If Looks Could Kill

by Michael Blair

Abdul grabbed my left ear and started to pull. It hurt. A lot. As though someone had laid a red hot poker against the side of my head. The pain brought tears to my eyes. I had no doubt if Ryan said do it, Abdul would do it.

  “All right,” I said through the bright sparkling haze of pain. “But you follow me.”

  Ryan laughed. “You in your jazzy little Porsche and us in a big lumbering limo. Do we look that dumb? Don’t answer that. No, we’ll all go together.”

  “That,” Francine said as she emerged from the house, “will be enough of that.”

  Ryan stared at Francine for a moment, then began to laugh. “I’ll take care of this,” he said to Abdul. He took a step toward her. “This should be fun.”

  Francine dropped into a defensive stance, legs wide, back straight, hands cocked. She looked calm and confident.

  “Very pretty,” Ryan said and mimicked her. Not very well, I thought, but then I’m no judge of these things.

  Ryan tried to grab her rather than hit her, but Francine stepped out of the way and he staggered off balance. She swept his legs out from under him and he fell hard onto the dock.

  Abdul had let go of my ear, transferring his relentless grip to my other arm, and in his excitement was jouncing me up and down, none too gently. I clenched my jaw to prevent my teeth from clacking.

  Ryan got warily to his feet and adopted a boxing stance. He danced toward Francine, jabbing at her face with a fast left. She backed away, but there was very little room to manoeuvre on the docks. Ryan grinned and pressed his attack. He threw a hard right, she parried it, trapped his arm, and threw him over her hip.

  He got up more slowly this time. “Fuck it,” he said, rubbing his left elbow and backing away from Francine. “Abdul, you take care of her, I’ll watch him.”

  Abdul let go of me and advanced on Francine. She held her ground, but her look of confidence wavered. Abdul was at least three times her weight and over a foot taller.

  “Jesus, Francine,” I said as Abdul reached for her.

  I shook Ryan off and kicked the back of Abdul’s right knee. His leg bent but did not buckle. I jumped onto his broad back, but he casually shrugged me off and tossed me aside. I almost fell into the water, saved myself by grabbing onto the gunwale of Maggie Urquhart’s Boston Whaler. Some hero. Francine was on her own.

  Then Harvey came bounding down the dock, jowls flopping and slobber flying, to join the fun, with Maggie chasing after him. With a loud, joyful woof, he launched himself at Abdul. At last, here was someone his size to play with. Planting his huge paws in the middle of Abdul’s chest, Harvey woofed again, spraying dog slobber into Abdul face. But Abdul didn’t want to play. With a snarl, he grabbed Harvey and tossed him off the dock as easily as if he’d been Mr. Oliphant’s Yorkshire. Harvey hit the water with a huge splash and an indignant yawp.

  But while Abdul’s back was to her, Francine kicked him hard in the kidneys with the side of her foot. He grunted and turned ponderously toward her. She stepped back, spun and leapt and kicked. Abdul’s head rotated almost one hundred and eighty degrees on his thick neck. His bulky body followed more slowly. He toppled to the dock and did not move.

  “Aw, Christ,” Ryan said. He looked at Abdul then at Francine. “All right,” he said, raising his hands. “I give up. Jesus, you fucking killed him. It’s going to take a goddamned forklift to get him out of here.” He prodded Abdul with the toe of his shoe. Abdul did not move. “Well, your problem, not mine. See ya.” He headed toward the gate.

  Bobbi and Hilly came out onto the dock. Maggie Urquhart knelt on the edge of the dock, holding Harvey’s collar, trying to pull him out of the water.

  “Is he dead?” Hilly asked, looking at Abdul.

  “No,” Francine said.

  “Where’d you learn that stuff?” I asked her.

  “Working some of the places I have, you learn how to take care of yourself. Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said. And I was having a tough time dealing with her being stronger than me. “What are we going to do with him?”

  “I’ll call the police,” Bobbi said and took Hilly inside.

  Francine and I helped Maggie drag Harvey onto the dock. His dignity was damaged, but he was otherwise unharmed. Abdul moaned and tried to sit up. There was blood on his lips and his jaw was already starting to swell. Harvey and his mistress watched as Francine and I tied Abdul’s hands and feet with rope from Maggie’s Whaler.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said to Francine. “Maybe you should lock yourselves in the house until the police get here.”

  “We’ll be all right,” she replied. “But what about the other guy?”

  “I don’t think I have anything to worry about from him.”

  I was wrong. When I got to the parking lot the limo was still there, nosed up against the boardwalk and blocking a number of parked cars. Ryan was standing by the Porsche.

  “I can’t drive,” he said.

  “Tough,” I said to him. “Take a cab.” I unlocked the Porsche.

  “Listen, I’m sorry about that. But I didn’t know what else to do. Is Abdul dead?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad. He’s not going to be much fun to be around after getting the shit kicked out of him by a girl. It was a girl, wasn’t it? Or do you swing both ways?”

  “You really are an unpleasant son of a bitch, Ryan,” I said. “I hope I’ve seen the last of you.” I started the Porsche.

  “McCall, don’t do this.” He took out a small automatic pistol, held it so that no one could see it but us. If anyone else were looking. Where was Francine when I really needed her? Or Harvey? “I’m a desperate man, McCall. Tell me where she is.”

  “And if I don’t, what are you going to do, shoot me?”

  “If I have to,” he said. He looked as if he meant it. “Don’t be an idiot,” he added. “I’ve never actually killed anyone, but I’m always open to new experiences. No woman’s worth dying for.”

  He was right. About Carla, at least. She wasn’t worth getting killed over. “Get in,” I said.

  As he passed behind the car I thought about slipping the shift lever into reverse, popping the clutch and knocking him down, but before I could make up my mind he was around the car and settling into the passenger seat. A man of action shouldn’t think too much.

  * * * * *

  Twenty minutes later I stopped the Porsche in front of the Bridgepoint Yacht Sales office, set the emergency brake and turned off the engine. I sat, without opening the door, looking straight ahead, hands at ten past ten on the steering wheel.

  “Let’s go,” Ryan said.

  I turned to him.

  “Listen,” I said. “I don’t know what we’re walking into here, but I don’t want you waving a bloody gun around. Someone could get hurt. Me, for example.”

  “No one’s going to get hurt if they do what they’re told. Get out of the car.”

  “Carla doesn’t have the tape,” I said. “I delivered it to MacIlroy.”

  “I don’t care about that,” Ryan said, waggling the gun back and forth, but keeping it pointed at my chest.

  “Don’t give me that ‘I love her’ routine again.” I said. “It’s wearing thin.”

  “So what? C’mon, move it.” He gestured with the gun for me to get out of the car.

  I reached for the keys but he snatched them out of the ignition. We got out of the car. He slipped the gun into his jacket pocket, kept his hand in the pocket. He looked just like a man holding a gun in his pocket.

  The security gate at the top of the ramp leading down to the docks was similar to the one at Sea Village, but it was not locked. Ryan stayed behind me as we walked down the ramp to the main dock. Slip 23 was on the middle of the three finger docks, third from the end on the right. The Moon Spinner was moored bow in, a big, sleek, aerodynamic cruiser, looking more like a spaceship than a boat. We walked along the narrow dock separating the slips and climbed the metal steps onto the after deck. The wide upholstered bench at
the stern looked more comfortable than my sofa.

  “Hello,” I called.

  Ryan said, “I think you’re supposed to ask permission to board.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Frank Poole’s bulky form appeared in the hatchway of the pilothouse. He pointed a gun at us. I recognized it as the same gun Carla had pointed at me on Hastings’ boat. I wondered when I would get used to people pointing guns at me.

  “Shit,” Poole said, waving the gun back and forth between Ryan and me. “Why’d you have to bring him?” He stayed in the hatchway, under the overhang of the flying bridge, out of sight of anyone on the docks or the other boats. His wide face looked flushed and shiny and his rug was mussed.

  “He insisted,” I said. Ryan was standing to my left and slightly behind me. I was uncomfortably aware of the pistol in his jacket pocket, fervently hoped he wouldn’t do anything stupid, like start shooting.

  “Did you bring the money?” Poole asked.

  “What money?” Ryan asked over my shoulder.

  I ignored him and said, “Where’s Carla?”

  “Never mind her,” Poole said. “Where’s the money?”

  “What money?” Ryan asked again.

  Poole said, “The two hundred thousand the lawyer is paying her to get back the video tape of him balling his clients, that money.”

  The pocket of my shirt seemed to suddenly grow warm. I’d never bothered to look in the envelope.

  “That plus the fifty grand he paid me to make sure she doesn’t bother him again,” Poole added, “I’ve got a nice little grubstake to set me up in business in Mexico.” He moved the muzzle of his pistol slightly to my left, pointed it at Ryan, who was still hanging back and standing slightly behind me, keeping me between himself and Poole. And Poole’s gun. “Now you shut the fuck up, all right. McCall, stop wasting my time. Did you bring it or not?”

  “MacIlroy paid you to kill her?” I said.

  “Who said anything about killing her?” Poole said. “That would be an awful waste. No, we’re going to take a little trip to Mexico.”

  “You’re going to turn her over to Alvarez’s friends,” I said.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “She killed him,” I said.

  “Is that right? Then she did everyone a favour, saved them the trouble of doing it themselves. He was using a little too much of the product and becoming unpredictable. No, I’m going to introduce her to some people I know who will find a nice position for her in one of their establishments. Carla’s always wanted to break into show business. Now’s her chance.”

  Did he think I was just going to hand over the money and let him sail away with Carla and sell her into white slavery or whatever he had in mind? Surely not?

  I asked him.

  “That was the plan,” he said.

  “Then you’re as stupid as you look,” Ryan said.

  Poole said, “Hey, pally, who’re you calling stupid? I’m the one with the gun here.”

  “Ryan’s right,” I said. “The only way you’re going to get the money is to turn Carla loose.”

  “Yeah, well, I sorta figured that was the way it was gonna go. I gave it a shot, right? Sure, I’ll trade Carla for the money. It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other. If she wants to go after the lawyer again, it’s fine with me. What’s he gonna do, sue me?”

  “Where is she?” I asked.

  “Where’s the money?”

  I shook my head. “I want to see her,” I said. “I want to make sure she’s all right.”

  Poole shrugged. “Sure, why not?” Over his shoulder, he called, “Bring her up here.”

  Carla stumbled up the companionway into the pilothouse, in the grip of a burly man with a surgical patch covering one eye. Her arms were bound in front of her with duct tape, a couple of turns around each wrist and a couple of longer loops between them, like flexible manacles, so her hands were two or three inches apart. Another strip of tape covered her mouth. She breathed with difficulty, bloody mucous bubbling from her nostrils and dripping onto the front of her T-shirt. Her right eye was swollen almost shut and beginning to blacken. She struggled weakly, but the man maintained a tight grip on her upper arms.

  Where was the other one, I wondered, the one she’d said she’d kicked in the kneecap?

  “Let her go,” I said.

  Poole shook his head. “Not until I get the money. Now where the fuck is it?”

  “She can’t breathe,” I said. “Take the tape off.”

  “Fuck that,” Poole said. “And fuck this, too. I’m tired of talking. Where’s the goddamned money?”

  “McCall,” Ryan said. “Give him the bloody money.”

  “All right,” I said, and I put my hand inside my jacket to undo the flap of my shirt pocket.

  Suddenly, Carla twisted and almost wrenched free of One-Eye’s grip. Poole lashed out and hit her in the face with the side of the pistol. Blood sprang from a gash on her cheek and she thrashed in One-Eye’s grip.

  There was a sound from behind and beside me, a harsh crack remarkably like the sound of a bat striking a baseball. A chunk of hatchway combing splintered next to Poole’s face. Another crack and a red flower of blood blossomed on his left chest. He looked momentarily surprised, then all expression went out of his face and he sagged, as if someone had yanked out his plug.

  Acting on sheer reflex, I spun and lashed out with my right arm, catching Ryan on the cheek with the back of my closed fist. My mind registered the pain in my hand, but I didn’t really feel it. Ryan staggered, eyes unfocused. His gun went off and blew a thumb-sized hole in the deck carpeting, a little too close to my foot. He slumped to his knees, tried to get up, sat down with a thump, eyes refocusing but still stunned. I reached down and took the gun out of his limp hand. The metal was warm. I tossed it over the stern into the water. Too late, I realized I’d just left my fingerprints on a murder weapon.

  The man with the eye-patch darted out of the pilothouse, vaulted over the side onto the dock and ran away.

  Frank Poole lay on his back halfway through the pilothouse hatchway. There was a bloody patch on his chest, over his heart, but he didn’t seem to be bleeding. Dead men don’t bleed, I supposed, and there was no doubt in my mind that he was dead. Poor bastard, I thought, filled with a sadness that surprised me. The gun lay on the deck beside him. Hooking my little finger through the trigger guard like they do on television, I picked it up and tossed it overboard as well. Ryan watched it arc by him and splash into the water.

  An elderly pot-bellied man appeared on the deck of the sailboat in the slip to the right of Moon Spinner. He wore baggy green bathing trunks that reached to his knobbly knees.

  “What’s going on over there?” he demanded.

  “Call the police,” I said to him. “A man’s been shot.”

  He disappeared below.

  “Fuck,” Ryan said. “Where’s Carla?” He tried to get past me into the pilothouse.

  I put my hand on his chest. “Let it go,” I said.

  “Yah?” He pushed against me.

  I held my ground. “Yes.”

  He continued to press for a few heartbeats, but he did not raise his hands. Then he backed off, head down, shoulders slumped, deflated.

  “Well, hell,” he said. He took a breath, raised his head and squared his shoulders, re-inflating himself. I readied myself, knowing that if this bull of a man wanted to get past me, he would, but he just said, “See you around, McCall.”

  “I hope not,” I said to his back.

  I watched Ryan’s retreat for a moment, until I was certain he wasn’t going to change his mind and come back, then, stepping carefully past Poole’s body, I went into the pilothouse. There was blood on the deck and on the steps of the companionway leading down to the main salon. I went down the steps. The saloon was almost as big as my living room, a third of the below decks area at least, and better furnished.

  “Tommy,” Carla said from behind me.

  I turned
. She was sitting at the breakfast nook in the galley, leaning on her elbows, right hand clamped over her eye, left hand clenched into a fist. Blood streaked her face, dripping onto her white T-shirt and the table top. Her hands were still taped together, but she’d removed the piece of tape that had covered her mouth.

  “Fucking Vince,” she said. Her voice was strained and flat. “He tried to kill me.” Had he? I wondered. “Where is he?” she asked.

  “He’s gone,” I said. “Are you hurt?”

  “Something is sticking in my eye. I think it’s a piece of the hatchway combing. It hurts like hell, Tommy, like there’s a red hot needle through my eyeball.” Tears ran from her swollen left eye, diluting the blood on her cheek.

  “The police are on the way. An ambulance too, probably.”

  I found a pair of scissors in the galley and removed the tape from her hands. I did it as gently as I could, but she winced and went rigid as I peeled the cuff of tape from her right wrist.

  “Did you bring the money, Tommy?”

  I took the envelope containing the cashier’s cheque out of my shirt pocket, held it out to her. She took the envelope in her left hand and jammed it into her jeans pocket. “What are you going to tell the cops, Tommy?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, Carla. I haven’t thought about it. Maybe I’ll tell them the truth.”

  “Listen, Tommy, you don’t have to tell them everything, do you? It’ll just complicate things.”

  “I’ll tell you what, Carla,” I said. “I won’t mention MacIlroy or the money. Ryan and I came here to get you away from an abusive ex-boyfriend. Ryan freaked and things just got out of hand. You’re a victim. The police will have no reason to take you into custody so you won’t have to explain the cheque.”

  “Thanks, Tommy,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”

  “But there’s something you have to do for me in return,” I said.

  She looked at me with her undamaged eye. “Ah, there’s always a catch, isn’t there? All right, what?”

  “Go home. Finish your business degree. Take singing lessons. Teach sailing. Open a coffee bar. Anything but what you’ve been doing. Before you end up dead.”