As She Rides By (Vic Daniel Series)

by David Pierce

  "Anything I can do for you in return," I said, "just let me know."

  "You might keep me informed," he said, holding out his hand. "I would appreciate that."

  "You got it, boyo," I said. "Cheap, I call it." We shook on it, and I left, mentally rubbing my mitts together with satisfaction.

  Although I wasn't supposed to, strictly, during school hours, I sneaked into Evonne's office briefly on my way out, but she wasn't in. I deduced she was next door in the office belonging to her boss, which wasn't hard, as I could hear both their voices through his door, so I went down to the car and, of course, found King still there, as I'd spent less time getting a history lesson than I'd anticipated. So I collected him and the trowel and we wandered over to the sports field to spend twenty pleasant minutes watching other people running themselves ragged in the hot sun and being shouted at a lot by older men with whistles.

  Evonne came tripping down the front steps a few minutes after the deluge of students bolting for freedom had slackened off to the occasional dribble. I sidled up to her, leered, and said, "Carry your books, baby?"

  "I don't have any," she said. "Now go away or I'll call a cop." She stooped to pet King, then stood up on tiptoes to pet me. I petted her right back, elicting a couple of wolf whistles from a passing wit. Then we sat in her car for a bit, watching the last of the kids screech off around us. When I gave her the green trowel, I said, "There is one thing. I had to sign this statement when I bought it swearing it would never be used on beets or spinach."

  "How about hittin' big jerks on the head with?" she said, giving me a respectable rap on the cranium as she did so. I told her not to even think about hitting my poor old head with the object that J. Chandler was going to bring to school for her tomorrow, as she might damage it. She remarked that you couldn't damage my head if you dropped a two-ton safe on it from a great height. I said one of her carrot cakes could probably do it and anyway, I was referring to the object being damaged. What object, she, of course, wanted to know. So I told her and then the talk drifted to other matters and then the night guard ambled over to say sorry but he was locking up now but if we wanted to go canoodling we should try the park by the reservoir; that's where a lot of the kids went. If I were the type to mark such things, I would award Evonne an "A" for canoodling. Easy. There were one or two suave and sophisticated touches I hadn't taught her yet, but I was saving those for the time I really needed them.

  So I followed her and King out of the lot; we toot-tooted good-bye, and off they went, without a backward look from King, may I say, and off I went in the opposite direction toward my apartment on Windsor Castle Terrace for a quick cleanup and change of costume.

  There was nothing remotely either English or regal about Windsor Castle Terrace, nor was there a castle in the neighborhood that I'd ever seen, and I'm not even sure the street is a terrace. What is a terrace, anyway? Remind me to look it up sometime. I parked in the driveway behind my landlady's heap; she was watching television as usual, I could see through her open front window. She spotted me too, waved, came to the window, and called out, "Victor dear, got a minute?"

  "Can it keep, sweetheart?" I said. "I'm in a hurry, I've got to be back at the office in three-quarters of an hour and it takes me that long just to fix my hair."

  "No problem," she said. "Catch ya later, but sooner would be better." Hmm. Wonder what she wanted, I thought, taking the stairs two at a time. She looked a mite worried, but if I was a fanatical San Diego Padres fan, like her, I figured I'd look worried too, if not downright terrified.

  In the apartment I did what had to be done, packed a few overnight things in an airline bag, downed a hasty glass of buttermilk, and managed to get back to the office just before the hour. I pulled in and parked right beside a lilac and green painted van that had "Flora by Phineas" painted on both sides in a tasteful running script. The driver put his green cap back on, poked his head out the window, and said, "Victor Daniel?"

  "Yep."

  "I'm Jesse. Ready to roll?"

  "Yep."

  "Door's open, so hop in."

  I opened the back doors of the van, which were mostly windows, and climbed in, rather than hopped, Jesse watching me over his shoulder. I sat down on a bench that ran along one side, and Jesse took off. About twenty-five minutes later he said to me, "Gettin' close," so I stretched out full-length on the fake grass the van was carpeted with, as far under the bench as I could get, then covered up the rest of me with three fifty-pound sacks of potting compost, rendering me virtually invisible. About ten minutes later, I felt the van turn into the boutique's driveway, then a minute or two after that, it reversed briefly, then stopped. A moment after that, one of the rear doors was opened just enough for me to slither through it into the far end of the greenhouse. The elderly Japanese nurseryman closed the door behind me and pointed to a wooden stool off on one side; when I sat on it the surrounding greenery effectively hid me from sight again.

  Some forty minutes after that, the same venerable gentleman opened the greenhouse door a few inches, peeked out, then beckoned me over with one finger. I did my slithering act again, only this time in the opposite direction, and into the luckily commodious trunk of Phineas's Merc. The lid was closed gently by an unseen hand, but not all the way, because by then I'd stuck the end of a twist of green gardeners' wire in the gap to make sure it didn't, and I used another bit of wire to tie the lid down, thus ensuring that (a) the lid wouldn't pop open during the ride, and (b) I'd still be breathing at the end of it.

  Then, off we went. We made a stop or two for what had to be red lights, then a longer one for Phineas to make his customary night deposit at the bank, during which, if he'd followed my suggestion, he'd left the car door open so any nosey parkers could see how empty it was.

  In due course we pulled into Phineas's drive, and came to a stop in his carport, only this time he backed in. During the minute or two it took him to open his front door, then enter, then switch on the outside lights, I scrambled out of the trunk and snuck around to the back door. He closed the kitchen curtains, just in case, then let me in and I stayed in the kitchen, just in case, for the whole evening, while Phineas proceeded with further elements of the master plan. He turned on the lights in the living room, then closed the curtains, carelessly leaving them slightly ajar so his figure and his figure alone could be plainly seen from the street as he flitted in and out of the room. And the reason he'd backed into the carport this time was soon made clear to anyone interested in observing such detail. After we'd snacked on even more unlikely leftovers, including pressed duck, although who knows how (or why) you press a duck, he began loading bulky objects into the car trunk that he took from the appropriate shed out behind the pool, and as his Mercedes was huge and his carport small, if he hadn't backed in, he'd have had to lug his seemingly never-ending vacation necessities—his weights and his bicycle and what-all—either through the house or all the way around the other side. As a final touch, before switching off the exterior lighting for the night, he firmly affixed one of his surfboards to the car's roof rack, using about a dozen of those stretchy rubber things. And, hopeful sign number one, he'd noticed the same dark sedan passing the house twice while he was so engaged, once in each direction. Hopeful sign number two was, of the five phone calls he received that evening on his machine, two callers hung up impolitely after the beep, instead of saying, "Bon voyage," or some other apt pleasantry. One call came early, and one came late, and neither occurred within a half hour of the passing of the dark sedan.

  For the second—and, sadly, probably the last—time in my odds and ends of a life, I slept in silk, chocolate-brown sheets, and all too soon came the dawn. Came breakfast in bed, too—warmed-up coffee cake, unsalted butter, strawberry jam with more strawberries than jam in it, unlike the brand I bought, and, of course, a big pot of espresso, all served up on a tray with considerable style by my pal.

  My pal finished up what looked like the last of a croissant.

  My pal sat
himself on the end of the bed and helped himself to some fresh coffee.

  My pal retied the belt of his light cotton kimono more securely around his trim waist.

  My pal was not happy.

  My pal did not see why I should have all the fun from then on.

  I told my pal it wasn't from then on: Strickly speaking, he still had a role to play and things to do.

  "Walk-on shit," my pal muttered.

  "Also," I said, "Your faucet drips, you call the plumber, not the vet."

  "Meaning precisely what, as if I couldn't guess?" he asked sourly.

  "Know much about guns?" I put to him.

  "Yuck," he said disdainfully flicking a cake crumb off the coverlet.

  "Exactly." I picked up my weapon from the bedside table, and gave it an expert twirl. "The bullet comes out that end there, going faster than Superman, even, despite his press agent's claims. There is a question of language, as well."

  "What language?"

  "The language Ted and Phil speak," I said, lavishly buttering another piece of cake. "I speak it too. It's sort of like the opposite of body language."

  "I know, I know," he said through his perfect teeth. He jumped up and began pacing about the guest room. "It is merely that when one gets attacked directly or insulted directly or affronted directly or threatened directly, one feels this pressing need to respond directly." He fell into a karate stance and lashed out into a fearsome series of acrobatic kicks, whirls, lunges, and slashes.

  When he was done, he bowed to me. I pointed one finger at his tummy, and said, "Bang bang. You is dead. Twice already." Then I made a little bow to him. He directed a scowl my way. It turned into a sigh, then a small grin.

  "I'm going for a swim," he said. "Work off a little of my snit. Maybe I'll do a few Tai Chi exercises out on the front lawn after, that should scare the panties off the neighbors and anyone else who happens to be sneaking a peek."

  "Good for the complexion too, I heard," I said.

  "Still," he said from the door. "Still."

  "Yeah, I know," I said. "It's tough not getting to show what a big sissy you're not. Don't forget the tray."

  Chapter Seven

  See, we was workin' in this run-down, one-pump garage out on Highway 104,

  About ten miles northeast of Tucson, and the very last I heard . . .

  TIMING.

  Who was it who said, everything is timing? Jack Benny, of course, and William "Bill" Bulova . . . oh yes, and soufflé chefs.

  To inflict the maximum amount of physical inconvenience and financial embarrassment on Phil and Ted, I had to get the timing just right, which would take a bit of doing and a bit of luck. But first things first.

  I arose. I showered at leisure, using a pristine cake of some fancy soap called Pears, which was completely transparent, by the way, then shaved with care, then dressed, then packed up the few items I'd unpacked, then snuck downstairs to the kitchen. The clock on the wall, which was in the form of half a large orange, said it was seven-thirty, which meant I had a half hour to wait before ringing up the curtain on the final chilling act of my Machiavellian master plan. I spent part of the time tracking down, then finally connecting with, an old pal, another part of the time checking the sports pages in the morning paper—the Dodgers were down to five and a half games back, the Giants seven and a half and totally out of it yet again—and the rest watching Phineas making innumerable trips out to the car with last-minute additions to the mountain of vacation gear he'd already packed. He was wearing a bright yellow jogging outfit and sneakers.

  So was I, as it happened. On his last trip out to the car, he added his white leather cap and sunglasses, both of which I borrowed for my first (and only) trip out to the car, which happened at eight o'clock precisely, and from the kitchen door, the one nearest the carport. In one hand I held a large map, at which I was peering, in the other my airline bag, in which my firearm nestled. I climbed into the Mercedes and started it up, checking that all of the doors were firmly locked. Although, as I have mentioned, the car windows were all heavily tinted, making it almost impossible to get a good look inside, I was nervous. I had well over an hour's drive ahead of me, and anything could happen during that time, including the worst happening of all—nothing. If Phil and Ted didn't show up hot on the trail, just to make sure Phineas—who I devoutly hoped they would believe was at the wheel and not V. Daniel—really was heading for the bounding main, then I would be up another body of water, one familiarly known as Shit Creek.

  I headed down Pamela the opposite way from the direction I (Phineas) would take if I were going into town. By the time I was halfway down Lexington, I breathed a sigh of relief, because there they were, in a late-model Ford, tucked in comfortably some fifty yards behind me. At least, I hoped it was them. When they followed me through the jog onto Sunset, I was pretty well sure.

  After a half hour of Sunset's gentle curves and slopes I began to relax somewhat as the boys kept their distance and apparently were intent on merely seeing me gently on my merry way, as it were, which was fine by me. Terrific, in fact. The famed Sunset Strip comes to an end when it runs into the Pacific Coast Highway, along which I headed westward, past Topanga Beach, then past Las Tunas Beach, which, for those of you who go for chunks of old marble without arms, is near the J. Paul Getty museum. A jog inland, then one to the left, then a last one to the left again brought me neatly to the start of the newly graveled, hilly, winding, private road that, three and a half miles farther on, finished up chez the Lew Lewellens' uncompleted money-devourer; just to have the road repaired must have cost a fortune.

  I breathed a second sigh of relief when the boys turned in after me, making no attempt to stay out of sight; why should they bother? The third sigh came when I saw that there was, indeed, no gate that had to be opened or lifted or whatever, meaning I would not have to get out of the car to do so, and even if Phil and Ted were from Pittsburgh they could still spot the difference between me and Phineas at twenty paces in bright sunlight, even if I did adopt a slinky walk.

  Down the narrow road I went. Down they followed. The problem was, I wanted to get them as far away from the courthouse downtown as I could, but still leave them enough time, on paper, that is, to be able to make it comfortably back there before noon. As it wasn't quite ten yet, and as they could pick up the Ventura Freeway just up north a bit, then switch to the Hollywood Freeway and thus be downtown in an hour or so, I figured I'd gotten things about right. So far.

  After a while I eased my weapon out of the airline bag, then checked it out. Then I took off the cap, the dark glasses, and wriggled out of my sweatsuit top. The weapon went into the small of my back, between skin and pant; I knew it would stay there, at least for a while, because I'd tied my pant strings particularly tight for just that purpose, and also I'd tried it out in my room earlier. As a last touch, just to make myself look even more inoffensive, I pushed up the trouser bottoms up to my knees, like old fogies do to go wading. It was only a minute or two after that when I pulled up in front of the Lewellens' weekend retreat-to-be, and, as Mrs. Lew had told me, it was still mainly an architect's doodle, there were the waist-high stone walls she'd mentioned, a couple of aluminum window frames and one door frame in position, and that was about it.

  Well. I'd parked the car so it was facing the way I'd driven in, so when I got out, with a welcome stretch, I didn't have to do any acrobatics to keep my backside hidden from the boys, who pulled up a couple of minutes later. I wondered briefly what'd kept them. Nerves, maybe, thus a quick pee. And, toting my bag, out I got immediately, in case they figured they'd done enough and took off without a playful word of farewell or one loving, backward glance.

  I stretched again, and swung the bag in a carefree fashion. Out of the Ford, one from each side, emerged Phil and Ted. Both were large. Both were wearing slacks and short-sleeved shirts and sunglasses.

  "Hi, there, boys," I called out gayly. "Gee you guys got a sensational outfield this year—Van Slyke, Bonilla, an
d that guy Bonds, he's murder."

  "Who the fuck's this clown?" the one who'd been driving said. His pal shrugged. "Well, we better fucking well find out, and fast," the driver said. His pal gave him a look and began innocently drifting off to one side.

  I dropped the bag, pulled out my weapon, assumed the classic stance—legs apart, knees slightly bent, free hand supporting the gun hand's wrist, and said, from a distance of maybe ten feet, "Hold her right there, boys." They both froze for a moment, then the talkative one straightened up slightly and put on a big grin.

  "Shit, man, what's all this?" he said. "You gone nuts? We just want a word, is all." He began to take another step toward me; his pal remained motionless. I put a bullet into the gravel right between his two expensive sandals; he stopped in his tracks.

  "Hands on your heads, boys," I said. They complied. "Now, you," I said to the chatty one. "Nice and easy, unbutton your shirt. Use your left hand, if you know which one that is."

  "Fuck is this?" he said.

  "Time for a few rays," I said. When the shirt was unbuttoned, I said, "Now take it off and chuck it behind you."

  "The fuck are you, anyway?" Off came the shirt; all he had under it was a hairy chest.

  "Interflora," I said. It took an exceedingly careful five minutes before I had them both stripped down to the buff, the total buff, too, and aside from their clothes, that included one hunting knife worn by the big mouth in a leather sheath strapped to one leg, two watches, four rings, two pairs of sunglasses, and one gold coin on a neck chain. Oh yes: There was also one belt, leather, with fancy buckle, in which, in a so-called secret compartment in the back, I discovered thirty $100 bills, each folded in half lengthways. When I folded them in half the other way, they just squeezed into my worn old pigskin wallet. I then used the belt to make one tight bundle of all their belongings, figuring they'd be easier to dispose of later that way. Then I sat the boys down on the gravel a few feet apart, back to back, and leaning against the uncompleted front wall of the house.