Dead Ringer

by Ken Douglas

  He jumped from the table, grabbed the bag of tacos, gulped at the Pepsi on his way to the van. He could be at her place in thirty minutes. He ate as he drove, his mind on fire. He saw himself knocking at her door. She opens it. He pushes her inside, sticks her with the knife, then he’s outta there.

  Then the mind pictures screeched to slow motion. What if the kid was there? Could he do another? What choice did he have? His earlier plan had been to sneak in around midnight, do the woman and get out of the apartment without anyone the wiser. But now, with this tax thing, he didn’t have the luxury of waiting. He wanted to call Striker as soon as possible, get the feds off his back.

  In Huntington Beach, he parked on PCH, got out of the car, walked around the fenced complex to the bike trail that ran along the beach side of the condos. It was dark now.

  A couple of kids, teenagers, a boy and girl, passed him on Rollerblades. He turned and watched as they zoomed along the concrete trail. Young love, he understood that. It’s what he had with Sadie. Somebody pumping a mountain bike was coming fast, whizzed by the blading teens. In an instant it was past. Horace spun around, grabbed onto the fence and scrabbled over it, landing like a cat on the other side.

  He darted a look around. Nobody had seen. He stood and started for her condo, swinging his arms as he walked, as if he had every right in the world to be where he was.

  Her condo was dark. He knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again, louder. Still no joy. He had the picks out and the door open in seconds.

  “Anybody home?” He pulled the Beretta out of the shoulder holster. “Anyone home?”

  Again, no answer.

  He holstered the gun, pulled the knife out of his hip pocket. He pushed the button, flicked it open, closed it, did it again. There was nothing for it but to wait. Sooner or later she’d come home and that would be it. He closed and flicked the blade open again.

  Elvis was playing on the jukebox as Gordon left his tip on the table. He’d had the burger and fries, finished up with apple pie and vanilla ice cream. Seldom did he eat so much, but tonight he was ravenous. His emotions had run the gamut the last couple of days, from the unbelievable low when he thought he’d discovered Maggie dead behind the Whale, to the exaltation that shocked through him when he discovered her at the other end of his gunsight only last night.

  And he’d spent the day as a cop. Something he hadn’t done in years and it wasn’t over. Tomorrow he would face down Larry Striker and make everything okay for Maggie. He’d never felt so alive.

  Outside, he inhaled the night air, looked to the heavens, sighted the Big Dipper, the only constellation he could identify. A slight breeze was blowing as he jogged across PCH at the Main Street light. He waved to the security guard, got a nod and a smile back.

  He walked along the fence, the bike trail and the beach on one side, the walkway through the condos on the other. He ran his fingers through the chain link, like a kid would a picket fence on his way to school just before summer vacation. He felt like a kid, too. And it was a change he liked. Somewhere along the line he’d blinked and gotten old.

  Close to Maggie’s condo now, something moved in the bushes outside the front door. Gordon stopped, hand still on the fence. Often times he sat on his front porch and watched the cat from next door stalk a bird across the street at the beach. The animal could sit forever without moving a hair. He was that cat now as he took silent breaths, waiting, watching.

  It moved again.

  It was an animal. At first he thought maybe it was a cat, he had cats on the brain, but as his eyes got used to the dark he saw that it was a possum. He smiled, started for the door. The possum scurried between the hedge bushes and the wall, ducking out of sight.

  He keyed the lock, entered, laughing at the possum, when something smacked into him. Gordon rolled with the punch as the lights came on.

  “Fuck! Where is she?” The man was wiry, with squinty eyes and he had a gun pointed at Gordon’s belly. There was no doubt it was Horace Nighthyde. He looked like a ferret.

  “What are you doing in my apartment? What do you want?” Gordon reached up, massaged his jaw. It was going to be sore in the morning, if he lived to see the morning.

  “Don’t give me any crap. This isn’t your place and we both know it, so tell me what I want and I’ll be out of your face.”

  “Can I get up?” Gordon pushed himself to his feet without waiting for a reply. His own gun was in Maggie’s bedroom in a bureau drawer, the others out in the trunk of his car. None of them any help now.

  “I said, where is she?” Nighthyde had sweat running down his forehead. His gun hand was shaking.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t play stupid with me. I followed you from that bar in the Shore to that fag place the other night. You went in, I saw.”

  “That’s why you dumped the body there, because you saw us together?”

  “So, tell me where she is and you can live to go there again.” Nighthyde’s dark eyes glowed, the pupils were pin pricks, as if he’d been doing drugs. Was it fear?

  “Come on, Horace. How many people are you going to kill because you fucked up and shot Frankie Fujimori by mistake?” Gordon edged to the right.

  “Don’t move.”

  “I’m just going over to the sofa. You popped me a good one, I’m a little dizzy.”

  “What do you mean, mistake?” Nighthyde motioned toward the sofa with the gun, signaling it was okay for Gordon to go over and sit.

  “Your pal Striker screwed up.” Gordon eased over to the sofa, sat down with a sigh. He continued to rub his jaw as if he were in pain. “Fujimori was a child molester and a killer of little girls, but not the man you were supposed to kill.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “I know another Japanese man, a guy named Ichiro Yamamoto was in that store. I know he used to work for Congressman Nishikawa and that he was selling out Nishikawa to the cops on a diamonds for weapons scam. I know Striker used to work for Nishikawa and that the company he works for now operates with Yakuza money. I know Nishikawa’s thick with the Yakuza and I know he hates the idea of some little punk sending him to jail.” The last two were a guess, but he thought the odds were pretty good they were as true as everything else he’d said.

  “Striker woulda told me if I got the wrong one.”

  “No he wouldn’t, you fucked up and the next day Yamamoto decided to clam up. He told the cops he made up the whole thing and with that, the need for Striker to have him hit went away. So even though you got the wrong guy, Striker couldn’t tell you because he needed you to get rid of the witness.” Gordon was really guessing now, but it all made sense. It couldn’t have happened any other way.

  “Aw fuck.” Horace felt drained. The guy on the couch was too scared to lie. Horace wanted to puke. He’d killed that old lady and the fucking kid for a mistake. For a God dammed mistake.

  “You don’t look so good, Horace.”

  “Shut the fuck up. Fucking faggot, think you know it all.”

  “Gordon,” the fag said.

  “What?” Horace tightened his hand on the gun as he watched the fag holding onto his jaw. He grinned, he still had a mean right cross.

  “Gordon, that’s my name.”

  “I oughta do you and get it over with.” Damn faggot had balls.

  “Do me, as you put it, and Mr. Striker and yourself will wind up being strapped down as they stick in the needle?”

  “The fuck you talking about?”

  “The death penalty, Horace. For you for sure. A cop’s mother, another’s kid. The kid’s the capper, you’ll get the needle, no doubt.”

  “So, if I’m going down, what’s one more body?”

  “Tomorrow I’m gonna meet with Striker. I have a deal that ends it. You walk away, we walk away. As far as the cops are concerned, the world’s better off without Frankie Fujimori. And, as of now, they believe Wolfe’s kid climbed over that balcony and fell, his wife ate her gun and Norton’s mother took he
r own life. Maggie’s twin will just have to go down as unsolved.”

  “Twin?”

  “Don’t act so surprised, you’ve already figured it out. And yes, you got Margo Kenyon. That was another mistake, dumping her body behind the bar. We never would’ve been involved if you hadn’t done that, never would’ve figured it all out. And before you think you can shut me up by pulling that trigger, you’d better wonder whether or not I wrote it all down and left it in an envelope with someone to go public with if anything happens to me or Maggie.”

  “Don’t make sense, nothing in it for you.” Horace tightened his grip on the gun.

  “Margo Kenyon inherited over three million dollars from her father when he died. We get to keep it, me and Maggie.”

  Horace was stunned. They get to keep three million bucks if they keep quiet, but if something happens to either one of them, someone opens an envelope somewhere and tells the world about how fucking stupid he’d been, hitting cops’ kin. Yeah, Striker would leave ’em alone, at least until he found out who had that envelope.

  He saw the payoff for the Twin sinking down a rat hole. No way could he do her now. Striker might even try to renege on the old broad and the kid. It wasn’t fair. Minutes ago he was looking at a fortune, now this clown and the woman were getting it.

  “So, you and Striker got it all worked out?” Horace moved in closer, stood above Gordon, pointed the gun at his head.

  Gordon looked past him, said, “Jasmine, you’re not supposed to be up. Get back to bed.”

  The kid was here? Horace snuck a quick glace over his shoulder.

  And pain blasted through his hand.

  Horace spun his eyes back toward the fag. The fucker was in flight, coming toward him like a killer bird. He tried to bring the Beretta to bear, but it was gone. Bastard had kicked the gun from his hand.

  Then the faggot was on him. Hands circled his neck, claws dug in, cut off his air. Pain thundered from his groin, bastard had kneed him in the balls. No air, can’t breathe. He was falling backward, fucker on top of him.

  Air, need air.

  Horace jabbed a fist into the faggot’s belly, but he didn’t let go. He hit him again and still he held on, thumbs digging into his windpipe. Again, again, again, but each blow was a pale imitation of the one before. Horace had no power behind his fists. He was a two year old trying to stop a train.

  His head pounded into the carpet as he thudded to the floor with the faggot still on top of him, hands still on his neck, still squeezing. Horace was getting dizzy. He was going to die here. Fucking faggot was killing him. He could feel his eyes popping out as he stared into the faggot’s cold glare. There was no mercy in those eyes, the faggot was going to kill him. No doubt.

  Horace struggled a hand into a back pocket, fingers snaked inside, closed around Virgil’s knife. He was going to pass out, but first his thumb hit the button, flicked the knife open.

  No strength for a good thrust, but he gave it his best effort, a swipe at the fucker’s chest.

  The faggot jumped back.

  Horace sucked air, wheezing like a sick dog, he couldn’t get enough.

  All of a sudden, the faggot was on the other side of the room, his yellow Hawaiian shirt covered in blood.

  Horace rolled over, pushed himself to his knees. His balls felt like they were going to explode, but he had to get up before the faggot came at him again. Fuck, the guy was strong. Horace climbed to his feet as the faggot ripped out a shivering scream. Not pain, one of those karate screams.

  The bastard was coming at him again, rage in his eyes. No knife was gonna stop something like that. Horace dropped it, picked up a lamp. The base was a thick glass bowl stuffed full of sand and sea shells. Heavy as cement. He ripped the cord from the wall and smashed it into the charging faggot’s head. Fucker was so blind angry he never saw it coming.

  The faggot went down like he’d been shot and Horace dashed to the door. No telling who heard that scream. He was outside in an instant. He thought about going back for the knife and gun, but a light went on down the way and it made up his mind. He ran.

  Gordon came to with the mother of migraines. Everything was black. Something cold was pressed against his forehead. He tried to get up.

  “No, lay still.” It was Maggie’s voice.

  “I’m okay.” He opened his eyes. Concern was written all over her face. She looked like an angel. He was on the floor, head in her lap. Gay was looking over her shoulder.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Where’s the girls?”

  “Still at the movies. It was a teenage vampire kind of thing, we left in the middle and it’s a good thing we did, you were bleeding all over everything.”

  “I’ll call 911,” Gay said.

  “No,” Gordon said.

  “We have to get you to a doctor. You’ve lost a lot of blood and that cut on your chest is going to need stitches.”

  “Don’t feel it,” Gordon said. But he was beginning to.

  “It’d be quicker if we took him to the hospital,” Gay said.

  “No, call Jonas. He’ll know what to do.”

  “Gordon!” Maggie said.

  “No doctor, no police. Call Jonas. Tell him what happened, he’ll fix it.”

  “I don’t think so, Gordon,” Maggie said.

  “It’s the only way. I’ll be alright.”

  “I’ll take over, so you can make that call.” Gay sat down and Maggie shifted Gordon into her lap. He fought to stay conscious as Maggie went out to the kitchen and the phone. In a few seconds, he heard her talking to Jonas. Heard her explaining how she was still alive and why she’d called. Then he closed his eyes.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I thought you were gonna take the kids to your house.” Maggie pushed her hair out of her eyes. She was in Jonas’ kitchen in his apartment above the Whale. She leaned on the counter by the sink. She was tired.

  “I decided it was a bad idea. It didn’t seem safe, not after what happened tonight.” Gay whispered, so the girls in the other room wouldn’t hear. She’d gone to pick them up right after they’d delivered Gordon to Jonas’. She’d only been back a few seconds, when Maggie whisked her into the kitchen. “How’s your friend?”

  “He’s going to be alright. The doctor’s with him now. It doesn’t look like a concussion.”

  “What about the knife wound?”

  “Fifteen stitches, he’s going to have a scar.”

  “So, what’s the deal, are these guys some kind of crooks or something?”

  “No.” Maggie laughed. “Gordon used to be in the FBI. Jonas, well I don’t know, but I know he’s got a lot of friends and that he doesn’t like cops.”

  “That’s obvious,” Gay said.

  “Yeah, I can see how it looks like something out of a bad movie,” Maggie said. Jonas had a doctor waiting for them when they showed up with Gordon. A young guy she’d seen working the pinball machines downstairs in the Whale. He didn’t make any noises about getting Gordon to a hospital or calling the police.

  “They just put him to bed and started working on him, like it’s something that happens every day,” Gay said.

  “They’re close.” Maggie turned, looked out the window over the sink.

  “Checking to see if anyone’s outside?”

  “That’s the dumpster where he left her, right down there. God, I’ve been so stupid. I feel like this whole thing is my fault.”

  “Nonsense. None of it is,”

  “Especially tonight, I should’ve stayed home.”

  “Then that would be you cut up, or worse, Jasmine. And you guys might not have been so lucky.”

  “She’s right,” Jonas said, coming into the kitchen. “Gordon’s drugged up and mumbling, but he’s a tough old bird, it’ll take more than a scratch across his chest and a bash to the head to do him in. Doc says he’s going to be right as rain, but he’s stuck in bed for a few days.”

  “Thank God.” Maggie favored Jonas with a weak smile. “What
are the girls doing?”

  “Television in the den, music videos,” Jonas said. “They think my place is cool, but they’re distressed that I don’t have any Sugar Frosted Flakes and they’re upset about not having their schoolbooks. What’s the fifth grade coming to, school’s supposed to be fun at that age, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll go and get the books after I get back from the liquor store with the cereal.” Maggie started for the back door. It opened on a landing, the steps went down to the alley behind the Whale.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Gay said.

  “The liquor store’s only a couple blocks away.”

  “You’re not going alone,” Gay said. “And especially not down there.”

  “I’ll be okay, I’ve got my trusty Sigma.” She turned, raised her sweatshirt, so Gay could see the gun tucked between her Levi’s and the small of her back.

  “Where did that come from?” Gay said. “Do you know how to use it?”

  “I stole it.” Maggie wondered if Nick had noticed it gone yet. “And yes I know how to use it.” She went to the back door, opened it.

  “I’m still going,” Gay said.

  “Just be careful,” Jonas said. “Gordon will have my neck if anything happens to you two on my watch.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen,” Gay said.

  “You can help make sure.” Jonas left the room, returned after a few seconds. “Take this.” He was holding out Nighthyde’s gun. “It’s easy to use, just point and pull the trigger.”

  “I know how they work.” Gay took the gun, pulled her blouse out from her jeans and stuffed it between them and her back, like Maggie. “God I feel like we’re Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “Thelma and Louise,” Maggie said.

  “Whatever.”

  At the liquor store on the corner Maggie said. “You go in and get the milk and cereal, I’ve got something I need to find out from information.” Maggie started toward a phone booth in front of the store.