Whistler's Angel

by John R. Maxim

He thought he might stall them for another twenty minutes by pretending that the car wouldn’t start. But Crow, it turned out, knew how to steal cars. Crow saw that he was crossing the wrong wires.

  This left more than an hour before Aubrey said he’d show.

  Kaplan had no wish to be driving around in a stolen car for that long. By now, the green Pontiac should have been off the island and the wacko should have been in the trunk. But the Pontiac’s owner, some checker at Bi-Lo, was probably on an 8 to 4 shift and probably wouldn’t miss it until the shift ended. There was good news and bad news on that subject.

  The good news was that if the theft was reported, they’d hear that right away on Crow’s scanner. The bad news was that the cops wouldn’t treat it as a routine report of a stolen car. They would have to assume that the booster was Crow and they’d instantly have their eyes open. And if they spotted this car, what was it they’d see? They’d see two men in front and some clown in the back, sitting up, big as life, not even hunkered down, holding his golf bag between his knees with those stupid head covers on his woods.

  Lockwood said, “First stop is that boat Whistler lives on.”

  “I thought you said the hospital’s first.”

  “New plan. Me and Crow want to check out the boat.”

  “What for?”

  “Just drive. We’ll decide when we get there.”

  “Vern…we’ve been through this. These were not your instructions.”

  “You want to argue? Get out of the car. You can walk back and stay in that house.”

  “Vern…this car had a purpose, remember? It isn’t for riding around in.”

  “We got time.”

  “Also, this car doesn’t have tinted windows. Don’t you see how fucking weird we’re going to look?”

  “Weird, how?”

  “Well, there’s me in what your friend here calls ‘gaudy attire.’ There’s you in your Fed suit which also stands out in a place where the only black suits are in coffins. And your friend’s dressed in golf clothes a Polack wouldn’t wear. This is not your everyday car pool.”

  From the back, Crow asked Lockwood, “Is this man your subordinate?”

  “Yeah, he is and he’s going to shut up now.”

  Kaplan did. He kept driving. He reached Sea Pines Circle. The wacko said, “Wait. I know where we are. That restaurant. Let’s drive by that restaurant.”

  “We already checked it,” said Kaplan.

  “The owner and the barmaid. They were part of this, you say?” He had asked this question of Lockwood.

  “Yeah, they’re all in this with him. They were out on his boat. You did good when you messed up their restaurant.”

  “Let me see it.”

  “Vern…?”

  “Our friend here wants to see it; let him see it.”

  Kaplan groaned within himself. He should have shot them at the house.

  Lockwood must have told Crow about Whistler’s breakfast meeting while he was on the phone with Mr. Aubrey. Kaplan entered the circle, made a three-quarter turn, and came out within sight of the restaurant.

  “There it is. You happy?”

  “Get closer,” said Crow.

  “Nooo…I don’t think so.” He tapped Lockwood’s arm. “Take a look. It’s crawling with Feds.”

  He’d spotted two men in suits and two more in blue jackets with big FBI letters in yellow on the back. The two in blue jackets were taking pictures of the tire tracks that Crow left when he drove through the pedestrians. The two suits were near the bar that was set up outside. They were talking to the owners, this time both of them together, and Leslie, the barmaid was standing nearby. She had changed her clothing since they’d driven by earlier. She’d put on dark slacks and a burgundy blouse and she’d run a brush through her hair. She seemed too well dressed to be tending bar, especially for a lunch crowd outdoors.

  “Yeah, I see them,” said Lockwood. “Keep going.”

  “Too late. The girl spotted us. No, wait. Maybe not.”

  Leslie’s face had turned toward them, but she wasn’t looking at them. She was looking at a car that was directly behind them. Kaplan glanced at his mirror and he muttered, “Oh, shit.” The car right behind them was a cop car.

  But its occupant, it turned out, wasn’t watching them either. As Kaplan kept going, the cop car turned in. It pulled into a space and a deputy got out. Leslie was already walking toward him.

  Kaplan said, “See that cop. He’s that sergeant, name of Moore. He’s the deputy who was with them on the boat.”

  “They’re in everything, aren’t they?” said Crow.

  “Come again?”

  “The mud people. They’re everywhere. They’re in everything these days.”

  Kaplan asked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The blacks. But no matter. They are all going to hell. As are all of the Hebrews, Mr. Kaplan.”

  Kaplan grimaced. “Hey, dick-head, do me a favor. Take your golf bag and lay it down on the floor. You look like you’re doing a puppet show back there with your dumb smiley face and your tiger.”

  Crow hissed, “You’re not wise to provoke me, Mr. Kaplan.”

  Lockwood slapped at Kaplan’s arm. “You heard my friend. Cut the crap and just drive. Make a turn up ahead and let’s go look at the boat.”

  “Make a turn where? There’s no other road. We have to go back the way we came.”

  “Then pull in someplace and we’ll wait a few minutes ‘til the barmaid goes back to the bar. That make you happy?”

  Thank God, thought Kaplan. Another few minutes killed. “That does make me feel better. Thank you, Vernon.”

  Lockwood used the time to further mess with Crow’s head. “The cop’s there,” Lockwood told him, “to back up Whistler’s story. Him, the barmaid…and now it looks like both the owners…are still covering for Whistler and the girl.”

  Crow nodded. “Yes, you’ve said that. But why?”

  “Because like I told Arnold, they all knew each other. They’re in some kind of cult that worships Satan.”

  “Vern…”

  “The bartender…name’s Leslie…she’s a priestess with this cult. When they have their black masses, she does all the chants. See the outfit she’s wearing? Red and black. That’s what they wear. It was her who first spotted your partner coming in. She’s the one who gave the knife to the other one, Claudia, so that Claudia could throw it at Leonard.”

  “Hey, Vern…”

  “Arnold saw the whole thing. You can ask him.”

  “Vernon…” Arnold Kaplan’s expression was pained. “Where the hell are you going with this?”

  Lockwood ignored him. He had turned to face Crow. “And you know something else? They were laughing about it. Out on the boat they were doing imitations of how Leonard was twitching and shaking. They thought that was very hilarious.”

  “Fucking Vern!!”

  “Arnold watched from the dock. He had binoculars. Right, Arnold?”

  Kaplan started to protest, but instead he said, “Shit.” He said, “Keep your heads down. Don’t look.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The barmaid, damn it, is now watching us. She’s pointing us out to the cop, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Okay, go. Not fast. Just keep going.”

  Leslie wasn’t sure of what she’d just seen. That Pontiac was one of hundreds of cars that had cruised by the scene of the shooting that morning. Passengers gawking. A few slowing to take snapshots.

  This car was older, more beat up than most. But the thing that had caught her eye, she supposed, was the odd mix of passengers inside. In the back, a golfer sat holding his clubs. Clubs are normally carried in the trunk. And the two men in front weren’t dressed to play golf. The one in the passenger seat wore a suit. He was dressed like these FBI agents. And the driver, a man who seemed upset about something, was dressed like a…wait.

  Wait, she knew him.

  She was sure of it now. She had recognized
the driver. Straw hat, tinted glasses and that hideous striped jacket. She did not know his name or anything about him except that she’d seen him at the bar several times. And the car he drove then was a red Cadillac. She had seen it when he pulled up and parked it.

  And that man, she now remembered, had been there last night. He’d come in a few minutes after Adam and Claudia and had sat at the opposite end of the bar. He would have to have had a clear view of the shooting, but if so, he didn’t stay to be interviewed.

  She’d said, “Ed, see that car? The green one? Three men?”

  “The Pontiac? What about it?”

  “Well, the man at the wheel…Oh, it’s nothing. Never mind.”

  The green Pontiac had passed them. It was moving away. The FBI, she’d decided, didn’t need another witness. And if this one, indeed, had seen everything that happened, he would only make things difficult for Claudia.

  She said, “Ed, those agents are finished with me. I’m going to drive down to the hospital.”

  “That’s why you changed? You look very nice.”

  “Well, I couldn’t go in shorts and a sweatshirt.”

  “What about Phil? Didn’t he want to go?”

  “He still does, so does Jump, but they can’t until later. Their insurance adjuster’s coming over. I thought I’d stop on the way and see if Claudia wants to come. She told me that she’d like to see him.”

  “Mrs. Ragland would like that, but you’ll need advance clearance. I can call her from my unit if you wish.”

  She answered, “Sure, thanks. That will save me some time. Tell her I should be there in about thirty minutes. Tell Phil I should be back here by two.”

  THIRTY

  Olivia Ragland wanted to know what Whistler had been up to these past sixteen years. She said, “Last I heard, you went into the service.” He told her that was pretty much it.

  “So you’ve gone your own way? A more normal existence?”

  It has been. For the past year, at least.”

  “And your father is well? Is he still in Geneva?”

  Whistler answered yes to both questions.

  “He’s someone who knows what it’s like to be shot. Did it have any lasting effect?”

  Whistler squinted. “My father? When was he ever shot?”

  “You’re saying he wasn’t?”

  “I think I’d have known.”

  She shrugged and said, “Then I must have heard wrong. Who knows how these stories get started? This one said that he’d been laid up for months, that he very nearly was paralyzed, I think. Some fragments had lodged against his spine.”

  “He’s…had some back problems. Maybe that’s how it got started. When was this supposed to have happened?”

  “I guess…let me think…well, it doesn’t really matter. You’re saying it was only a rumor.”

  “But when was it?”

  “Oh, a long while ago. Let’s see. First your mother.” Olivia was counting in her head and on her fingers. “Then you lost your sister about a year later. This would have been a few months after that. I remember thinking how bad luck comes in threes.”

  “Did the rumor mill tell you who shot him and why?”

  “Adam, did it happen or not?”

  “Just tell me.”

  “It was someone involved in the death of your sister. Or rather, it was someone who paid someone else. The story is that your father meted out his own justice to several of the men who were responsible. The story is also that he missed one or two and that oversight came back to haunt him.”

  That studio executive? And the son that survived? This would have happened, if indeed it did happen, soon after his father packed him off to the army. Ridiculous, thought Whistler. He would have known. His father’s back problems had nothing to do with that sad episode in Los Angeles.

  He saw that Claudia had stepped from the room. He said, “Olivia, I’m pleased to have met you again. And my father’s just fine, by the way.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Claudia approached them with a soft little smile. Whistler noticed that she seemed to have regained her figure. She said to Olivia, “Your husband is awake. I think he’s beginning to feel better.”

  Olivia blinked. She asked, “How much better?” She glanced down toward his door as if she expected her husband to come prancing through it, all healed.

  Whistler said, “Olivia…steady.”

  “He’s not hurting,” said Claudia. “He could raise his arm a little.”

  Whistler said, “That’s the morphine. Great stuff.”

  Olivia asked, “Did he remember you, Claudia? Last night he wasn’t quite sure that you’re real.”

  “He still wasn’t, at first.”

  “The morphine,” said Whistler.

  “But he is now,” said Claudia. “He wanted to touch me. We held hands and that seemed to make him feel better. Now he’s asking for you, Mrs. Ragland.”

  Whistler asked, “Where’s your vest? Did you leave it with him?”

  Olivia had noticed. “Yes, she did. I’ll go get it.”

  “Let him keep it,” said Claudia. “I don’t really need it.”

  “She means,” said Whistler quickly, “that we’re leaving the island.”

  Olivia curled her lip. She said, “Adam, relax. I know that she does not think she’s bulletproof.”

  I wish I knew that, thought Whistler. He said, “We’d better go.”

  Olivia touched him. “Can’t you stay for a while? Give me a minute to look in on Philip. You can’t just walk out of our lives after this.”

  “I’ll call you when this settles down.”

  “You promise?” She reached into her purse for a card.

  He took the card from her. “I promise.”

  “It won’t be another sixteen years, will it, Adam?”

  This last startled Claudia. “You…two knew each other?”

  Olivia nodded. “From a long time ago. He’d forgotten.”

  Whistler said, “I’ll tell you all about it in the car. Right now, let’s go get the boat ready.”

  Kaplan had pulled off Palmetto Bay Road to listen to the traffic on the scanner. He’d feared that the barmaid’s cop friend had got curious and called in a license plate check. But he heard nothing on the scanner. Nor had the cop thought to follow them. Kaplan would have seen him go by.

  He pulled out again and proceeded toward the bridge. He told Crow, “From the bridge you can see Whistler’s boat. Can’t miss it. It’s the biggest one down there.”

  But Lockwood said, “No. We need to see it up close.”

  “Close how? You mean you want to drive down there?”

  “Yeah, we do.”

  Kaplan explained what “driving down there” entailed. There was only one road into Palmetto Bay. There was no other way in or out. Once there, they’d have to park and walk down a long ramp before finally reaching the boat slips. There’s no cover. It’s all open. They would stand out too much. The Goodyear Blimp would have an easier time getting down there without being noticed.

  “By Whistler, you mean?”

  “By anyone, Vernon. None of us look especially yacht-ish.”

  “Let’s just worry about Whistler. He might not be there. We’ll check out the lot for his car.”

  You want a car, thought Kaplan? So okay, we’ll find a car. He turned down the road, drove to Palmetto Bay and into its complex of restaurants and shops. The parking area was half-filled with cars. Kaplan spotted a brown Toyota sedan. “There it is. He’s back. So let’s go.”

  “Arnold…cut the crap. Whistler’s driving a Ford. Check out the rest of the lot.”

  Kaplan cursed beneath his breath. He had hoped that Lockwood hadn’t noticed the make when Whistler’s had car passed them on the bridge. He cruised up and down the several rows of parked cars. Whistler’s car was not among them. Whistler hadn’t returned.

  “Okay,” said Lockwood, “pull up near the ramp. Me and Mr. Crow will get out and go take a look. You s
tay with the car and keep watch.”

  “You’re serious, right? You and Crow, dressed like that. In broad daylight, you’re going to take a stroll down the dock.”

  Lockwood paused to unwrap another cigar. That done, he reached into his overnight bag and extracted his Glock and the silencer. He screwed the silencer into its tap and placed the gun back in his bag. He said, “Mr. Crow, I think Arnold has a point. Strip down to your golf shirt and shorts, okay? All the other golf shit can stay here.”

  “I’ll need my golf bag.”

  “You don’t need the whole bag; just give me the thing. I’ll carry it down there myself.”

  Kaplan watched in dismay as Crow unzipped his golf bag and withdrew what was clearly a bomb. It was ten inches long, three inches across, made of PVC pipe wrapped in duct tape. At one end was a clump of electronic devices bound together in a haphazard fashion. There was a timer, two batteries and what he knew to be a fuse except this one looked more like a toy.

  Kaplan blinked. Oh, Christ. That’s exactly what it was. The fuse was the kind that Hobby Shops sell as part of a rocket-building kit. It was the kind that teenagers tell each other about when they talk about blowing up their high schools. Except they probably know better than to use plastic pipe. You might just as well pack it in cardboard. Unless…

  Kaplan said, “Wait a second. Is that fucking thing live?” Unless what’s

  packed in it is thermite.

  “Not yet,” Crow answered. “One must first set the timer.”

  “And you’re going to do what? You’re going to plant that on the boat?”

  Lockwood slipped it into his overnight bag, taking care not to cover his gun and his cell phones. He said, “It’s insurance. It’s for later.”

  Kaplan threw the gearshift into park and scrambled out of the car. Lockwood ordered him back. He said, “Get in here. Drive us closer.”

  “Screw you. You want to do this? From here you can walk.”

  “You hear me? I told you to get back in the car.”

  “Vern…kiss my ass. I’ll see you later.”

  Lockwood, for once, didn’t bother to fight him. Kaplan watched, arms folded, from behind a parked pick-up as Lockwood and the wacko climbed out. Leaving the golf bag was a modest improvement, but still, there they were, the suit and the golfer where everyone else was dressed in deck shoes and grubs. Lockwood, however, had the sense to tell Crow to walk at least twenty feet behind him. This was after he realized that the golf shoes still clacked.