Lockestep

by Jack Barnao

  "At the hotel?” she asked.

  We excused ourselves and went to the room for our gear. Amadeo said nothing. His briefcase was packed among his clothes. I took it off him and gave him my bag to carry. “I'll give this to Cal,” I said, and he looked at me and made his last try.

  "We can still get away,” he said. “You can have half."

  "Come on. Grab the bags. We've got a plane to catch."

  I left all my change for the housemaid and opened the door. Debra Steen's companion Helen was out there, about to knock. “Leaving?” she asked.

  "Yes, mission accomplished, I'm taking Greg home now. Thank Debra for me, we couldn't have done it without her help. How's she, anyway?"

  "Fine.” She smiled, a nice taut smile, like a TV actress, Linda Evans maybe. “A little shaky in the mornings, but she hasn't had anything for two whole days, and she's working well again."

  "That's good. Glad to have been of help.” I wanted to go, but she leaned one arm against the doorjamb.

  "You're a hell of a guy,” she said, and this time I didn't shrug off any of the credit. Thurlbeck was doing just fine where he was.

  "I'm sorry about the kerfuffle on your session."

  "I want to know what that was all about,” she said. “We're in Toronto next month for some commercials. Perhaps we could get together then."

  "That would be tremendous. See if you can duck out without the duchess, it's you I'd like to talk to."

  She laughed. “That would be a start,” she said. “What's your phone number?"

  I put the briefcase down and dug a card out from the folder containing my passport. John Locke, Personal Security, and my phone number. “I'm counting on it,” I told her.

  Amadeo cleared his throat. He wasn't used to being left out.

  "Thank you again, John Locke,” she said, and reached up to kiss me on the cheek. Nothing splashy, just a promise.

  I kissed her and picked up the briefcase. “Next month,” I said.

  We walked back out to reception. Beth and Thurlbeck were talking, and he straightened up when we arrived. “I'll take you to the airport,” he said. Then to Beth, “I'll drop by in the morning. The birds out at La Playa Blanca will carry you away. Terns, gulls, pelicans, you name it."

  "Thank you.” She reached out to shake my hand. “Good-bye, John. Good luck."

  "Good-bye and thank you for all your help, Beth.” God! Was I being couth! Noël Coward would have been proud of me.

  Thurlbeck led us out to his van, and I shoved Amadeo in the back and got in beside him. “Okay, Cal,” I said.

  Thurlbeck put his feed-store cap back on and started away. He was whistling. A good choice for a bird-watcher, “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square."

  "What about lover boy's cash?” I asked.

  "Been thinking about that,” Thurlbeck said. “I figure half should go to Maria, half to the kid's family at La Playa Blanca. I'll take care of that part, open an account for them, get somebody to help handle it. It's a lot of bread. They'd have every grifter in the state after it if we don't sew it up."

  Amadeo swore. “That's my goddamn money."

  "Yeah. An’ it was that family's livelihood, never mind about the life of the guy you wasted. I don't wanna hear another word outa you."

  I felt in my pocket for the torn thousand-dollar bill. “And one other thing. A guy with his arm in a sling will be at the airport on Sunday looking for me. Could you give him this, please."

  "Sure can,” Thurlbeck said.

  "Think Maria can handle her end?” I asked.

  "I'll check,” Thurlbeck said. “She won't be up to anything for a couple of days. Then I'll talk it over with her. Probably she'd be better getting it as it is, in cash, if she's got to disappear."

  "Good.” I left it at that. I knew she'd be as safe with Thurlbeck as if her money was in the Chase Manhattan.

  We reached the airport at four-thirty. Thurlbeck parked outside and walked in with us, carrying the briefcase. “Can you pick me up a bottle of Bacardi Anejo and one of Kahlúa, and a big bottle of vanilla, please?” I asked him, and he nodded and peeled off.

  There was a long line at the gate, people with shiny new tans and sombreros to hang on the walls of their split-levels in Don Mills. I got a few glances as I waltzed Amadeo to the head of the line, but there was a stewardess there, and she said, “Yes, Mr. Locke. I'll bring the captain."

  Thurlbeck came back as we waited and handed me the bag with my purchases. I tried to pay him, but he waved it aside. “Most fun I've had in a coon's age,” he said. “Think of me when you're drinking it."

  "I will. Any chance of you coming to Toronto?"

  He cleared his throat, like a schoolkid who doesn't know the answer to the teacher's question. “Pretty good. I'd say,” he admitted. “I was talking to Beth. She said you've got a hell of a birder's gathering spot, Point Pelee is it?"

  "Right. April is the best time. All the warblers and a whole crowd of others come through then. You can see them all because the trees are still bare."

  "Sounds good,” he said. Then he cleared his throat. “She seems like a real nice person."

  "That's what I thought,” I told him, and Amadeo tutted in disgust.

  The captain came back with the stewardess, who pointed us out to him. And immediately Amadeo went into his act. He folded at the waist, retching. People shrieked and pulled away. “I'm sick,” he said.

  I winked at the captain. “I'm a doctor. This is a hysterical reaction. I'll tranquilize him if you'll get us aboard, Captain."

  The captain looked doubtful, but Thurlbeck nodded. “I've seen him do this before. Poor guy, that's why he has to travel with his own physician."

  I shook Thurlbeck's hand and took my own bag. Amadeo was going to leave his, but the captain picked it up and led us out through the afternoon sunshine to the gangway. I shoved Amadeo ahead of me. He balked, and I stiffened three fingers and prodded them into his kidney. That straightened him up. He tottered up the gangway and collapsed into the first seat inside. The cabin staff were watching him as if he had a leper's bell. I dropped my bag and pinched him under the arm, where the flesh is tender, and gave him a solid horse bite between finger and thumb.

  "I can take you back sitting up or lying down. Your choice,” I whispered, smiling at him as if we were lovers.

  "All right,” he said, and I pinched him a little harder. “All right. Where do I sit?"

  Twenty-Two

  The trip was uneventful except for a report that Toronto was snowed in. It was, but not badly enough to get us diverted. We landed at close to eleven, and Amadeo and I were kept on board until all the others had gone. Then they led us down to the RCMP office. On the way there Amadeo said the first words he'd uttered the whole way. “That was some fine speech you made to Jesús,” he sneered. “About not touching drug money."

  I waited for the other shoe to drop. I was just congratulating myself on a job well done. Going out of a side entrance meant no customs, and I was over my allowance on booze. When I didn't answer, he continued, loud enough that the airport security man who was leading us turned and looked at him oddly. “Where'd you think the cash I gave you came from? The hardware business? You're no different from me, Locke. All you think about is the bucks."

  Cahill was waiting for us in the office. He shook hands and turned Amadeo over to two others. One of them handcuffed him to his own left wrist. Then Cahill handed me my topcoat and hat. “You're gonna need this,” he said. “Your blood's probably thinner'n maiden's water right about now."

  "Nothing a good shot of Bushmills won't fix. Listen. It's too late for dinner tonight. Let's skip it. I'll take you to my favorite place tomorrow."

  "Some French place?” he queried. I noticed he wasn't asking about Amadeo. The less he knew, the better, I guessed. The other two Mounties left, Amadeo looking back over his shoulder to sneer, but he said nothing.

  "No.” I played his game. “My favorite spot in the whole of Toronto is Il Pantalone
up on Bathurst. Italian, Venetian, really. Nice no-nonsense place and great food. You should taste their shrimp al forno."

  "Shrimp?” he queried. He was a corned-beef-and-cabbage man.

  The streets were clear, but there was eighteen inches of snow swept along all the curbs. A few hardy souls were out courting heart attacks, cleaning up the last of the day's fall. Cahill gestured at them as he drove. “Glad I live in an apartment,” he said. “My ex-wife used to bug hell outa me until I'd shoveled, no matter when the snow fell."

  "It was thirty degrees Celsius when I left Zihua,” I told him. “Haven't had rain since November. Won't get any before May. Beautiful."

  He snorted. “Don't say we never do anything for you."

  He looked tired, and when we reached my place, he turned down the offer of a drink. “I gotta lot of paperwork to do in the morning, now we've got Amadeo back. New identity, alla that shit. You know what it's like."

  "Yeah. They tell me it doesn't stick. His boys will find him anyway. Is that true?"

  He reached over to hold the door handle on my side. “Generally,” he said. “That gonna keep you up nights?"

  "Couldn't happen to a nicer guy,” I said. Then we shook hands, and I got out, into the middle of the piled snow on Clifton Road.

  He laughed and then said, “You have to start taking care of yourself, kid."

  "Beginning tomorrow,” I promised.

  Then he leaned lower, so he could see me playing king-of-the-castle on the snow pile. “And thanks, eh."

  "You're welcome, you smooth-talking leprechaun."

  The house was quiet, downstairs anyway. I remembered that it was concert night at the Roy Thomson Hall downtown. The two good friends on the bottom floor had called a truce for the evening and were lapping up Beethoven, side by side. Ah, love.

  But on the second floor I stopped and listened. There was a noise I didn't like coming out of the closed door of Janet's apartment. I bent my ear closer to the door and was sure of it. She was sobbing.

  I set down my bag and hit the door a couple of slams with the flat of my hand. “Janet? You okay? It's John."

  The room went silent for a moment, then a man's voice said, “She's fine, thanks."

  "Let me hear her say that."

  His voice came back. “I said she's all right. Go to hell."

  I stood back and slammed the lock with my right foot. It took two whumps before the door broke and I was inside, looking into her living room. Janet was on the couch, holding the top of her blouse around her. And there was a man with her, fortyish, well built, dark hair, angry. “Listen, prick,” he said and ran for me.

  You shouldn't do that. I sidestepped and tripped him, and he sprawled headlong down the stairs. Eight of them. He was in his shirt sleeves, and when he got up, there was blood down the front of his shirt. But he didn't stop. He turned and ran back at me, another sucker's trick. I stomped his chest, the way I'd stomped the lock, and he went down the stairs backward this time.

  This go-around I went down to him and grabbed his wrist, then I stuck it between his legs, grabbed it again and threw him down the other half of the flight of stairs. He fell better this time, almost managing to catch the banisters. A few more throws and he would have been an expert. But he didn't come back for more. He bolted out the door and into the cold in a staggering run.

  I shut the door after him and went back up to Janet's apartment. She was standing now, wiping her eyes with a tissue.

  "Are you all right?” a dumb question, but it wasn't the time to lecture her about bringing home strange men.

  "I think so.” She sniffed and tried to smile. “Thank you, I guess."

  "You're welcome, I guess,” I said. “Want to talk about it?"

  She shook her head. “No.” She was definite about that one. “No. I feel dumb enough as it is. It won't get better if I go over it a couple of times, I'll just feel certifiable."

  "You're the boss.” I picked up my bag. “I brought some rum home. Would you like a little? It goes well with orange juice."

  She cried then, but I made her a small drink and steered her up the stairs to my place. The lock was still intact there, and except for being empty, the bed was comfortable. Me, I stayed down in her place. I checked the boyfriend's wallet and found he was a heavy in the investment business. He had a picture of a woman and two kids in his wallet as well. But I've learned never to stick my nose into other people's business, so I left his clothes in a heap and went to the phone.

  My mother was still up. We exchanged the usual courtesies, and I told her I had brought some vanilla for her cook, the real stuff, not a synthetic. “Yes, I know where vanilla comes from,” she said testily. “You remember, I took you down to Zihuatanejo the first time you went."

  "Met some interesting people,” I said. I had unfastened my belt and I unzipped the security compartment as I talked to her. The ten thousand dollars Amadeo had given me was still intact, the seawater had not penetrated the leather. You have to hand it to Saks Fifth Avenue, they sell good stuff.

  She asked who, and I mentioned Debra Steen, whom she'd never heard of. Then I told her, “Met another rich woman there, a Maria Amadeo."

  "Don't say you've become a gigolo now?” My mother does not have much faith in the fruit of her womb.

  "No. This one is more of the philanthropic type,” I said. “You get the picture, thick legs, homely."

  "A gentleman would not discuss a lady in that way,” my mother said.

  "Well, maybe not. But the thing is, she has a solid-gold heart.” I piled my ten thousand-dollar bills into one neat heap and ironed them smooth with the back of my hand. “Yes, when I mentioned that you were raising money for Sick Kids', she gave me a donation."

  "Every little bit helps,” my mother said condescendingly.

  "Ten thousand dollars,” I said, and added the kicker, “That's American, call it fourteen grand Canadian."

  "My word, that is generous.” There, I had bought her undivided attention for only fourteen thousand dollars.

  "I thought so, too,” I said. “I'll bring it over in the morning."

  "Good. That would be very nice. Come around eleven, and we'll have tea."

  "Best offer I've had all night,” I told her. “Good night."

  I hung up and went to the door. It was impossible to lock, but I pushed a chair under the handle and went to bed. Hell, it was only a month until the Debra Steen show came to town and I was taking Helen out for dinner.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1987 by Ted Wood

  Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media

  ISBN 978-1-4976-0758-3

  This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  345 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

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