O Is for Outlaw

by Sue Grafton

  I dog-trotted after him, slowing as I reached the corner to avoid running into him. He’d apparently already entered the bar by the time I got there. The bouncer saw me and glanced at his watch with theatrical emphasis. He was in his forties, balding, big-bellied, wearing a sport coat that fit tightly through the shoulders and arms. I showed him the stamp on the back of my hand, demonstrating the fact I’d already been cleared for admittance. “I forgot something,” I said. “Mind if I go back in real quick?”

  “Sorry, lady. We’re closed.”

  “It’s only ten of two. There’s still a ton of people inside. Five minutes. I swear.”

  “Last call was one-thirty. No can do.”

  “I don’t want a drink. This is for something I left. It’ll only take two minutes and I’ll be right out again. Please, please, please?” I put my knees together and clasped my hands like a little child at prayer.

  I saw him repress a smile, and he motioned me in with an indulgent rolling of his eyes. It’s perplexing to realize how far you can get with men by pulling girlish shit. I paused, looking back at him as if my question had just occurred to me. “Oh, by the way … the fellow who just went in?”

  He stared at me flatly, unwilling to yield anything more than he had.

  I held a hand above my head. “About this tall? Denim jacket and spurs. He arrived on a motorcycle less than a minute ago.”

  “What about him?”

  “Can you tell me his name? I met him a couple of nights ago and now I’ve forgotten. I’m too embarrassed to ask so I was hoping you’d know.”

  “He’s a pal of the owner’s. He’s a two-bit punk. You got no business hanging out with a little shit like him.”

  “What about Tim? What’s their relationship?”

  He looked at his watch again, his tone shifting to exasperation. “Are you going to go in? Because technically we’re closed. I’m not supposed to admit anyone after last call.”

  “I’m going. I’m going. I’ll be out in a second. Sorry to be such a pest.”

  “Duffy something,” he murmured. “Nice girl like you ought to be ashamed.”

  “I promise I am. You have no idea.”

  Once inside, I dropped the Gidget act and studied the faces within range of me. The overhead lights had come on and the busboys were now stacking chairs on the tabletops. The bartender was closing out the register and the party hearties seemed to be getting the hint. Thea and Scott were sitting in a booth. Both had cigarettes and fresh drinks: one for the road, to get their alcohol levels up. I crossed the front room, hoping to avoid calling attention to myself. Good luck with that. Three single guys gave me the toe-to-head body check, glancing away without interest, which I thought was rude.

  I headed for the back corridor, operating on the assumption that Duffy Something was in Tim’s office since I didn’t see him anywhere else. I passed the ladies’ room and the pay phones and turned right into the short hallway. The door to the employees’ lounge stood open, and a couple of waitresses were sitting on the couch smoking while they changed their shoes. Both looked up at me, one pausing long enough to remove the cigarette from her lips. “You need help?” Smoke wafted out of her mouth like an SOS.

  “I’m looking for Tim.”

  “Across the hall.”

  “Thanks.” I backed away, wondering what to do next. I couldn’t simply knock on his door. I had no reason to interrupt, and I didn’t want the biker to get a look at me. I glanced at the door and then back at the two. “Isn’t somebody in there with him?”

  “No one important.”

  “I hate to interrupt.”

  “My, ain’t we dainty? Bang on the door and walk in. It’s no big deal.”

  “It’s not that important. I’d rather not.”

  “Oh, shit. Gimme your name and I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  “Never mind. That’s okay. I can catch him later.” I backed up in haste, then scooted around the corner and out the back exit. I walked forward a few steps and then turned and stared. Where the front of the building was only one story tall, the rear portion was two. I could see lights on upstairs. A shift in the shadows suggested movement, but I couldn’t be sure. What was going on up there? No way to know unless I created the opportunity to pick my way in.

  Meanwhile, I’d have given a lot to know what the biker was saying to Tim. From the location of Tim’s office, I knew any exterior windows would have to be around the far corner to my left. I stood there, debating the wisdom of trying to eavesdrop. That corner of the building was shrouded in darkness, and it looked like I’d have to squeeze into the space between the Honky-Tonk and the building next to it. This was a feat that not only promised a bout of claustrophobia but the onslaught of hordes of domestic short-haired spiders the size of my hand. With my luck, the windowsills would be too high for peeking and the conversation too muffled for revelations of note. It was the thought of the spiders that actually clinched the vote.

  I opted instead for a close-on inspection of the motorcycle. I fished out my penlight and flashed the beam across the bike. The make was a Triumph. The license plate was missing, but by law the registration should have been available on the bike somewhere. I ran a hand across the seat, hoping it would lift to reveal a storage compartment. I was in the process of the search when the rear door banged open and the two waitresses walked out. I shoved the penlight in my pocket and turned my attention toward the street, like I was waiting for someone. They moved off to my right, deep in conversation, crossing my line of vision without exhibiting any curiosity about what I was doing. As soon as they were gone, I turned off the penlight and slipped it in my bag.

  Out in the street, the last of the bar patrons were straggling to their cars. I could hear doors slamming, car engines coughing to life. I abandoned the search and decided to return to my car. I jogged the two blocks, my shoulder bag banging against my hip. When I reached the VW, I unlocked the door and slid under the wheel. I stuck my key in the ignition, fired up the engine, and snapped on my headlights. I made an illegal U-turn and drove back to the Tonk.

  Once in view of the place, I doused my headlights and pulled over to the right. I parked the car in the shadow of a juniper bush. I slouched down on my spine, keeping an eye on the rear exit over the rim of my sideview mirror. The biker showed up about ten minutes later. He mounted his bike, backed off his center stand, and dropped his weight down with a quick stomp that jolted his engine to life. He cranked the throttle with one hand, revving the bike until it roared in protest. He kept one foot on the ground while he pivoted his bike, the backside swinging wildly as he took off. I watched him slide through the stop sign and hang a left onto Main. By the time I could follow, he was easily five blocks ahead. Within minutes, I’d lost sight of him.

  I cruised on for a while, wondering if he’d turned off on a side street close by. This was an area that consisted largely of single-family residences. The stretches of roadway between subdivisions and shopping malls were lined with citrus orchards. The Colgate Community Hospital appeared on my right. I turned left toward the freeway but saw no sign of the biker’s taillight. If he’d already turned on the 101, he’d be halfway to town and I didn’t have a prayer of catching up with him. I pulled over to the curb and shut off the ignition. I cranked down the driver’s side window and tilted my head, listening for the distant racketing of the motorcycle in the still night air. Nothing at first and then … faintly … I picked up the rat-a-tat-tat, at a much reduced speed. The source of the sound was impossible to pinpoint, but he couldn’t be far. Assuming it was him.

  I started the VW and pulled out again. The road here was four lanes wide, and the only visible side street went off to the left. There was a nursery on the corner. The sign read BERNARD HIMES NURSERY & TREE FARM: Shade Trees, Roses, Fruit Trees, Ornamental Shrubs. The street curved along beside the tree farm and around to the right again. As nearly as I remembered, there was no other exit, and anyone driving back there would be forced to return. The Sa
nta Teresa Humane Society had its facility toward the far corners of the cul-de-sac, as did the County Animal Control. The other businesses were commercial enterprises: a construction firm, warehouses, a heavy-equipment yard.

  I turned left, driving slowly, checking both sides of the street for signs of the biker. Passing the nursery on my right, I thought I saw a flicker of light, in a strobe effect, appearing through the thicket of specimen trees. I squinted, unsure, but the darkness now appeared unbroken and there was no sound. I drove on, following the street to its dead end, a matter of perhaps half a mile. Most of the properties I passed were either entirely dark or minimally lighted for burglar-repellent purposes. Twice, I caught sight of private security vehicles parked to one side. I imagined uniformed guards keeping watch, possibly with the help of attack-trained dogs. I returned to the main road without any clear-cut evidence the biker had come this way. It was now after two. I took the southbound on-ramp to the 101. Traffic was sparse, and I returned to my apartment without seeing him again.

  Mercifully, the next morning was a Saturday and I owed myself nothing in the way of exercise. I pulled the pillows over my head, shutting out sound and light. I lay bundled under my quilt in an artificial dark, feeling like a small furry beast. At nine, I finally crawled out of my burrow. I brushed my teeth, showered, and shampooed the previous night’s smoke from my hair. Then I wound down the spiral stairs and put on a pot of coffee before I fetched the morning paper.

  Once I’d finished breakfast, I put a call through to Jonah Robb at home. I’d first encountered Jonah four years before when he was working missing persons for the Santa Teresa Police Department. I was checking on the whereabouts of a woman who later turned up dead. Jonah was separated from his wife, struggling to come to terms with their strange bond, which had started in junior high school and gone downhill from there. In the course of their years together, they’d separated so many times I think he’d lost count. Camilla worked him like a yo-yo. First, she’d kick him out; then she’d take him back or leave him for long periods, during which he wouldn’t see his two daughters for months on end. It was in the midst of one of their extended separations that he and I became involved in a relationship. At some point I finally understood that he’d never be free of her. I broke off intimate contact and we reverted to friends.

  He’d since been promoted to lieutenant and was now working homicide. We remained buddies of a sort, though I hadn’t set eyes on him for months. The last time I’d run into him was at a homicide scene, where he confessed Camilla was pregnant—by someone else, of course.

  “What’s up?” he said, once I’d identified myself.

  I gave him a rundown on the situation. The LAPD detectives had filled him in on the shooting, so he knew that much. I gave him a truncated version of my dealings with them and then filled in additional details: the money Tim owed Mickey, the biker appearing at his Culver City apartment and again at the Honky-Tonk.

  Jonah said, “Did you get the license plate?”

  “There wasn’t one. I’m guessing the bike’s stolen, but I can’t be sure. I can’t swear he’s connected to the shooting, but it seems too coincidental he’d show up in both places, especially since he’s said to be a friend of Tim’s. Can you ask Traffic to keep an eye out? I’d love to know who he is and how he’s mixed up in this.”

  “I’ll see what I can do and call you back,” he said. “What’s the story on the gun that was left at the scene? Was that really yours?”

  “Afraid so,” I said. “That was a wedding gift from Mickey, who purchased it in his name. Later, we switched the registration. It’s a sweet little Smith and Wesson I haven’t seen since the spring of ’72, which is when I left. Maybe Mickey had it on him and the shooter took it away.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “I haven’t heard. I’ll try calling in a bit, but the truth is, I don’t want to ask for fear the news won’t be good.”

  “I don’t blame you. Scary shit. Is there anything else?”

  “What’s the word on the Honky-Tonk? What’s going on out there?”

  “Nothing that I’ve heard. As in what?”

  “I don’t know. It could be dope,” I said. “I’ve been in there twice, and it feels off to me. I guess, at the back of my mind, I’m wondering if Mickey picked up on it too. I’m assuming he came up at first to bug Tim about the money owed. But why the return trips?”

  “I’ll ask around. It’s possible the vice guys know something that I don’t. What about yourself? How are you these days?”

  “Doing great, considering I’m suspected of trying to kill my ex. Speaking of which, how’s Camilla?”

  “She’s big. Baby’s due July fourth, and according to the amnio it’s a boy. We’re excited about that.”

  “She’s living with you?”

  “Temporarily.”

  “Ah.”

  “Well, yeah. Her turd of a boyfriend abandoned her as soon as he found out she was pregnant. She’s got nobody else.”

  “The poor thing,” I said, in a tone of voice that went over his head.

  “Anyway, it gives me a chance to spend time with the girls.”

  “That it does,” I said. “Well, it’s your life. Good luck.”

  “I’m going to need it,” he said dryly, but he sounded pretty cheerful for a guy whose nuts were being slammed in a car door.

  After he hung up, I dialed UCLA and asked for ICU. I identified myself to the woman who answered and asked about Mickey. She put me on hold. When she came back on, an eternity later, I realized I’d stopped breathing.

  “He’s about the same.”

  I said, “Thanks,” and hung up quickly before she changed her mind.

  I spent the bulk of the day in a fit of cleaning, armed with sponges and rags, a bucket of soapy water, a dustcloth, and a vacuum cleaner, plus newspapers and vinegar water for the windows I could reach. The phone rang at four. I paused in my labors, tempted to let the answering machine pick up. Of course, curiosity got the better of me.

  “Hey, Kinsey. Eric Hightower here. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

  “This is fine, Eric. How are you?”

  “Doing good,” he said. “Listen, Dixie and I are putting together a little gathering: cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. This is strictly impromptu, just a couple dozen folk, but we wanted you to come. Any time between five and seven.”

  I took advantage of the moment to open my mail, including the manila envelope Bethel’s secretary had sent. Inside was his curriculum vitae. I tossed it in the wastebasket, then took it out again and stuck it in the bottom drawer. “You’re talking about tonight?”

  “Sure. We’ve got some friends in from Palm Springs so we’re geared up anyway. Can you make it?”

  “I’m not sure. Let me take a look at my calendar and call you right back.”

  “Bullshit. Don’t do that. You’re stalling while you think of an excuse. It’s four now. You can hop in the shower and be ready in half an hour. I’ll send the car at four-forty-five.”

  “No, no. Don’t do that. I’ll use my own.”

  “Great. We’ll see you then.”

  “I’ll do what I can, but I make no promises.”

  “If we don’t see you by six, I’m coming after you myself.”

  As soon as he hung up, I let out a wail, picturing the house, the servants, and all their la-di-da friends. I’d rather have a root canal than go to these things. Why hadn’t I just lied and told him I was tied up? Well, it was too late now. I put the cleaning gear away and trudged up the spiral stairs. I opened my closet door and stared at my dress. I admit to a neurotic sense of pride in only owning that one garment, except for times like this. I took the dress from the closet and held it up to the light. It didn’t look too bad. And then a worse thought struck. What if they were all decked out in designer jeans? What if I was the only one who showed up in a dress made of a wrinkle-free synthetic fabric that scientific tests would later prove was carcinogenic? I’d
end up looking like a social geek, which is what I am.

  18

  I drove into the parking area at the Hightowers’ estate shortly after 6 P.M. The house was ablaze, though it wouldn’t be dark for another hour yet. The evening was cool, 62 degrees, according to the report on my car radio. I parked my 1974 VW between a low-slung red Jaguar and a boxy chrome-trimmed black Rolls, where it sat looking faintly plaintive, a baby humpback whale swimming gamely among a school of sharks. In a final moment of cunning, I’d solved my fashion dilemma with the following: black flats, black tights, a very short black skirt, and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. I’d even applied a touch of makeup: powder, lip gloss, and a smudgy line of black along my lashes.

  A middle-aged white maid in a black uniform answered the door chimes and ushered me into the foyer, where she offered to take my bag. I declined, preferring to retain it on the off chance I’d spy the perfect opportunity to flee the premises. I could hear a smattering of conversation, interspersed with the kind of laughter that suggests lengthy and unrestrained access to booze. The maid murmured a discreet directive and began to cross the living room in her especially silent maid’s shoes. I followed her through the dining room and out into the screened atrium, where some fifteen to twenty people were already standing about with their drinks and cocktail napkins. A serving wench was circulating with a tray of hors d’oeuvres: teeny-weeny one-bite lamb chops with paper panties on the ends.

  As is typical of California parties, there was a percentage of people dressed far better than I and a percentage dressed like bums. The very rich seem particularly practiced at the latter, wearing baggy chinos, shapeless cotton shirts, and deck shoes with no socks. The not-so-very-rich have to work a little harder, adding an abundance of gold jewelry that might or might not be fake. I tucked my bag against the wall behind a nearby chair and then stood where I was, hoping to get my bearings before the panic set in. I didn’t know a soul and I was already flirting with the urge to escape. If I didn’t see Eric or Dixie in the next twenty seconds, I’d ease right on out.