Rare Lansdale Page 18

  "It's almost like an honor to share it with him." She looked out from her dreams and cigarette smoke. "Damn!" she said. "I must be getting old and sentimental. I sound like a fool."

  "Not hardly," Slater said. "Not hardly."

  They sat for a moment in awkward silence, then Slater said, "Leona, you were here the night of the argument?"

  "Argument? Oh!" she said. "You mean with Anibal? How'd you know about that?"

  "Bartender. You know Anibal very well?"

  "No. I've never really met him. Matter of fact, the night of the argument was the only time I've ever seen him in the flesh. I've seen pictures of him, but that's it. Why Jason worries about that fool kid I'll never know. It bothers him to no end that the kid dislikes him. It's almost like a father-son generation-gap thing."

  "That might be putting it lightly from what I've heard. Tell me about the argument."

  She put her cigarette out in the ashtray. "Not much to tell. The kid got steamed up about the way he thought Jason was pushing him, had a few beers too many and came to tell Jason what he thought of him.

  "Jason gave him hell for drinking, breaking training, something like that, and Anibal got mad enough to jerk him up from the table. They shouted at each other a bit, then Anibal let go and stomped out."

  "No blows?"

  "No. Just a lot of yelling. Jason told me after the kid left that he was going out back for some fresh air and that he'd see me at closing time. He didn't come back. It worried me, but not a lot. Jason was a temperamental guy and did that sort of thing now and then, often enough that I was used to it and didn't worry too much. Till now. Right now I'm worried."

  "The night of the argument, the bartender tells me Jason was pretty drunk. That right?"

  "He'd been drinking, but he wasn't drunk. I've never seen

  him drunk. James would tell you that though. He thinks I should stick with young white men, like him. James isn't my type by a long shot. He loves to think Jason is a no-good drunk. It builds his ego."

  "A little thing. James tells me that Anibal went out the front way. What about that?"

  "Uh-huh. And Jason went out the back. They didn't leave five seconds apart of each other."

  "Okay. Another thing. James says Jason passes out a lot of bucks. That true?"

  "Yeah. He's a heavy tipper. I've told him that sort of thing could get him in trouble. I hope..."

  The lights went suddenly dim. A redheaded woman with a movie starlet's build, if not a starlet's face, came out on the little stage wrapped in a Chinese-style robe and yelled, "Five minutes, Leona." The redhead's voice was as sharp as a knife.

  Leona waved a hand at her, turned back to Slater. "Head honcho. I've got to get a move on."

  "One more thing, and I'll make it quick."

  "Shoot."

  "This spot where the two of you go-the pier. Could you tell me where it is?"

  She had stood up from the table to go, now she sat back down, clasped her hands together, said, "May I ask why?"

  "No particular reason. Just following a few hunches. Nothing really."

  Leona stared at Slater's trained impassiveness for a long moment. "Got a pen?" she finally said.

  Slater picked an old ballpoint from his coat pocket, gave it to her.

  "It's easy to find," she said, and she pulled a napkin from the holder and started drawing. When she was almost finished, the redhead came out and screamed at her again. The knife-edged voice was sharper than before. Over his shoulder Leona said, "Coming, coming."

  She handed Slater the map and pen. The shadows clung to her face like spiders. She said, "Listen, I love Jason, very much. I know it sounds silly but I'm telling you this because when you find him, even if it's bad, I want to know. My phone number is there on the napkin."

  Slater looked at it, folded it away in his pocket.

  "Promise me you'll let me know," she said. "Promise me that."

  "I promise," Slater said.

  "Good." She wiped at her eyes. "Contacts. I never have gotten used to them. Find him, please."

  Slater nodded.

  Leona turned and walked away quickly. Slater watched her go up the stage steps, across to the once dark-blue curtains and disappear behind them. He got up and made his way through the gathering crowd and out to the car, drove away feeling strangely small and very, very alone.

  It was about a five-block drive to the place on Leona's map. More than a rock's throw, but no real trek. Slater eased his Chevy down an embankment made by recent bull-dozing, and parked near a rickety weather-chewed stretch of pier. He took a flashlight from the glove box and got out.

  The salt spray blew cold against his cheek and stung his nostrils. The timber pilings of the pier creaked with the rolling motion of the water. Paper and other debris discarded by beach lovers blew up around his ankles and crunched underfoot.

  He went down to the pier and walked out on it. It creaked ominously. There was an odor of decaying fish closer to the water, and when Slater played the beam on the shadowed sea, it looked dead, dirty and forgotten. Across the way, the lights of some factory's night shift showed their smoke rising into the blackness of the night, fading the moon. Down on the water the lights cast murky shadows. Behind him, over the rise, he could hear the hurry of traffic.

  He flashed the light all around, turned, walked off the pier and went up and down the beach with the same lack of results.

  Then he had a hunch. He didn't know what else to call it-just a thought, a strong thought. He went back to the pier and walked out on the lip, got down on his stomach, hung his upper body over and worked the flash around.

  It was a good hunch.

  It floated in the shallow brine halfway between the embankment and the shabby creosote piling that held up the left rear of the pier. Only half of it was showing. The torso bloated. The shirt that covered it was black from water and stuffed as tight as a German sausage. The head was grey, shapeless, with a lot of flesh missing. The arms were the same. Most likely crabs had been feeding. The body seemed to be held in place by the debris collected beneath the pier-a bobbing cork once human.

  Slater flicked off the flash and vomited in the water.

  V

  It was hard to tell positively at such quick notice, as no identification was on the body, but the GulfCity cops agreed with Slater that it was most likely what was left of Jason Krim. As to the cause of death-too early to tell. But neither the police nor Slater thought it an accidental drowning.

  Slater refused to tell how he found out about the pier or about Anibal Martinez and the borrowed Lincoln. He told them it was coincidence. He didn't think they believed him for a moment. Slater and the GulfCity cops were not on the best of terms.

  Slater wanted to talk to Yank first before he tipped his hand. Of course the cops would get to Yank first. That's why he wanted to wait. Yank, solid as he was, might be inexperienced in these matters and let slip more than the cops need know at the moment. Besides, Slater decided, he needed time to think and rest.

  After the usual hard time, the cops surprised him and let him go with a promise to stay in touch. Getting while the getting was good, Slater drove away from the station at just the proper speed, made sure to use his signals.

  He tried to sort the whole business out in his mind. He decided he should feel pretty relieved about the whole matter, but somehow the decision wasn't enough. The missing persons case had been wrapped up in less that 24 hours and the cops, for some unknown generous reason, weren't holding him for withholding information, downright lying, in fact. As for the reason behind Krim's death...

  Not his worry-Slater tried to convince himself. His job was to find Krim, nothing more. That he had done. It didn't help the image of Krim's bloated mutilated body fade from his thoughts however. He wasn't looking forward to sleep and dreams.

  Maybe, if Slater had not been so intent on his thoughts, he would have noticed earlier than he did that a grey late-model Plymouth was following him. It looked just like the one he ha
d seen after leaving Yank's gym. He could see it clearly beneath the street lights.

  The Plymouth swung up behind Slater with a sudden burst of power, hung on his tail so close he felt as if he were pulling it with a chain. He gave the Chevy the gas, darted in and out of traffic, which was reasonably heavy, and scared the hell out of more than a few motorists. One of them gave Slater her middle finger to look at. The pursuing Plymouth received the same salute.

  Slater made a quick turn in front of a brake-screeching Volkswagen, darted off the main drag onto a lightless street called Pleasant. In the rearview mirror, he saw the Plymouth make the same corner, still hot on his trail.

  The Chevy was making a sound like a strangled pig, but Slater kept pushing it. He took a quick right, almost on two wheels, then a quicker left, certainly on two wheels, then a more reserved right up a residential street.

  He almost ran over a luminous DEAD END sign. Slamming hard on the brakes, he slid slightly to a stop, killed the lights, put it in reverse. He checked the rearview mirror for lights. Nothing. He backed a hundred feet, caught a flick of lights out of the corner of his eye. Jerking it in D, he pulled up in a driveway and sat.

  No dogs barked. No lights in the house came on.

  Beams that might have belonged to the Plymouth paused at the intersection, then went on. After sitting for another 20 minutes, avoiding the cigarette he was dying to have, he eased out of the drive with his lights off. He had the window down and his ears cocked. Straining his eyes into the darkness, he eased up to the intersection.

  The Plymouth wasn't hiding around the corner.

  Slater turned on his lights and drove home.

  Old age, Slater figured, was probably not a very good excuse, but it just might have been part of the reason he drove home not expecting them to be waiting for him. They had done their homework.

  He pulled the Chevy up the drive and parked it in front of the garage and got out. He was starting up the walk when the metal door to the garage flew up with a shrieking sound.

  A big man with a shaved head, grey squinty eyes and a nose that could have pecked its way through a cement block stood where the door had been. He held a.45 automatic in his hand. It was pointing at Slater's chest.

  "Hi, sugar," the bald man said. "We've been waiting for you."

  Slater raised his hands slowly. Even if he had been wearing a gun it would have been of no avail. Baldy had him dead to rights. Behind him he heard a car pull up the drive and park behind his Chevy.

  Baldy waved the.45. "Turn around and move."

  Slater turned toward the grey Plymouth. The man behind the wheel looked every bit as bright and handsome as a lobotomized gorilla. Almost as big, too.

  Moving before the prod of the.45, Slater walked around to the passenger side and got in. Baldy sandwiched Slater in between himself and Gorilla. "Let's go," Baldy said.

  Gorilla backed the Plymouth out on Mulberry and drove over to Southmore. From there he made a left off Southmore and down a dark narrow street that led away from the sights, sounds and lights of Pasadena proper. Slater realized that pretty soon they'd be out in the boondocks. The thought did not cheer him.

  "Guess where we're taking you, snooper?" Gorilla asked sweetly.

  "The drive-in movies?" Slater answered.

  "Hey!" Gorilla growled across to Baldy. "The snooper's got a sense of humor."

  Baldy threw a heavy arm around Slater's shoulders. "Good. That's real good, snoop, 'cause you're gonna need a sense of humor for what we've got in mind. We're gonna give you somethin' to scream about."

  Slater sat quietly, thinking, weighing his chances. Baldy removed his arms, put his fingers together and cracked his knuckles.

  "Impatient?" Slater asked.

  Baldy just smiled.

  Gorilla turned off at a dark dirt road decorated with storage buildings and an all-too-occasional burglar light. When they had gone a little less than half a block, he pulled over next to a row of aluminum warehouses and parked. Baldy got out and waved Slater to follow with the barrel of his.45. Gorilla got out on his side and went around to meet them.

  Gorilla said, "You know, snooper, we could make this easy on you. Just one shot between the peepers and no more snooper." Gorilla showed the detective a tight grin. "But me and Sol don't go for no cheap way out.

  "You see, I sort of enjoy my work, if you know what I mean. What's the fun of blowing a guy's brains out and making a lot of noise, when I can beat them out and enjoy myself a whole lot better."

  He was cracking his knuckles now, warming up to the task. The knuckle-cracking, Slater thought dryly, must be something of a trademark for the pair.

  Sol moved up close on Slater's right side.

  Slater said, "Sol's going to hold me while you prove how tough you are, or is he going to shoot a leg out from under me so I won't be able to play rough?"

  Gorilla scowled. "You like playing the tough guy, don't you, peeper?"

  "It's not like I have a lot of competition in you boys."

  "Ahhh!" Gorilla growled. "Okay, snooper, I'm gonna give you your big break, if you catch my drift. I hate you snoopers. Always with your big nose where it don't belong. So instead of beating your brains in real quick, I'm gonna make it hurt so bad you're gonna wish I would kill you."

  "Your mouth is doing that now.

  Gorilla snarled and threw up his big fist.

  "The hell with this, Jerry," Sol said. He pointed the.45 at Slater. Slater winced.

  Gorilla reached out and slapped his hand over Sol's gun and pushed it down. "Naw, let me have my fun."

  Sol sighed, looked at his watch. "Make it quick. Put him away.

  "Unh-unh, I'm gonna make him beg some first."

  Gorilla took a boxer's stance and shuffled forward.

  VI

  Even while picking a fight with Gorilla, Slater had used the distraction to examine his surroundings. To the right of him was a row of storage stalls. To the left was a dirt road, a pasture and, in the distance, a few anemic house lights. Behind him was a chest-high chain-length fence and, behind that, a small stock pond that the moon showed to be below the water line.

  Across the way was another fence and, opposite it, lightless houses. The only remaining direction was forward, and in that path lay the Plymouth, Gorilla, and Sol with his worthy companion, Colt.45. That was Slater's last choice.

  Gorilla was three feet away from Slater, bobbing and weaving. It looked as if he knew something about the fight game.

  So did Slater.

  Slater went up on his toes, started shuffling.

  Gorilla went for him like a heat-seeking missile.

  Slater sidestepped nimbly and lashed out with a roundhouse kick to the burly man's groin. It struck Gorilla with a whap. He stumbled, blew out some air. Slater stepped in deep and slammed an elbow down, hard, into the small of the man's back. He made sure the blow wasn't too hard. He didn't want to put him away quick. That would mean a.45 slug in the head. Slater had other plans. He stepped back.

  Gorilla got his back straight, blew out some short, choppy breaths, took in a few deep ones.

  "Something take your breath away?" Slater chided.

  The injured man got his back straight, said through wheezes, "I'm gonna... huhhuh... tear you... huhuhu... apart."

  "Do tell," Slater said and the moonlight flicked off his smile. He stepped in quick and popped a few sucker punches at the big man's face.

  Bulling his way forward, the Gorilla flicked out a lucky left and nipped Slater on the cheek. Slater managed to slip it well enough so as to get only a buzz from the blow. It got Gorilla excited, however. He thought he was moving in for the kill.

  Slater let him come, flicked two stinging lefts to his eyes, went for the same combination of lefts. This time Gorilla parried. That was what Slater wanted.

  He faked another left and, when the big man's hands went up to protect his face, the detective surprised him with a sharp kick to the kneecap by a sizzling right cross that staggered the enrag
ed behemoth, but didn't send him down for the full count.

  Slater slacked off, danced a little. Gorilla followed.

  Slater's snazzy footwork was gradually moving him backward, carrying him eventually to the fence. He pressed his back tight against it, put up his hands and looked determined to hold his ground.

  Gorilla smiled. He felt he had the detective penned now, and without room to move he concluded that his size and strength would win the day.

  Slater had other plans. When Gorilla was nearly on top of him, he bent his knees, ducked his head and kicked back and up with all his might. The effort sent him over the fence backwards. He hit on his side and rolled to his feet running.