by A. W. Gray
“It was on the news,” Gerald said. “You see it, about Basil?”
“Does it make you sad?” Darla reached to the floor and picked up a can of diet Coke.
“They know his name.”
“So what? He’s not going to tell anybody anything unless his ghost returns.”
“The girl said somebody shot him. The girl we…”
“Doesn’t mean anything,” Darla said. “Those federal guys may have done it. They lie all the time.”
Gerald took a large swig from his glass and made a face. “It makes me nervous is all. You having any auditions?”
“One today, with about thirty other people. French maid. If you’re so worried, I’ll take your part of the money.”
“I’m just afraid it was Randolph took Basil’s share.”
“What if he did? It’ll make more for us, Gerald.”
“I just don’t trust the guy.”
“Come on. You don’t even know him.”
“Yeah, but all that about a fringe guy, keeping it a secret.”
“If you’ve got a complaint,” Darla said, “tell it to him. Here he comes.” She gestured toward the street with the Coke can, then took a swallow.
A long dark car, a Caddy, had now parked behind the Bronco. Frank inched further back from the street and crouched even lower, the barrel of the .38 resting against his inner thigh. A slightly round figure crossed the yard. The figure emerged from the darkness into the light. Randolph Money, of course, with the alligator-and-leather suitcase swinging by its handle, bumping his hip. He wore a pale yellow sport coat along with a royal blue knit shirt, high open collar standing up on both sides of his throat, dark blue slacks, and two-tone blue-and-white loafers with a tassel.
Money grinned, his nose casting a shadow on his cheek, dark spaces between his wide-gapped teeth. “As I see it, you’re expecting someone.”
Gerald looked, his gaze roaming Money head to toe, and didn’t say anything. Darla crossed over and undid the latch, opened the door with a protesting creak from the spring, and stood aside. Money walked onto the porch and sat in the love seat. Darla remained near the entrance, one arm akimbo, one hip thrust slightly out. Money laid the suitcase flat on the ottoman.
Frank’s leg suddenly itched like blazes. Mosquitoes. He gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to scratch.
Visible through the screen, Gerald used a forefinger to tilt his hat back. “You kill the guy? The TV said Basil Gershwin…”
Money brushed chubby hands together. “Of course. You think it was some amateur?”
“Helluva way, the guy doing all that.”
“He was a weak link. Too subject to suspicion, his record. What, you don’t like getting more of a share? I told you I’d take care of you.”
“The Molly guy was a pussy, that’s one thing. Basil was one of us.”
Money put a hand over his heart. “You’re breaking me up, you know? Come on, let’s do it and part company. You want to pay for the guy’s funeral, hey. I told you, your share.” Money snapped the catches, spun the suitcase around and opened the lid. “Voilá, babes.”
Gerald murmured, “Jesus,” and leaned forward, his jaw slack. Darla left the door and came nearer. She bent over and placed her hands on her knees, staring.
Money’s arm was draped over the back of the love seat, hand down, hidden from the two on the porch, visible to Frank. Money’s fingers wiggled. His coat sleeve billowed slightly. A pearl-handled derringer dropped into his palm, Money still grinning, his posture relaxed. “We can count it out,” he said, “one for you, one for you, all that.”
Frank tensed and rose to his feet, watching through the screen as Darla said in a half-whisper, “How much is there?” Gerald leaned even nearer the suitcase, his gaze riveted on the bundles of cash, as Money brought the pistol up over the back of the love seat. Frank opened his mouth to yell a warning, too late, as Money shot Gerald in the center of the forehead, Gerald’s head rolling back on his neck, a sigh escaping from his lungs as he fell backward to sprawl into the wicker chair, his arms flapping like a scarecrow’s.
Frank gritted his teeth, raised his leg and kicked at the screen. The wire came loose from the molding with a metallic rip. Money’s head snapped around, the derringer aimed at Darla’s chest, Randolph Money’s fat lips parting, wide-gapped teeth showing in an expression that was part surprise and part snarling anger.
Frank wedged in through the tear and jammed the barrel of the .38 in Money’s ear. Hard. Money’s head lurched to one side, but otherwise he didn’t move, keeping the derringer leveled on Darla’s midsection. The three froze in place for a full five seconds, Darla not breathing, Frank watching Money’s index finger, thinking, The slightest pressure on the trigger, the bastard’s dead.
Finally, Money grinned. “I don’t suppose there’s any point, telling you I’ll trade you her life for mine, is there?”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Frank said.
“I just thought, sometimes a man gets pussy-whipped. Remembers how good a woman gave it to him.” Money laughed, relaxed his hand, let the derringer dangle upside down by the trigger guard. “You travel far and wide, Tex,” Money said. “I told a man just the other day, I always liked that Frank White guy.”
Frank reached down and took the derringer, slipped the little pistol in his pocket, risked a glance over at Gerald. Gerald’s Stetson was down over his eyes, his head flopped to his right, his mouth slack, a red stain spreading on the cushion behind him. Frank took the .38 out of Money’s ear and stepped back.
Darla leaned over and patted the money in the suitcase. “Take me somewhere on this, Frank. We can…” She looked up at him, batted long lashes.
“Now you’ve got to be kidding,” Frank said.
Darla’s mouth circled into a pout.
Money half-turned to face Frank, and spread his hands, palms up. “Christ, I should have known. She got in touch with you, didn’t she?”
Frank watched him. Darla’s breathing quickened.
“Of course she did,” Money said. His chin moved up and down in a wistful nod. “Only way you could have known me on the telephone, Frank, only way you could ever guess it was somebody you knew when you were down.” He laughed out loud, tightly closing his eyes. “Christ, I had it figured perfect. As far as you knew, the whole bunch of us were in California and you’d never see any of us again. I counted on everything except the woman-scorned factor. The goddam woman was more interested in getting even with you than in getting the money, now isn’t that a kick in the head?”
“I recognized that expression you use all the time,” Frank said. “‘As I see it.’”
“You did? Bullshit, Frank. You may think that’s what it was, but it was seeing Darla. If she’d kept out of your sight like she was supposed to, we’d be home free. My own fucking fault. Christ, my own fault. Shame on me, huh?” Money sadly shook his head.
Darla took a step in Frank’s direction. “Frank, I…”
Frank pointed the .38 at her. “Don’t dare, Darla. That’s far enough. You tried to hurt somebody close to me. Don’t think I wouldn’t shoot you.”
Darla halted in her tracks. Her lips parted.
Money flopped down on the love seat. “Waste of breath, babe. It’s a new one on you, a man you can’t control. What we have here, Darla, is a man gone straight.” He regarded Frank through slitted eyes. “What now, old Frank? You going to shoot me down like the dirty dog I am, save the day or something? At least steal the money, will you? I’ve got to have some fucking thing to feel good about. Honest people I cannot stand.”
“Oh, I’m taking the money,” Frank said, gesturing with the pistol. “Up. Come on, up now.” He closed the suitcase, snapped the catches with one hand, hoisted the load up by the handle.
Money rose, looked at Darla, and shrugged. “At least the guy’s making a litt
le sense,” Money said.
Frank herded the pair through the door, off the porch, and across the yard, directing them with the pistol, Darla moving in hesitant baby steps, watching over her shoulder, Money shuffling along shaking his head and laughing out loud. Frank set the suitcase down behind the Cherokee, fumbled for his keys, opened the tailgate, hefted the suitcase inside, and slammed the door. Halfway down the block a man came out in his bathrobe, yelled, “Let’s have some quiet, huh?” and went back inside.
Frank now said, “Okay, come over here, Darla,” and gestured again with the pistol. “Stay where you are, Randolph, just her.”
Darla tilted her chin as she walked nearer to Frank. Money kept his distance, his expression resigned, knowing what was coming, but also knowing there was nothing he could do about it.
Frank kept the pistol trained on Money as he said to Darla, “You’re the one with the parachute. You know that, don’t you?”
She made a noise that was near a sob. “You’ll let me go, won’t you, Frank? Won’t you?”
“Christ, I’m not believing this,” Money said.
“Not a chance,” Frank said. “You’re a been-around girl. Think. The guy was going to kill you. Talk about him to the feds. You can save yourself some time in the joint, doing that, will probably get out in time to act again. Might be a Driving Miss Daisy role by then, but at least you’ll get to see the world. Randolph won’t.”
She seemed to brighten. “I am a good actress.”
Frank felt the barest twinge of pity. “I’m sure you are. Tell me, you think you can work yourself up to tell about this guy?” He jerked his head in Money’s direction.
Darla looked at Money as if she’d never seen him before. Money met her gaze for an instant, then looked at his feet. Darla turned to Frank, her features setting in a hopeful look. “Till I’m so hoarse I can’t say any more, Frank,” she said.
When the black-and-white Santa Monica P.D. squad car pulled up behind the Cadillac, Frank had Darla and Money in the front yard, lying on their faces. Frank leaned over Darla and said, “Remember, now, just like you said. You can’t talk your way all the way out, but you can do yourself a lot of good. Believe it or not, Darla, I’m sort of pulling for you.” Knots of people stood around in the adjacent yards, gawking, some of them still in their pajamas.
Money turned his head to one side. “You be nice to my fucking money, Frank.”
Two uniformed patrolmen left the squad vehicle at a sprint, revolvers drawn. Frank lowered his .38 to his side and said loudly to the cops, “Good work. Dead guy inside, on that screened porch.” He started to walk away, toward the Bronco.
One of the policemen, a young guy with a mustache, stood guard over Money and Darla while the other man ran toward the porch. The guy with the mustache yelled to Frank, “You get statements from these people?” He waved his pistol at Darla. “Keep your head down, miss.” He watched the exposed cheek of her ass.
“Tell them at the precinct,” Frank said loudly, over his shoulder, “that they’ll be hearing from a Dallas federal prosecutor named Felicia Tate. Also, possibly an FBI agent named Turner. I’m not sure which one’s going to call.” He increased his pace, walking at a fast clip past the nose of the Cherokee.
The cop looked toward Frank, then at his prisoners, unsure of himself now, not understanding exactly what was going on. He shouted, “Hey. What station you say you were from? L.A.P.D., right?”
Frank now had the Cherokee’s door open, and called out to the cop, “You’ll find the murder weapon on the porch, with the guy’s prints. Good work, you hear?” He dropped the .38 inside on the seat, fell in behind the wheel, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb.
The cop yelled as Frank rolled past. “What precinct you say you were…?”
Money lifted his head. “You owe me money, asshole,” Randolph Money shouted, loudly enough for Frank to hear him over the hiss of the ocean and the Cherokee’s churning engine.
Darla raised up and batted her eyes at the policeman. “Can I stand up now?” she said. “These mosquitoes are eating me alive.”
When the unmarked Plymouth four-door pulled to the curb in front of Darla’s house, the Santa Monica P.D.’s crime scene unit had things in high gear. The house and grounds were cordoned off with yellow tape, and uniformed officers guarded the perimeters. Forensics and crime lab people moved around on the lighted screened porch, dusting for prints, taking blood samples. As two men in dark suits alighted from the Plymouth, assistant medical examiners lifted Gerald Hodge from the wicker chair and dumped him into a body bag.
The suits hustled across the lawn and approached one of the officers, a squinty-eyed young man who seemed to be suffering from hay fever. One of the suits exhibited his shield. “FBI,” he said. “What’s going on here?”
The policeman looked closely at the ID while snuffling through his nose. “This is a murder scene,” he said. “What’s it look like?”
“We’ve got instructions from our Dallas office,” the FBI agent said, “to set up surveillance on the occupant of this house. A…” He checked his notes. “Darla Bern,” he finally said.
The cop peered up the sidewalk, to where the M.E.s now lugged what was left of Gerald Hodge out the screen door and toward the waiting meat wagon. “Darla Bern’s downtown in jail,” the cop said. “And there’s nobody else inside for you to survey. The dead guy’s headed for the morgue. If you want to follow him, I suppose that’s up to you.”
33
Agent Turner said over the phone, “Trouble with you guys is, you keep everybody up all night. Give it up, Gertrude. Long as you keep this shit up you’re not going to sleep a wink, and neither am I.”
Frank stepped away from the pay station and looked toward the LAX boarding gate, only four or five passengers left in line, the gate agent tearing boarding passes as people went by toting carry-on luggage. Visible through the plate glass window, a 747 sat ready with its rudder lights winking on and off, on and off. “I don’t have time for bullshit,” Frank said to Turner.
“Makes two of us, Thomas. I’m not real crazy about you calling me at home. I got a right to sit on my ass once in a while.”
“Call the Santa Monica, California, police department,” Frank said. “They’ve got Randolph Money and Darla Bern in custody. Probably they’ll hook you up with Darla. She’s got some things to tell you.”
“We’re already putting a surveillance team on her. You ask me, I think you got Felicia Tate snowed along with everybody else. Where you calling from, Frank?”
“You don’t have time to pinpoint me, Turner. Give it up. Look, I’ve got to catch my plane.” Frank kicked the suitcase on the floor beside him “I’m bringing the money with me. Delta Flight seven-eight-one, lands DFW around four in the morning.”
“Look, we’ll have some guys meet you. Nice guys. You can relax, have a cup of coffee…”
“Call the Santa Monica PD. All it’ll cost you is a phone call. Oh, and listen. I’ve spent some of the money.”
“Why am I not surprised at that?” Turner said. “What is it, you got a gambling problem?”
“I had to pay for my plane ticket, plus I’ve taken some to pay parking at this airport four or five days.”
Static crackled on the line for a count of four. Then Turner said, “You get receipts, you hear me? If you think I’m taking responsibility for that, you’ve got your head up your ass is all I can tell you.”
Frank hung up, took two steps in the direction of the boarding gate, then stopped in his tracks. He returned to the phone, called Meg’s home number using his credit card, waited through five rings, and got her machine. Frank softly closed his eyes. She slept like a rock, and calling her after 10 p.m. was useless. He waited through the message, listened for the beep, and cleared his throat. He gave his flight number and estimated time of arrival, started to hang up, then placed the receiver to his e
ar once again. “I’m coming home,” Frank said. “Reserve a life for me, okay?”
The bump-and-screech of the wheels hitting the runway jarred Frank into wakefulness. He was in a double aisle seat with the armrest folded down, his head reclining on a pincushion-sized white pillow. He rubbed his sore neck and watched through the porthole as the landing lights flashed by, a billboard in the distance showing a full-length shot of the Loew’s Anatole. Frank thought fleetingly of the ice-cream stand. All up and down the length of the cabin, people stretched, yawned, and tossed little white pillows away. The aircraft braked, made a sweeping right turn, and taxied up to the unfolding accordion walkway. The engines shut down and whined to a standstill. The eastern horizon was beginning to gray.
A flight attendant approached. “Mr. White?”
Frank watched her—pretty face, wide brown eyes, uncertainty in her look as if she wondered whether he was about to attack. “Yes?” he said.
“They’ve asked, some people have asked, if you’d remain on board until the other passengers have…” Visible beyond her, a girl in jeans rose on tiptoes to drag a folded coat down from the overhead compartment.
Frank leaned back and touched his fingertips together, pressing his shin against the seatback in front of him. “They’re FBI,” he said.
Her lips parted. She uttered a little gasp.
“And, yes, I’ll wait,” Frank said. “Relax, miss. I’m way too tired to pull a hijacking, okay?”
Turner, Felicia Tate, and two stone-faced FBIs in suits waited for him as he stepped clear of the skyway. Frank raised the suitcase to shoulder level, and one of the suits yanked it from his grasp. Tate and Turner hustled him across the terminal, past the baggage claim and restroom signs, through double doors into the VIP Lounge. The carpeted lounge was deserted, booths and cushioned seats, a horseshoe bar in the center. Frank sat down in a half-moon booth with Tate on his left, Turner on the other side. He rubbed his eyes. “You bother calling the Santa Monica P.D.? Or was I wasting my breath?”