by Ken Douglas
Horace shrugged. Maybe Striker didn’t hear the shots. Maybe he did and didn’t think about the consequences. Whatever, point is he’d never known Striker to lie. If he said there was gonna be a big payoff, there was gonna be a big payoff.
For a second his thoughts were clouded with the boy. That was bad. No kid should have to die. But then he thought about what Striker had said. The sun, sea and more girls than he could count. Sometimes sacrifices had to be made.
“Horace.” Sadie climbed up on the barstool next to him.
“Hi.” He touched the makeshift bandage on his forehead with a finger, then put the finger to his lips.
“Gotcha.” She knew enough not to say anything in front of others. Horace admired that.
“Let’s get a booth.”
“No, let’s go to my place. You look like you could use some serious attention.”
“Nobody’s ever asked me to their place just like that.”
“We’ll talk about it after we get there. Come on.” She took his hand and led him to the door.
“My van’s in the Safeway lot.” Horace had trouble walking straight.
“We’ll take mine. How much have you had to drink?”
“Three shooters. It’s mostly shock.” He looked across the street, pointed at his van. “Will they tow it?”
“Not until it’s been there a couple days.” She opened the passenger door to a baby blue, beat up Toyota.
Horace got in.
Two minutes and two blocks later she parked in front of a single family house on Bennett Avenue. The house was sandwiched between a duplex and an apartment building. The apartments looked new. The Shore was crowded, parking was at a premium.
“How’d they get the zoning?” Horace said as she put on the parking brake.
“Owner’s brother knows somebody on the city council.” She got out of the car.
“Figures,” Horace muttered. He got out too, followed her up the walk.
The house was built in the ’30s. The furniture looked like it was from the same period, from the sofa and the wing chairs to the baby blue, flower print carpet. Horace shook his head. The rug was the same color as the car. She turned toward him, smiled. Her eyes, too.
“What happened to you?” She wasn’t accusing, just inquisitive.
“I was shot.”
She gasped. “Did you call the police?”
“I can’t. It was a cop that did it.”
She gasped again.
“It’s not what you think. I was working for his wife, trying to catch him with a hooker in one of those motels downtown. You know the type, they play dirty movies, have mirrored ceilings and waterbeds. Anyway,” Horace continued with the bullshit, “I bribed the desk clerk for the key. I figured to open the door, get a couple of shots with my Nikon and be out of there before he had a chance to get his pants on. But it didn’t work out the way I planned.”
“What happened?” She was all ears now.
“He started shooting the second I pushed the door open. Got me twice, the forehead and a grace across my side. If I wouldn’t a started back peddling so fast, I’d a been a dead man.”
“I used to be a nurse. Let me see.”
Horace shed his shirt and submitted himself to her care. She re-bandaged and dressed the wounds.
“You are an awful lucky man. You’re going to have a scar on your forehead if you don’t get stitches, but the wound in your side will heal nicely without them.
“Really?”
“Really,” she said.
“I’ve always been lucky.” Horace didn’t know what else to say. He’d never been good with women. Besides, they usually didn’t like him. This one apparently did.
She gave him a smile. “You wanna mess around?” She was wearing a baby-blue T-shirt, same as the eyes, carpet and car. She pulled it over her head. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
“It’s never happened for me like this.” He felt like the PI he’d said he was. No, like James Bond, he felt like James Bond. A secret agent man who couldn’t take his eyes off her tits. Not big, but not small either. He forced his eyes up to her face. She wasn’t as young as he’d thought and she looked a little road weary, thin and a bit hard, like maybe she did speed. But hell, he was no angel himself.
“Let’s go into the bedroom,” she said as she kicked off loosely tied, black high top tennis shoes. “I mean, if you want.” She pushed down her jeans. She wasn’t wearing panties either.
On the bed she pulled off his shoes and socks. Then his pants. She left the light on and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He lay on his back as she mounted him and watched her pupils dilate as she moaned her pleasure. But his own pleasure was dulled by thoughts of what he was going to do to the Kenyon-Nesbitt woman tomorrow night.
He wished he really was a private investigator, wished he’d never met Striker. But then he thought of the payoff Striker promised as she rocked him to completion.
He moaned himself.
Tomorrow was the last time. He had to do it because he needed the money. Then he’d take Sadie with him somewhere far away, maybe the Caribbean like Striker said. Maybe they’d get a boat, sail the seas. He’d never done that, but how hard could it be?
“What’cha thinking, sweetie?” She was maybe forty-five or so, but every line on her face lit up with her smile.
“You wanna learn how to sail?” he said. Then he fell asleep.
Chapter Seventeen
“Mom!” Jasmine shook Maggie’s shoulder. “There’s a man sleeping on the sofa.”
Maggie opened her eyes. Bright sun streamed in the bedroom window. She squinted at the clock. Eight-fifteen.
“Who is it?” Sonya asked.
“Yeah, who is it?” Jasmine echoed.
“His name’s Gordon. He’s a friend of mine and he’s pretty tired, so please don’t wake him.”
“We’re gonna be late for school,” Jasmine said. She’d spent the night with Sonya. Maggie was supposed to pick her up when she got back from the police station, but she didn’t get home till after midnight, so she decided to let it wait till morning. She hoped Gay didn’t mind.
“Where’s your mother?” Maggie said to Sonya.
“She had to go into the beauty shop. They have to get the books ready for the tax man, ’coz he’s gonna do an audit. My mom hates taxes,” Sonya said.
“Everybody hates taxes, right, Mom?” Jasmine said.
“Yeah, they do. Look, why don’t you guys go out to the kitchen and get yourselves something to eat while I get up.”
“We already ate,” Jasmine said. “Besides, Sonya has to leave right away or she’s gonna miss the school bus, so come on, get up or I’ll be late.”
“How come I have to drive you when there’s a bus?”
“Is this another one of those things you don’t remember?” Jasmine said.
“Yeah, it is.”
“You don’t like me riding the bus.”
“And why’s that?”
“You were in a bus accident when you were a little girl. A bunch of kids were killed. That’s why.”
“Ah,” Maggie said. “You must have thought I was pretty paranoid.”
“What’s that mean?” Jasmine said.
“It means you’re always afraid of stuff that’s not gonna happen,” Sonya said. “My mom used to be like that all the time, but she’s getting better.”
“So, now it’s okay? You know, if I take the bus with Sonya?” Jasmine said.
“I think so.”
“Cool.”
“You’re gonna love it,” Sonya said to Jasmine as they scampered out of the room.
Horace rolled out of bed, padded into the bathroom nude, raised the toilet seat and pissed. Finished, he lowered the seat. Ma was always real sticky about that. Light eased in the bathroom window and made the pink shower curtains glow. Pink bathroom rug too. It was something Horace wasn’t used to, a feminine place.
He stuck his head out the door. Sadie was still asleep. He wonde
red would it be okay to use the shower. He raised an arm, sniffed. Yeah, it’d be okay. He pulled the curtain aside, adjusted the water to warm, got in, used her soap under his arms, between his legs.
“I got some new shampoo.” Sadie stepped into the shower. “Close your eyes.” He did and she poured a healthy amount onto his hair, then massaged his scalp, making lather.
“Feels good,” he said. No one had ever done that for him. He’d showered with women after sex in the past, but always before it had been in a motel and it had been get in the shower, get clean and get out-out of the shower, out of the motel room. Sadie couldn’t leave, this was her home and she wasn’t showing any signs of wanting him to go.
Finished with his hair, she poured some shampoo onto her hand and started up between his legs. This was a definite first and he was hard in a heartbeat. Then she was on her knees and took him in her mouth. He moaned with the pleasure of it. He ran his hands through her hair, fought against release, but after a few minutes he was unable to control it and he let go.
“Ummm,” she gurgled.
Then she was on her feet and into his arms, kissing him. He tasted himself on her lips and it tasted good. He was hard again. She laughed as he pushed into her.
Afterwards, over breakfast of coffee and toast, he asked her if he could borrow her car for the day. “I have to follow someone and they might recognize my van.”
“Not the cop who shot you?”
“That’s the one,” Horace said.
“You’re going to be careful,” she said.
“After last night, you bet.”
They traded keys and Horace took her beat up Toyota to Huntington Beach. He wanted to get the business with the Kenyon-Nesbitt woman over with. He needed the money Striker promised for Ma’s medical bills, that was true, but now he had something else to live for, some kind of life to look forward to.
Maggie pulled off the bedspread, rolled out of bed. She took off the pajamas she’d found in Margo’s bureau and headed toward the bathroom, ignoring her image in the full length mirror on the closet door as she passed. She didn’t need confirmation to know she looked as worn out as she felt. There might be bags under her eyes, but she didn’t have to see them.
After she’d showered and changed into a pair of the Levi’s and a sweatshirt she’d heisted from Nick’s apartment, she went to the living room, where she found Gordon sitting on the sofa, reading the Los Angeles Times. He lowered the paper as she came into the room.
“It’s a new day,” he said. “I’ve made coffee.”
“You look like you’re about to give me the third degree.” She saw a steaming cup on the coffee table. She picked it up, smelled the aroma. It was just what she needed.
“I am. You told me most of it last night, but now I want to hear it again. I want you to take it slow, leave nothing out, no matter how insignificant you think it is.”
She sat in one of the rattan chairs, sipped at the coffee, then started to talk. She told him everything, from when she ran into Nighthyde in the Safeway, to when she faced down the gangbangers last night in the warehouse complex.
“Now you know everything I do,” she said when she’d finished.
“So,” he said, “the Chicano cop Alvarez gets a long sought after transfer to London. The next day Norton’s mother commits suicide in Catalina and he quits the Frankie Fujimori case.” Gordon spoke in a quiet voice. “Two cops taken off the case. It’s almost as if somebody wanted it to fall through the cracks.”
“Maybe you could look at it that way,” Maggie said. “But even with Norton and Alvarez gone, it wouldn’t fall thorough the cracks, as you say. Norton was going to give the case to someone who would follow up on it. A Lt. Wolfe.”
“Wolfe?” Gordon got up, went to the kitchen.
“What?” Maggie said, following.
“I had a late cup of coffee with him the night before last. He’s the cop in charge of solving your murder.” He told her about how he was one of the first on the scene when Margo’s body was discovered and about his conversation with the detective.
The phone was wall mounted, next to the refrigerator. Gordon picked it up. “Wolfe gave me his home number and said to call anytime.” Gordon pushed buttons. “Hello, my name is Gordon Takoda. Can I speak to Lt. Wolfe?” he said into the phone. Then, after a few seconds, “I’m so sorry, I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. Please give him my condolences.” He hung up.
“That was his mother.” Gordon was barely breathing. “Lt. Wolfe and his wife were separated. Marriage problems, that’s what she said.”
“Go on.”
“Last night his two-year-old son somehow climbed out on the balcony at the Oceanview Towers where he was living with his mother. He supposedly climbed the rail and fell seventeen stories to his death. It happened sometime around midnight. The boy’s screams on the way down woke the neighbors. They woke the mother. She took her life before the police arrived. Shot herself.”
“Oh, my God.” She followed him back to the living room, sat in one of the rattan chairs.
“After losing his wife and son, I doubt he’ll be doing much police work.” Gordon sat in the other. Then, “It’s too much coincidence. Someone wants the police off the Fujimori case, somebody with a lot of connections.”
“They’ll just give it to someone else.” Maggie gripped her hands together, squeezed tightly. “That’s what Norton said.”
“What else did he say?” Gordon was looking at her with an intense look she’d never seen before.
“He said it would be given a low priority. As far as they’re concerned, Frankie Fujimori got what was coming to him. Wolfe would’ve tried to sort it out, but no one else will. He was clear about that.”
“It’s incredible,” Gordon said. “Somebody wants a detective taken off a case, so he kills a family member and the cop takes time off. Not once, but twice, if it works with Wolfe.”
“We don’t know for sure that’s what happened.” Maggie didn’t want to believe what she was hearing. “Besides, they couldn’t be sure it would work. And even if Norton or Wolfe took leave, they might come back and pick up where they left off.”
“Maybe, but probably not,” he said. “People get murdered all the time. A homicide detective takes a couple weeks away from his desk and a whole new batch of murders are waiting for him when he gets back.”
“But it’s so uncertain, why not just kill the cops if you want them off the case?” Maggie said.
“Killing cops is a big no no,” Gordon said. “Police get very upset about that. But an old woman commits suicide, who knows why, maybe she was depressed. A kid falls off a balcony, a tragic accident. His mother kills herself, more tragedy. But not crimes, nothing for the police to look into.”
“This is crazy talk,” Maggie said. “You’re making this sound like some kind of conspiracy or something.”
“It sounds like one to me,” he said.
“Come on, listen to yourself. This kind of stuff doesn’t happen!”
“I spent twenty years in the FBI and I’m here to say that it has and it does,” Gordon said.
Maggie didn’t answer.
“I spent a good part of my life wondering who killed Kennedy,” he went on. “I believe in conspiracies.”
“I don’t. I can’t,” she whispered.
“Maggie,” he said, “you were followed from the store, chased on the beach, followed from the police station by the black BMW, your car was run into the bay, this Nighthyde character came at you with a gun and the black BMW came after us again last night. Add all that to the fact Margo was killed and her body dumped behind a bar you’d left only a couple hours before and that ought to tell you the person after you is a little more connected than some crazy who walked into a convenience store and blew away a little shit like Frankie Fujimori.”
He got out of the chair, stood over her.
“And you put all that together with the one cop’s transfer and the bad things that happened
to the families of the other two and you have a serious looking conspiracy.”
“Then we should call the FBI,” Maggie said. “They’d put a stop to this right away.”
“Yes, they would,” Gordon said. “If they believed you.”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
“Who’d go to the FBI, Maggie Nesbitt or Margo Kenyon?” he said.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” He sat back down. “You’d have to come clean. And that means you go back to being Maggie Nesbitt and that little girl goes to live with her father and you said you didn’t want that. And I wouldn’t be surprised if they found some way to implicate you in Margo’s murder.”
“How could they?”
“Lots of motive,” he said. “Margo’s money for example.”
“And I get to keep the baby,” she said.
“What baby?” Gordon said.
Maggie told him. It had been the one part of the story she’d left out.
“I had no idea.” He picked up his cup from the coffee table, took a deep drink. “So, I guess we have to solve this ourselves if you’re going to keep on being Margo.”
“I guess.”
“The first thing we have to do is find somewhere else for you to live in case this guy Nighthyde comes after you again.”
“He’s not going to come,” Maggie said. “I shot him, remember?”
“Let me call Nick and find out about that.” Gordon got out of his chair again.
“No,” Maggie said. “I don’t want to involve him.”
“Okay, I got a friend who’s a cop in Long Beach. I’ll call him.”
She followed him back to the kitchen, back to the phone. She listened while he called the Long Beach Police Department, asked for his friend, then identified himself. He lied, saying he was away last night and when he returned home one of his neighbors had told him there was a shooting. He listened for about a minute, thanked his friend and hung up.
“You did shoot someone,” he told Maggie.
“Of course I did.”
“But you didn’t kill him. The police rolled on a shots fired complaint. When they got to the duplex, the neighbors were up, but nobody knew where the shots had come from. When Nick came home, he saw the blood and called the police. There was no body, so whoever you shot either got up and walked away or somebody carried him.”