Ocean Boulevard. He pulled away from the curb expecting sirens. He didn’t hear them till he was past the Safeway, where Virgil had grabbed onto that bitch’s shopping cart.
If only he could go back and live that few minutes over, Virge would still be alive.
He turned into the Safeway parking lot, parked and locked the van. He crossed the lot to the country and western bar. Inside, he ordered a tequila shooter. He passed on the salt and lime, drank it straight down, ordered another. Then he saw the pay phone on the wall at the end of the bar.
“Got quarters?” He dropped a dollar on the bar.
“Guy over there’s been playing the juke all night,” the weightlifter of a bartender said.
“It’s for the phone.” Horace turned, saw a slim guy with dirty jeans and unkempt hair drop quarters into the jukebox. Springsteen started singing ‘Born in the USA.’ “A sign.” Horace tossed down the second drink.
“What?” the bartender said.
“It’s a sign. My brother’s favorite song. He’s trying to tell me something.”
“You want another shooter?”
“Naw. I was gonna call my boss, then get drunk, but now I’m gonna call a girl instead.”
“I hear ya.” He put four quarters on the bar.
“Wish me luck.” Horace scooped up the coins, headed for the phone. Most things Horace forgot right away, but he had a head for phone numbers.
“This better be good,” Sadie said instead of hello. “It’s the middle of the night and I have to work in the morning.”
“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”
“Horace?”
“You know my voice?”
“I don’t exactly tell all the men I meet to call. Of course, I know your voice.”
Horace was flattered. “I’m in kind of a spot, plus I feel about as low as hound dog at the bottom of an outhouse.”
“That sounds pretty low.”
“I could use some company.”
“Where are you?”
“You know that cowboy bar out by the pier?”
“Give me ten minutes.” She hung up.
Now his wounds didn’t hurt so much. He signaled the bartender, raised a finger to let him know he wanted another drink. He gulped the shooter, then dialed Striker’s number. He wanted business out of the way before he saw Sadie. Striker sounded like he was out of breath when he answered. Horace told him about his evening.
“So, you okay?” Striker said when Horace was finished with the telling.
“I think so.” He ran his hand along the wound in his side. “Feels like the bullet seared along my rib cage, like I was cut with a knife, but it didn’t enter. And I got a graze on the forehead, bled like a pig, but I got it under control. I just saw that gun in her hand and started back-peddling. I was lucky. That’s one tough bitch.”
“And you say she looks like the Kenyon woman?”
“I only got a quick look, but yeah, except for the hair, it’s her. Must be twins, only thing I can think of.”
“Margo Kenyon didn’t have any sisters. Maggie Nesbitt didn’t either.”
“They sure look alike,” Horace said.
“They say everyone’s got a double,” Striker said. Then, “Regarding the gunshots. You should be in the clear. A black-and-white responded. Neighbors heard shots, but nobody knew from where.”
“How do you know this stuff so fast?”
“I was a cop a long time. I got friends.”
“I left a lot of my blood up there.”
“Any prints?”
“No.”
“So, it’s not a problem. When the news guy gets home and sees the mess, he’ll call the cops, but so what?”
“What about the woman?”
“That is a problem.” Striker told Horace about the woman he’d followed into the liquor store and how she had dark hair. Then he told him about the car chase
and how he saw the Porsche crash into the sea. “But apparently she didn’t die,” he added, “because I was outside that duplex. I heard the shots and saw the same woman run out. I followed her and the guy from downstairs out to a warehouse by the airport, then I lost ’em.”
“So, who’s the broad, the news guy’s wife or the Kenyon bitch?” Horace said.
“She was Margo Kenyon this morning and Maggie Nesbitt this evening,” Striker said.
“Something real hinky is going on.”
“Yeah,” Striker said.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Stay put. I’ll put the Japs on it. They’ve been dying to help, now we’ll find out if they’re as good as they say they are.”
“No, I started it, I’ll finish it.”
“When?”
“This time tomorrow she’ll be toast. You can count on it.” Horace didn’t want the Japs involved. If they took care of it, maybe Striker wouldn’t need him anymore.
“Alright. I’ll keep them in reserve. And don’t blame yourself about tonight, no way you coulda known she’d be in the bathroom with a gun. It was just bad luck.”
“Yeah, bad luck.” Horace grimaced. His side was killing him.
“Stay cool,” Striker said. “If we pull this off, we’re gonna have enough money to go live on a Caribbean island for the rest of our lives, sun, sea and more girls than you’ll know what to do with.”
“Right.”
Striker hung up.
Horace thought about the conversation as he replaced his own receiver. Striker had talked to him like a partner, not like an employee. Why did he do that? Was there a lot more in this for him, or was Striker just setting him up? He sighed. And how come Striker took off following the broad after he’d heard the gunshots? Who the fuck did he think the bitch was shooting at anyway?