Dangerous Times (12 page)

“Fuck!” he cried out, stubby fingers sinking
into the dirt. Staub sat up in the shallow grave with the vague
memory of that—that what? Ghost? Angel, that’s what it was; the
last thing he had seen. Johnny-boy with a halo on his head,
swinging the shovel.

The ground took on a sudden glow. Staub
feared the return of the angel. He looked to the heavens. It was
the moon peeking from behind a cloud. His eyes dropped to the mound
of dirt, the shovel within reach, his bottle of Jack next to
it.

Head still pounding he struggled to his
knees. He took hold of the bottle, uncapped it, gulped down what
was left and tossed it away empty. “Hair’a the dog,” he burped.

Staub propped the shovel upright and boosted
himself to his feet. He leaned on the shovel and turned his
bloodshot eyes toward the other side of the hole.

“What the fuck?!” he spluttered.
Johnny-boy’s body was in a brown suit, beige shirt and maroon tie.
“An’ shoes?!” Staub blurted out, never having seen Kirk without his
black boots on.

“How did—?” He used the shovel as a cane and
stumbled out of the shallow grave. He stood alongside the body, a
veil of darkness creeping over it; the moon receding behind a
cloud.

And music…music coming from somewhere deep
inside his aching head. It was getting louder, closer. Mexican
crap, Staub thought.

“Shit!” he gasped as a beam of light sliced
through the trees. Somebody was headed for the clearing.

Using the shovel for support, Staub hobbled
off in the other direction, muttering curses as he worked his way
toward the trees.

Chapter
30

“Que es eso…” whispered Alfredo, flashlight
held on the graveside body.

Valerie hooked an arm through his and stood
speechless.

Juan and Maria halted alongside them. Juan
slid the boom box from his shoulder and shut the music off. Eyes on
the body, he flinched as Maria grasped his hand and said, “Madre
mia…”

The two couples were quiet then, all eyes
following the flashlight beam, Alfredo panning it slowly over the
encircling trees.

“I don’t see nobody,” Juan said, breaking
the silence. He set the boom box down, went to the body and dropped
to his knees.

“Juan!” Maria cautioned him.

Alfredo stepped to Juan with the light and
said, “Don’t touch nothing.” He turned to Valerie. “Your gloves,
Val.”

She took them off and handed them over.
Maria saying, “Let’s go down, call the police.”

“Later,” Juan squinted up toward her in the
light. He took the calfskin gloves from Alfredo and tugged them on.
“Dios mio, Val,” he said. “You got small hands. My fingers almost
don’t bend.”

“Rip her gloves,” Maria warned, “you pay for
them.”

“Okay,” Juan smiled, “but maybe now she can
buy a whole dozen.” He reached into the inside pocket of the dead
man’s suit jacket.

Maria edged closer to Valerie.

Juan pulled the wallet out and said, “Nice
‘n’ thick.” He removed the cash from the bill compartment and
counted it. “Ohhh, man,” he sneered with disappointment. “Seventeen
dollars.”

“Forget it,” Alfredo said, standing over
him, shining the light on the wallet. “Lookit all them credit
cards.”

“Yeah…” Juan agreed, flipping through
them.

“No!” Valerie whispered harshly, finally
voicing her opinion. “Don’t you take nothing but cash. Get caught
using them credit cards, the police will say we killed him.”

“We use them fast,” Alfredo told her, “in
the morning, soon as the stores open.”

“No problema,” Juan shrugged. “‘Lectric
City, open twenty-four hours.”

“No!” Maria objected. “Val’s right, they
always catch people that way.”

“Jesucristo,” Juan sighed in defeat. He laid
the wallet on the ground.

“Gold wedding ring,” Alfredo pointed out
with the flashlight.

“He has familia,” Valerie said
sympathetically.

Maria said, “Touch that ring, Juan, you
never touch me again!”

Juan frowned and put a gloved hand on the
suit sleeve. Then smiled as he pushed it up enough to reveal an
elegant watch.

“Okay,” Maria nodded, agreeable at last,
“long as there is nothing on the back.”

Juan fumbled with the strap, got it off the
wrist and flipped it over. Alfredo brought the light down
close.

“Dios mio,” Juan frowned again. “‘To my one
and only…’”

“Back!” Maria barked at him. “Put it
back.”

Juan made a guttural sound as he returned it
to the wrist.

Alfredo said, “See what else he got on
him.”

Juan reached under the jacket, pulled out a
phone.

“That goes back, too!” Maria said. “Take it,
they catch us for sure.”

Juan groaned and replaced the phone. He
said, “Yeah, Maria, how ‘bout I just take his shoes.”

“Cut it out!” she snapped.

“Don’t look my size,” Juan muttered. He
searched the other pockets and pulled out a ring of keys.

Alfredo brightened them with his flashlight.
“Whoa…Lincoln down on the road.”

“New Lincoln,” Juan smiled. “I know a guy
will pay—”

“That’s it!” Maria interrupted. “C’mon, Val,
let’s get away from these two estupidos.”

“You guyses loco,” Juan grumbled as he
shoved the key ring back into the suit pocket.

“Pant pockets,” Alfredo said.

Juan searched them. “Nada,” he said.

“Behind the credit cards,” Alfredo told him.
“Maybe some cash hidden.”

Juan lifted the wallet off the ground and
searched behind the cards.

“No card tricks,” Maria said. “I’m watching
you.”

“No mas dinero,” Juan grimaced unhappily. He
held the driver’s license under Alfredo’s flashlight. “Looks mucho
better alive,” he said. “‘Frank Lester Moore. Los Angeles. One dead
burro.’”

“Nooo,” Alfredo laughed, “it don’t say that,
man.”

“Madre—” Maria winced. “I think, I think he
moved.”

“No way,” Alfredo said. Valerie stood
doubtful. Juan turned back to the body, all staring at it now.

“What if he ain’t dead?” Maria wondered
aloud. “I don’t see no blood or nothing,” she said.

“Blood in the hair,” Juan pointed with a
gloved hand.

“Val, you’re in nursing school, ain’choo?”
Maria asked. “You can tell.”

“Maybe he’s a zombie,” Juan spoke eerily,
locking his arms out over the body, eyes bulging under the
light.

Valerie said, “Okay, smart guy, I’ll show
you how to tell.” She approached the body. Maria looked on
fearfully.

Alfredo tapped Juan with the flashlight.
“Make room for the doctor,” he cracked.

Juan got to his feet, stepped aside and
began to tug the gloves off.

“Hold it, cholo,” Maria said to him. “Before
you take them off, you put that wallet back.”

Juan gave her a sheepish look, pulled the
wallet from his pocket and returned it to the inside pocket of the
dead man’s suit jacket.

“Buen intento,” Alfredo said to him.

“Ehhh,” was all Juan could say. He took the
gloves off and passed them to Valerie. She put them on and knelt
alongside the body.

Alfredo held the light on the ashen face
while Valerie lifted an eyelid.

“Ooooo,” Juan moaned ghostlike.

Maria slapped his arm.

Valerie let the eyelid drop. She took a
glove off, put two fingers against the side of the neck and
remained motionless…

“Wha’choo doing?” Maria asked.

Valerie stayed quiet. She removed her
fingers from the neck and leaned over the body. Pressing the chest
she brought her face within an inch of the body’s nose and
lips.

Juan turned to Alfredo. “Val’s going to suck
nose,” he whispered.

“I heard that!” Valerie said as she stood up
alongside Maria. “You two burros don’t know nothing!”

Maria gripped Valerie’s shoulder. “What’sa
matter, Val, he’s in a coma or something?”

“No, not coma,” Valerie said thoughtfully.
“In school they told us…I don’t know, maybe there’s no name for
it.” She laid eyes on the body and stared at it. “For when someone
is ‘pronounced’ dead, but…”

“Que pro-now?” Juan smiled with
confusion.

Maria grabbed his hand and said, “Val means
he’s alive.”

“So you want I put the seventeen dollars
back?” Juan teased her.

Maria glared at him.

“This ain’t no damn good,” Alfredo scowled.
“Let’s go,” and he started off.

Valerie caught the sleeve of his coat,
stopped him and pleaded. “Haz algo, ten sentimientos, ayudalo…”

“Hey, yeah,” Maria sided with her, “we dump
him at the hospital; don’t go in or nothing.”

“We use his phone and call them,” Juan
suggested. “Okay?”

“Not okay,” Maria told him. “We use nothing
of his!”

“Chingado,” Juan said under his breath.

Alfredo said, “We drive down, call 911.”

“No es una buena idea,” Valerie stated
decisively. “He might be really dead by the time they get
here.”

“Put him in my van?” Alfredo asked
incredulously.

“Jesu Cristo,” Juan said. “Carry him for
seventeen dollars?”

Valerie’s expression turned to anger. “He
dies, it’s our fault!”

Alfredo threw his hands up. “Ay Dios
mio!”

Chapter
31

Shovel in hand Bob Staub snailed his way
down and around through the woods. The pain in his head had begun
to ease and he picked up speed.

He tripped over a fallen branch, landed on a
bed of leaves and sledded headfirst into the brush alongside
Crestmont Lane. Big stomach churning whisky, cheeseburgers and
fries, he got up on all fours and puked at the base of a tree.

Staub grunted as he sat back on the blade of
the shovel. He slipped it out from under him and took a moment to
settle down; gazing at the moon, hazy behind a sheer cloud.

He returned to hands and knees and peered
through the bushes. “Holy shit!” His pickup was gone. In its place
stood a rebuilt van, chopped and channeled low on its frame.

“Fucking Mexicans,” Staub growled, “stole
my…” remembering he had left his pickup unlocked, key in the
ignition.

From the bridle-path side of Crestmont he
scouted the road with angry eyes. He saw a new Lincoln parked under
the gauzy light of the moon.

“What the hell’re all these people doin’
here?” he grumbled. Staub worried about them running across Kirk’s
body, and the avenging angel floated into mind.

Halo on his head? Staub doubted. Or was it
blond hair…

“Fuck it,” he said toward the bridle path,
thinking any a these assholes come down an’ see him…

Staub set the shovel upright and used it to
get to his feet. He studied the van. If the doors were locked he’d
smash the window, figuring it wouldn’t take more than a few seconds
to hotwire the piece’a crap.

“Shit!” he gasped as the bridle path
brightened. It was that flashlight again. And the sound of that
fucking Mexican music.

“Holy shit…” Staub breathed in disbelief.
Aw, fuck me, he said to himself, they’re carrying Kirk’s body.

Get outta here—now! Staub ordered
himself.

He grabbed the shovel and stumbled across
Crestmont. He continued downward through the woods, desperate to
get away from this awful place.

Chapter
32

On his way to Los Angeles, Frank unbuttoned
his camelhair coat and lowered the window. “Mind turning the heat
down a little?” he asked the cabby.

“Not at all, sir.” The rush of the heater
faded.

“Thanks,” Frank said as he brushed back his
blond hair. The feel of it reminded him of the dye job he would be
doing on it later, uncertain how good he would look with brown
hair. A shade darker than the satchel alongside him, he
imagined.

Frank slouched, closed his eyes and rested a
hand on the satchel’s soft leather. John Kirk’s hokey clothes and
boots are in it, he smiled. Then thought it time to reflect on what
had happened in the woods tonight, make sure he hadn’t slipped
up.

Frank saw himself on Crestmont lane,
watching Staub carry the body up the bridle path. Next seeing
himself go to the trunk of his Lincoln, where he took his brown
suit off and changed into the gray one.

Frank thinking then that there was no point
in going over any of it. There was no going back. He was in a cab
on his way to Los Angeles…that’s all right, Frank shrugged,
confident no mistakes were made.

The dead man in the hills was Frank Lester
Moore, no doubt about it. Charlie switched IDs, fingerprints…Frank
knew the cops wouldn’t go any deeper than that. They would be too
busy hunting down the victim’s murderer. Staub, he grinned.

Frank was pretty sure he hadn’t killed
Staub. Swinging the shovel at just the right angle. Striking him
with the proper force. Frank had always taken pride in his talent
for the delicate jobs.

He saw Staub waking in the shallow grave,
then discovering John Kirk dressed in a suit.

At rest with eyes closed, Frank laughed. The
cabby glanced in the rearview and assumed his fare was asleep and
having a funny dream.

Frank slivered his eyes open. Interesting,
he said to himself, passing an oil refinery that bordered the
freeway. It reminded him of the one on Terminal Island. The God of
Fuel has many churches, he mused. Then pictured the hellish fury of
a petroleum fire, eating up homes and shops, spreading from
refinery to refinery, from city to city…

His eyelids fell shut. He returned to Staub
finding his pickup where Frank had left it, parked in front of
Staub’s shop. That’ll confuse the pudgy bastard, Frank thought
happily.

He then thought about the outcome of the
game. He would have enough money to travel the world. In his wake
he would leave every brook, stream and river crimson with the blood
of God’s children. All of God’s children.

Frank chided himself. How could he have been
so unfair, choosing only women to deliver to the gates of Heaven.
True, they were easier to handle, but where was the challenge in
it?