Nobody Move

by Philip Elliott

  “Oh come on, you do. I’m going to tell you that half the money is missing.”

  Eddie waited.

  “And what are you going to say next?”

  Eddie waited some more.

  “You’re going to say that if I let the girl go, you’ll tell me where the rest of my money is.”

  “You got it, Saul. You should have had this meeting by yourself.”

  Marcel appeared at the table with a half-empty bottle of amber liquid and two glasses. Saul watched Marcel pour the stuff into the glasses. A smell of oak and peat wafted up from them.

  Marcel faded into the background somewhere behind Eddie.

  Saul said, “You see, Eddie, you don’t have as much leverage as you think. I hold your life in my hands. Hers too. And you’re gonna make me do something?”

  Eddie glanced at Dakota. She was staring at the floor, vacant.

  “Why don’t you just let her go?” Eddie said. “Let her walk out the door and I’ll tell you where your money is. She’s got nothing to do with this.”

  “Didn’t I tell you you’d say that? But she does have something to do with this. And before you start complaining, remember that you’re the one who didn’t live up to your side of the bargain. I told you to bring me two million.”

  “I’ll get your two mil’, just—”

  Saul raised a hand. “Enough. Tell me what you think of that scotch.”

  Eddie blinked, his mind reeling.

  “Taste it,” Saul said. “Then I’m going to tell you something.”

  Eddie picked up the glass, submitting fully to the man holding all the cards, and tasted the whiskey. It was like drinking silk, warm and spicy. He felt it descending his chest.

  “What do you think?” Saul said.

  “It’s the best whiskey I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Do you know how I got in this business?”

  “No.”

  Saul picked up his glass and circled it beneath his wide nostrils. He sighed with pleasure, and swallowed some of the scotch. He set the glass down.

  “I was sitting where you’re sitting right now. One man had a pistol aimed at my face, the other had a contract spread out in front of him. ‘You see this pistol,’ the man with the contract said—the one holding the gun didn’t say a thing the whole time—‘This pistol can come for you anytime. It can come into your home when your family are sleeping.’ They told me to sign the contract, which would make their employer, Jemeka Johnson, the ‘Coke Queen of L.A.’—maybe you’ve heard of her—this restaurant’s primary distributor of fresh produce. I signed it. And they did deliver produce, top quality stuff. But they also delivered cocaine. They were laundering their money through the restaurant and using it as a base to conduct deals, and paying me well for it. They look for businesses they can get involved in, look for business owners they think are more likely to reap the rewards than tell the cops.”

  Saul sipped the whiskey and straightened his cuffs. “Business was good. I was making more money than I could have made in ten years of only owning a restaurant. But I never forgot what that fuck said to me that night, here, at this very table. One year later almost to the day I brought a pistol of my own to his home while his family were sleeping. I shot his wife and two little girls while they slept, but not him. I made him look at their bodies, see how it was his fault for ever putting me in that position, for disrespecting me. Then I killed him. As for the Coke Queen … let’s just say that nobody will ever find her.”

  Eddie’s mouth felt dry as a corpse.

  “Take a good look at your girl here, Eddie. Make it count.”

  Eddie lunged forward. “No Saul, wait, Jesus—”

  A thick hand grabbed Eddie’s neck and slammed his forehead against the table. The pain was at once vivid and far away.

  Saul rose from the chair and stood over Dakota, who did nothing but continue to stare at the floor as if unaware of what was happening around her, or simply not caring.

  The hand remained on Eddie’s neck, holding him in the chair. One of the men handed Saul a pistol. Saul cocked it and pressed it against Dakota’s temple.

  “Wait! Wait! Saul, please! Wait!” Eddie struggled in the chair. A fist thumped his jaw and sent him sprawling onto the floor. Two men grabbed him and pulled him to his feet. One of them punched him in the gut and he dropped to his knees, gasping. The men held him by the shoulders. Dakota lifted her head and looked at him. Her eyes held no fear in them, or sympathy. Nothing.

  Saul said, “You’re a stupid fuck, Eddie. All you had to do was show up here when you were told after that shit with Bill. I would have given you a slap on the wrist and sent you on your way. It was only ever about respect, and you were set on giving me none. Now look what happens.”

  “Saul, wait, I’ll get your money, all of it, just don’t hurt her.”

  “You’re the one hurting her, Eddie,” Saul said, and turned his head away as if to avoid the spatter of blood.

  They cruised around downtown Los Angeles in aimless circles looking for a classic teal and cream Chevrolet Impala. It was proving fruitless. They’d only seen one car that could be described as classic, but it certainly wasn’t a Chevy and the driver looked too old to walk up the stairs, let alone murder dozens of men in cold blood.

  Alison chatted with Bukowski while she drove, a little disappointed at her hunger for contact with another adult.

  “I have to say, you’ve got good taste in music, Detective,” Bukowski said while they waited at a red light. She’d played one of her Spotify playlists while they cruised; currently Patti Smith’s “Because the Night” grooved out of the speakers.

  “Yeah, thanks. Makes the shifts go by a bit easier.”

  The lights turned green and Alison leaned on the accelerator.

  “You married, Bukowski?”

  “Why, you interested?”

  “Just curious.”

  “No, I’m not married. But I am expecting a child soon.”

  “Oh, congratulations. Your first?”

  “Yeah.”

  Alison smiled. “I have one myself, an eight-year-old.”

  “Boy or girl?”

  “Boy.”

  “I don’t know what mine is yet. A boy would be nice. Or a girl.”

  Alison took a left at an intersection, not bothering to check where they were. “How long until?”

  “Just two months now,” Bukowski said.

  “Nervous?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  Alison chuckled. “Yeah, I bet.”

  “Any advice? You know, for when the baby’s born.”

  Alison glanced at him, his expression as serious as ever. She couldn’t help feeling a kinship with this man about to embark on the most terrifyingly beautiful experience there is.

  “Put your child first, always. Fuck this job. I gave it too much of myself for too long, and now there’s not much left. Your relationship with your child is everything.”

  Bukowski nodded, his forehead creased with earnestness.

  Alison glanced around. They were on Alameda, outside Chinatown. She took a left onto Alpine. Ahead, a yellow sign with red kanji letters beneath “JEWELRY” glowed on a street corner like a lava lamp.

  “I could use some noodles right about now,” Alison said.

  “After that burger and fries? Bullshit.”

  Before Alison could respond the radio came to life.

  “Detective Lockley, this is Officer Davies,” said a crackly voice. “I may have spotted your suspect vehicle.”

  Alison lunged for the receiver. “This is Lockley. What’s your location?”

  For a few long seconds there was no response. Alison almost asked again before Davies said, “Third and Highland. Suspect is heading west.”

  “What car is the suspect driving?” Alison said, needing confirmation.

  “It’s a classic Impala, that’s for sure, and looks like a sixty-six from the picture I got here.”

  Alison’s pulse galloped. “The color?” />
  “Teal and cream, like you said.”

  “That’s him, that’s him,” Alison said to Bukowski, adrenaline beginning to rush through her. Into the radio: “Tail the suspect from a distance and do not intercept. I’m on my way.”

  She pressed her foot to the floor and made sure her seatbelt was fastened.

  She looked at Bukowski. “Hold on.”

  It was dark when Rufus reached the restaurant. He preferred it that way. After the blond, Sawyer, had told him that Eddie would be showing up at the restaurant soon, and with two million dollars, Rufus finished Sawyer off and drove straight to a gun store and got himself a 12-gauge Remington 870 and a couple boxes of shells. He enjoyed the irony of the purchase: before he’d watched the life leave Sawyer’s eyes, the man had asked him through bloodied teeth what kind of cowboy don’t carry a gun. Rufus had answered by saying that guns were for cowards, which he believed still, but only a dumbass would walk into a room full of guns with nothing but a pair of daggers. Plus, a shotgun inspires fear. Point that long, hungry barrel at somebody and they’ll do anything to stay off the menu.

  He parked across the street from the restaurant and killed the engine. He fed the shotgun some shells and shoved the rest into his pockets.

  Outside the car, the warm night air tickled his skin. A sharp sickle moon cut into the black velvet sky.

  Two million dollars. Not only would he make them suffer for what they did to Bill, he’d get rich in the process. He’d buy a ranch with the money, like he should have done before he squandered his retirement fund after leaving this goddamn city a decade ago. He’d buy a ranch and have Bill’s body brought there and bury him under an oak tree out the front, his brother home at last. The thought brought a smile to his face. He gripped the cold steel of the shotgun from the passenger seat, shut the door of the Chevy, and crossed the street toward The Long Goodbye.

  “Well well, looks like I missed the party,” said a gruff voice behind Eddie. It took him a second to remember where he’d heard it before: the motel. It was the fucking cowboy.

  Saul gazed past Eddie, his pistol still at Dakota’s temple.

  “I was wondering when you’d show up,” Saul said. “But you’ve caught me at a bad time.”

  “So you’ve been expecting me,” the cowboy said.

  Eddie watched the cowboy in the mirror behind Saul. He’d forgotten how large the man was; with the hat and those boots he appeared over seven feet. A leather jacket came down to his knees, black as oblivion. In his right hand he held a shotgun.

  Saul lowered the pistol. “If you had any sense you would have left L.A. soon as you caught wind of my name. But if you had any sense you wouldn’t have come to L.A. looking for trouble in the first place. So yes, I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Then you got no excuse.”

  “Excuse?”

  “For not running as far away from me as your li’l legs could carry you,” the cowboy said, coming to a halt halfway between Eddie and the entrance foyer.

  Saul wheezed a humorless laugh. “This guy,” he said, glancing at the men around him. “One of my men didn’t show tonight. I suppose you know something about that?”

  “If you mean the blond, you might like to know that his last act in this life was to piss himself while he begged me to spare him. Right after he told me everything about this meet, and his plans for you.”

  The cowboy smirked. “Look at you. Ain’t got a clue. Ignorant fool.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Sawyer did your bank job with him—” nodding toward Eddie—“and the nigger. Sawyer and the nigger was goin’ leave the country with the money but your hitman disrupted things. That’s the problem with lazy pieces of shit like you—you get too many people involved in your business and never do nothin’ yourself. You think I’d get a man to do my killin’ for me? Eddie here probably told you the hitman killed your nigger outta double-crossing them, but that ain’t the truth. Your hitman killed the nigger ’cause they crossed him. Your hitman was bringin’ the money to you when they killed him. Eddie and Sawyer knew you wanted Eddie and the nigger dead soon as that job was done. They was planning on killin’ you here tonight. But there you stand, dumb as a fuckin’ post. You ain’t got a clue what’s goin’ on round you. All y’all behind each other’s backs like a bunch of schoolgirls. Ain’t a single one of you knows ’bout loyalty. I always hated this city, but loyalty used to mean something here.”

  Saul glanced at Eddie, looking smug. “Looks like you did me a favor then,” he said to the cowboy.

  “I couldn’t have the blond killing you. I came a long way for the privilege.”

  Saul’s eyes narrowed, the man getting tired of the back-and-forth.

  “You’re guilty of ignorance yourself,” he said. “Bill Kane. He was your brother? The reason for all these theatrics? Eddie there killed your brother, and not because I told him to, but because he’s an imbecile and his finger slipped on the trigger. And that’s it, that’s the whole reason. Your brother was a pathetic man, and he died a pathetic death. And so will you.”

  Saul glanced at his men. “Someone shoot this fucking guy already.”

  19 | A Long Goodbye

  They spotted the Chevy right as the driver—a monstrously tall man dressed up like Lee Van Cleef—stepped out of it and marched toward a restaurant across the street with a shotgun in his hand. Parked in front of Officer Davies in his patrol car, Alison had to think fast about what to do. She signaled to Davies to remain inside the car and watched as the Texan entered the restaurant, a swanky place lit up by neon.

  “What are we waiting for?” Bukowski said.

  “I don’t want to risk a gunfight on the street when we can surprise him behind closed doors. Plus, a shotgun isn’t this guy’s style. I think something big’s about to go down. I’m gonna go speak with Davies. Confirm back-up’s en route and follow me.”

  She exited the car and went to Davies.

  “Looks like it’s your guy,” Davies said through the half-open window. “What now?”

  “Now we go in. I don’t know what we’re walking into but we don’t have time to wait.”

  “And here I thought I was gonna have a quiet night.”

  “In this city?”

  “No shit. What’s this guy wanted for?”

  “Multiple murders. He’s a homicidal maniac. I’ve linked him to a bunch of murders on the West Coast since eighty-seven.”

  Davies nodded. “Then let’s get the bastard.”

  He got out of the car and checked his pistol. Bukowski exited Alison’s car and jogged over to them. He nodded a greeting at Davies.

  “You ready to go in there, Bukowski?” Alison said.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be, Detective.”

  “You got your weapon ready?”

  Bukowski took his Glock 22 out of its holster and racked the slide.

  Alison said, “I don’t know what we’ll find in there. Keep your gun pointed at threats and if someone shoots at you, shoot them back. Got it?”

  Bukowski nodded vigorously.

  Alison grabbed her own pistol from its holster. “Let’s go.”

  They crossed the street, which was quiet now that the stores were closed, and, passing under palm trees, approached the restaurant in silence. Alison felt the tension in her muscles and a sharpening of her senses as she peered into the darkness outside the restaurant doors.

  A red sign on the frosted glass of the doors indicated that the restaurant was closed. Davies took the left side, Alison the right, Bukowski behind her.

  Davies nodded at her. She nodded back and took a breath, held it in. Whatever awaited them in there wasn’t going to be pretty. On the exhale she stepped in front of the door and pushed it open with her shoulder, both hands gripping the pistol tightly.

  The opened doorway revealed a small foyer with a leather sofa and hollow window area behind which a maître d’ would presumably deal with arriving customers during business hours.

  A man
was speaking somewhere inside: “Bill Kane. He was your brother, right? The reason for all these theatrics?”

  Alison stuck her head outside the foyer and glimpsed the dining area. There was the Texan, standing with his back to her, the shotgun pointed at the floor in his right hand. Ahead of him, two men in suits held a man on his knees by the arms. Three other men, also in suits, stood nearby, one of them—a short, chubby man—holding a pistol next to a young woman also on her knees. Mirrors along each wall gave it all an eerie, spaceless sensation.

  The chubby man continued speaking: “Eddie there killed your brother, and not because I told him to, but because he’s an imbecile and his finger slipped on the trigger. And that’s it, that’s the whole reason. Your brother was a pathetic man, and he died a pathetic death. And so will you.”

  So the Texan was Kane’s brother, lusting for vengeance. And the man on the floor was one of Kane’s, and Kaya’s, killers.

  The woman on her knees—with dark skin, an Indian look about her—lifted her gaze from the floor and met Alison’s. For a second Alison thought she saw surprise on the woman’s face, but then the woman looked at the floor again.

  Indian … that would make her Dakota. Those eyes—Alison had seen eyes just like them before …

  The chubby man glanced at some of the men around him. “Someone shoot this fucking guy already,” he said.

  Fuck. There was no other choice but to make a move.

  Alison lunged out of the foyer. “L.A.P.D.! Drop your weapons!”

  Never in his life had Eddie ever thought he’d be glad to hear someone scream “L.A.P.D.!” He almost pissed himself out of sheer surprise when he heard the woman’s voice, and he could see the same shock on Saul’s face now as Saul and his men pointed five guns over Eddie’s head. Dakota seemed to have perked up at the sound; she watched the source of the scream intently, her eyes alert. Eddie tried to make eye contact with her but he may as well have been in Belize. He spun his neck to look. A woman in a gray suit held a pistol in that unmistakable, tight, two-handed police-grip, her eyes darting to the left and right in an attempt to watch all of the men at once. Behind her two men in police uniform aimed pistols of their own at Saul and his men, the younger-looking cop appearing much less comfortable than the older. The cowboy stood in the middle facing Eddie, cool as a desert breeze.