L is for LAWLESS

by Sue Grafton

  The Pelissaro plot was located in a cul-de-sac. We parked and got out. Gilbert tossed his Stetson in the backseat, and the five of us moved toward the gravesite in ragtag fashion. I held the photograph at eye level, marveling at the scene that was laid out before us exactly as it looked forty years before. The Pelissaro monument, a white marble obelisk, towered over the surrounding graves. Most of the trees in the photograph were still standing, many having grown much larger with the passage of time. As in the picture, the branches were once again barren of leaves, but this time there was no snow and the grass had gone dormant, a patchy brown mixed with dull green. I spotted the same cluster of headstones enclosed with iron fencing, the section of stone wall to the right of us.

  Gilbert was already impatient. “What do we do now?” he asked Ray.

  Ray and I exchanged a brief look. So far, Gilbert had honored his end of the bargain. He’d showed up with Laura, who was not only alive and well, but looked as if she hadn’t been battered the night before. Ray and I stood there, stalling, knowing we really didn’t have a way to hold up our end. We’d tried to indicate the limits to our understanding, but Gilbert didn’t have any tolerance for ambiguity. Helen waited patiently, bundled up in her coat, attentive to a large monument she probably mistook for one of us.

  Gilbert said, “I’m not going to dig up any monuments. Especially this one. Probably weighs a couple tons.”

  “Gimme a minute,” Ray said. He surveyed the scene in front of us, his gaze taking in headstones, landscape features, valleys, trees, the ring of hills beyond. I knew what he was doing because I was doing the same thing, searching for the next move in the peculiar board game we were playing. I’d half expected a water tower looming in the distance, some pivotal word painted on its circumference. I’d hoped to see an old gardener’s shed or a signpost, anything to indicate where to go from here. The Pelissaro gravesite had to be important, or why bother to send the photograph? The keys might or might not be relevant, but the monument foreshadowed something, if we could just figure out what.

  I could see Ray doing a spot check of names on every marker within range. None of them seemed significant. I did a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn, scanning the cul-de-sac behind us, which was ringed by mausoleums. “I got it,” I said. I put a hand on Ray’s arm and pointed.

  There were five mausoleums in the circle, gray limestone structures sunk into the rising hill that fanned up and around the cul-de-sac like an upturned shirt collar. Each of the five facades was different. One resembled a miniature cathedral, another a scaled-down version of the Parthenon. Two looked like small bank buildings complete with colonnades and shallow steps leading up to once impressive entrances now sealed shut with blank concrete. On each, the family name was carved above the door in stone. REXROTH. BARTON. HARTFORD. WILLIAMSON. It was the fifth mausoleum that caught my attention. The name above the door was LAWLESS.

  Ray snapped his fingers rapidly. “Gimme the keys,” he said to Gilbert, who obliged without argument.

  We scrambled down to the road, all of us intent on the sight of the mausoleum. The entrance was protected by an iron gate, with a keyhole visible even from a distance. Through the bars of the gate, a chain had been added, circling the main lock and secured with a padlock. I glanced down at the piece of paper that showed, in detail, the layout of burial plots in the area. The Lawless mausoleum was located in section M, lot 550. The message from Johnny Lee had been sent and received. I couldn’t believe we’d done it, but we’d actually managed to interpret his missive.

  Ray moved to the car, which we’d parked in the circle just across from the mausoleum. He opened the trunk and took out a tire iron. “Grab a tool,” he said. Again, Gilbert obeyed without a murmur, arming himself with a shovel. Laura grabbed a hammer and a pickax Ray had found and tossed in the back at the last minute. The five of us crossed the pavement, Helen bringing up the rear with her bat tapping the pavement. We moved up the steps in an irregular grouping and peered through the iron bars of the gate. Inside, there was a paved foyer, maybe ten feet wide and five feet deep. On the back wall, there were spaces for sixteen vaults into which individual caskets could be placed, the vaults themselves arranged four rows high and four rows wide.

  We stood back and watched as Ray inserted the small key in the Master padlock, which popped loose at a turn. The chain, once freed, clattered to the pavement. The big iron key turned in the gate lock with effort. The gate shrieked as it swung open, the shrill scraping sound of metal on metal. We went in. Of the sixteen burial slots, all seemed to be filled. Twelve bore engraved stones indicating the name of the deceased, birth and death dates, and sometimes a line of poetry. All of the birth and death dates ranged in years before the turn of the century. The four remaining slots were cemented over with plain concrete and bore no data at all.

  Ray seemed reluctant to act at first. This was, after all, a family burial place. “I guess we better get a move on,” he said. Tentatively, he went after the uppermost square of concrete with the tire iron. After the first blow, he began to hack in earnest at the blank face, working with concentration. Gilbert took one of the shovels and used the blade in much the same way, laboring beside Ray. The noise seemed remarkably loud to me, echoing around in the confines of the mausoleum. I’m not sure anyone outside the structure could have heard much. It certainly wouldn’t be easy to pinpoint the source of all the pounding. The concrete was apparently only the barest of shells because the facing began to crack, yielding to sheer force. Once Ray had succeeded in breaking through, Gilbert chipped away at the crumbling material and widened the opening.

  Meanwhile, Laura was on her knees, whacking with equal vigor at the concrete facing on the bottom vault with the pickax. Dust flew up, filling the air with a pale gritty cloud of small particles. There was something disturbing about the diligence with which they worked. All their conflicts and past quarrels had been set aside with the acceleration of the hunt. Discovery was imminent and greed had displaced their contentiousness.

  Helen and I moved back against the wall, getting out of their way. Through the barred gate, looking toward the hillside, I could see the wind pushing at the tree branches. I craned my neck, looking up with uneasiness. The sky had clouded over completely, dark forms massing above us. The weather here was changeable, where in California it seemed fixed and monotonous. I couldn’t imagine where this situation was heading, and I was torn between dread and some dim hope that in the end everything would turn out all right. Ray and Gilbert would split the money, shake hands, and go about their business, freeing me to go about mine. Laura would leave Gilbert. Maybe she’d spend some time with her father and her grandmother before the three parted company. Ray would probably remain with his mother while she had her eye surgery, unless he was caught and sent back to prison first.

  I checked my watch. It was only 10:15 in the morning. If I managed to catch an early afternoon flight, I might get home in time for dinner. I’d missed most of the prewedding festivities. Tomorrow night, Wednesday, the night before the wedding, William and “the boys” had elected to go bowling, while Nell, Klotilde, and I would probably have supper up at Rosie’s. She swore there was no need for a rehearsal dinner. “So what’s to rehearse? We’re going to stand side by side and repeat what the judge tells us.” Nell hadn’t had a chance to do the final adjustments on my bridesmaid’s muumuu, but how much fitting could it need?

  The pounding in the mausoleum took on a repetitious rhythm. I could hear a groundsman using a leaf blower somewhere in the distance. No cars passed along the road that rimmed us. The next thing I knew, Ray, Gilbert, and Laura were dragging canvas bags out of the building and down the steps. Helen and I followed, standing by while Ray upended one of the sacks and toppled the contents out onto the asphalt. Ray was saying, “The guy’s a genius. Who the hell would have thought of this? I wish he were here. I wish he could have seen this. Look at that. Jesus, is that beautiful?”

  What had tumbled onto the pavement was a hod
gepodge of U.S. and foreign currency, jewelry, silver flatware and hollowware, stock certificates, coin silver, Confederate notes, bearer bonds, unidentified legal documents, coins, proof sets, stamps, and gold and silver dollars. The hillock of valuables was nearly as high as my knee, and six other canvas sacks were as crammed full as this had been. Even Helen, with her poor eyes, seemed to sense the enormity of the find. A rain spot appeared on the pavement nearby, followed by a second and a third, at wide intervals. Ray looked up with surprise, holding a hand out. “Let’s get going,” he said.

  Laura refilled the one sack while Ray and Gilbert dragged the others to the trunk of the car and hoisted them in. When the last sack had been added, Ray slammed the trunk down. We were all in the process of getting into the car when I caught sight of Gilbert. For a moment, I thought he was pausing to tuck his shirt in, but I realized what he was reaching for was the gun. Ray saw my face and glanced back at Gilbert, who stood now, feet planted, the Colt in his hand. Laura gripped Helen’s arm, the two of them immobilized. I saw Laura lean down and murmur something to her grandmother, warning her what was happening since the old woman couldn’t see that well.

  Gilbert was watching Ray with amusement, as if the rest of us weren’t present. “I hate to tell you this, Ray babe, but your pal Johnny was a stone killer.”

  Ray stared at him. “Really.”

  “He put out a contract on Darrell McDermid and had him offed.”

  Ray seemed to frown. “I thought Darrell died in an accident.”

  “It wasn’t an accident. The kid was smoked. Johnny paid a guy big money to make sure Darrell went down.”

  “Why? Because he ratted us out to the cops?”

  “That’s what Johnny said.”

  “So who did him?”

  “Me. Kid was all tore up about his brother anyway, so I put him out of his misery.”

  Ray thought about it briefly and then shrugged. “So? I can live with that. Served him right. The fuck deserved what he got.”

  “Yeah, except Darrell wasn’t guilty. Darrell never did a thing. Someone told Johnny a big fat fib,” Gilbert said with mock regret. “It was me told the cops. I can’t believe you guys never figured that out.”

  “You were the snitch?”

  “I’m afraid so,” he said. “I mean, let’s face it. I’m a rat-fuck. I’m worthless. It’s like that old joke about the guy saves a snake and then gets bit to death. He’s all, ‘Hey, why’d you do that when I saved your life?’ And the snake goes, ‘Listen, buddy, you knew I was a viper the first time you picked me up.’”

  “Gilbert, I gotta tell you. I never mistook you for a nice guy. Not once.” Casually Ray reached back, and when his hand came into view again, he was holding a Smith & Wesson .38 Special.

  Gilbert laughed. “Fuck. A shoot-out. This should be fun.”

  “More for me than for you,” Ray said. His eyes glittered with malice, but Gilbert only seemed amused, as if he didn’t consider Ray a threat he had to take seriously.

  “Daddy, don’t,” Laura said.

  I said, “Come on, guys. You don’t have to do this. There’s plenty of money….”

  “This isn’t about the money,” Ray said. He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking straight at Gilbert, the two of them standing no more than ten feet apart. “This is about a guy abusing my daughter, beating up my ex-wife. This is about Darrell and Farley, you asshole. Do we understand one another?”

  “Absolutely,” Gilbert said.

  I felt myself backing up a step, so intent on the two men, I didn’t see what Helen was doing. She brought up the baseball bat, flailing wildly in Gilbert’s general direction, bashing Ray’s arm on the back swing. She missed Gilbert altogether and nearly whacked me in the mouth. I could feel the wind against my lips as the bat whistled past. She hit the car on her follow-through, and the impact knocked the bat right out of her hand.

  “Jesus, Ma! Get out of here. Get her outta here!”

  Laura screamed and ducked. I hit the ground, looking up in time to see Gilbert take aim and fire at her. There was a click. He looked down at the Colt in astonishment. He recocked and pulled the trigger; the hammer clicked again. He pulled the slide back, ejecting a round, then let it slam forward again, popping another round into the chamber. He swung the gun around and aimed at Ray. He pulled the trigger. Click. He recocked and pulled the trigger again. Click. “What the fuck?” he said.

  Ray smiled. “Well, shame on me. I forgot to mention I shortened the firing pin.”

  Ray fired and Gilbert went down with an odd sound, as if the wind had been knocked out of him. Ray moved forward easily until he was standing directly over Gilbert. He fired again.

  Spellbound, I stared as he fired again.

  Ray turned and looked in my direction. He said, “Don’t do that.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a blur of motion and then I heard the crack of the baseball bat coming down on my head. In the split second before the dark descended, I flashed on Helen with regret. Her erratic batting practice had come to an abrupt halt and she’d popped me a good one. The only problem was I could see her and her hands were empty. Laura was the one up at bat and I was gone, gone, gone.

  I spent the night in a semiprivate room at a hospital called Baptist Hast with the worst headache I believe I’ve ever had in my life. Because of the concussion, the doctor wouldn’t give me any pain medication and my vital signs were checked every thirty minutes or so. Since I wasn’t permitted to sleep, I spent a tedious couple of hours being interrogated by two detectives from the Oldham County Sheriff’s Department. The guys were nice enough, but they were naturally skeptical of the story I told. Even mildly concussed, I was lying through my teeth, cleaning up my culpability in events as I sketched them out. Finally, a call was placed to the Courier-Journal and some poorly paid reporter checked through the back files to find an account of the bank robbery, including names of all the suspects and a lot of colorful speculation about the missing money. As it turned out, of course, the money was still missing, as were Ray Rawson, his aged mother, and his daughter, Laura, whose common-law husband was laid out in the morgue, his body perforated with bullet holes.

  I maintained stoutly that I’d been forced along at gunpoint, clobbered and abandoned when my usefulness ran out. Who was there to contradict me? It helped that when a call was placed to Lieutenant Dolan back in Santa Teresa, he spoke up in my behalf and defended my somewhat sullied honor. The investigating officer laboriously handprinted my account of events, and I agreed to be available for testimony when (and if) Ray Rawson and his merry band were arrested and tried. I don’t think the chances are all that good myself. For one thing, Ray has all that money in his possession, along with the forty years’ worth of contacts and criminal cunning he picked up while he was in prison. I’m relatively certain he’s managed to acquire three sets of false identification, including passports, and first-class tickets to parts unknown.

  Wednesday morning, when I was released, a nurse just getting off duty offered me a ride as far as the Portland neighborhood where Helen Rawson lived. I got out at the corner and walked the remaining half block. The house was dark. The back door was standing open and I could see where miscellaneous items of clothing had been dropped in the haste of their departure. I went into the bedroom and turned on the table lamp. All the old lady’s pills were gone, a sure sign she’d decamped with her son and granddaughter. I took the liberty of using her telephone, not even bothering to charge the call to my credit card. I had a dreadful time getting through to anyone. I tried Henry and got his machine again. Was the guy never home? I tried Rosie’s and got no answer. I called my friend Vera, who must have gone off with her doctor-husband for the long Thanksgiving weekend. I called my old friend Jonah Robb. No answer. I even tried Darcy Pascoe, the receptionist at the company where I once worked. I was out of luck and beginning to panic, trying to figure out who in the world could help me out in a pinch. Finally, in desperation, I called the only person I cou
ld think of. The line rang four times before she picked up. I said, “Hello, Tasha? This is your cousin Kinsey. Remember you said to call if I ever needed anything?”

  Epilogue

  *

  The wedding took place late Thanksgiving Day. Rosie’s restaurant had been transformed by flowers, by candles, by room deodorants. Rosie in her white muumuu, a crown of baby’s breath in her hair, and William in his tuxedo, stood before Judge Raney, holding hands with tenderness. Their faces were shining. In the candlelight they didn’t look young, but they didn’t look that old, either. They were glowing, intense… as if burning from within. Everyone seemed to be part of the promises made. Henry, Charlie, Lewis, and Nell, Klotilde in her wheelchair. The terms “for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health” pertained to all of them. They knew what loving and being loved was about. They knew about pain, infirmity, the wisdom of age.

  I stood there, thinking about Ray and Laura and Helen, wondering where they’d gone. I know it’s absurd, but I found it painful they hadn’t cared enough to stick around and see that I was okay. In some curious way, they’d become my family. I’d seen us as a unit, facing adversity together, even if it was only for a matter of days. It’s not that I thought we’d go on that way forever, but I would have liked a sense of closure – thanks, fare-thee-well, drop us a line someday.