Dangerous Times (27 page)

“Where we split the money,” Lisa finished
happily for her, “and go our separate ways.”

“And I wait a couple of weeks ‘til
Johnny-boy gets back, call him and have him meet me in Vegas. My
son,” she told Lisa, “I’m doing this for him.” Her voice lowered.
“All of it for him.”

Beverly thought of another good thing: Lisa
would be out of her life.

Chapter
90

Driving south on Pacific, Emily pinched the
damp material of her jeans and pulled it away from her thigh. With
his suit jacket off, Kirk was doing the same with the front of his
shirt; telling her what he had gone through last night, up until he
and Emily had first met this morning.

“What a nightmare,” Emily said.

“Sure was,” he scowled.

“You told me it started after you left work,
but didn’t say what kind of work you do.”

“I’m an auto mechanic,” Kirk said. Lisa came
to mind. He saw himself with her, how embarrassed she was when
people asked what kind of work he did.

Emily said, “I can tell how much you like
your job, Mr. Long Face.”

“Working on cars, that’s what I like.”

“Working on cars is good enough,” she said.
“Where do you ‘mechani-cize’?” she smiled.

“Import repair shop. We’re stopping there
first.”

Emily fidgeted behind the wheel. “Got to get
out of these wet clothes,” she told him.

“Soon as we get to my place,” Kirk said,
hoping Lisa wouldn’t be home. There was a chance she would be. He
would have to tell Emily about her on their way there.

“How about cluing me in on why we’re going
to the shop first,” she said.

“Shop’s got a bolt cutter we can use on the
cuffs, and there’s extra keys I need for my place.” Then added,
“And a weapon I want to get my hands on.”

“A gun?” Emily grimaced.

“That’s right,” Kirk answered, her aversion
obvious. “I feel the same as you…” Another thing he wasn’t ready to
tell her: Adam Forstadt, the marine he had killed, and the promise
he had made to himself, one that would soon be broken: never again
would he touch a firearm.

“What were you going to say?” Emily wanted
to know.

“I feel the same way you do, but we’ve got
to have a weapon,” he told her. “Eddie Jones isn’t going to give up
on us, not until he gets his money back.”

“From you?”

Kirk gave her a hard look. “From Frank.”

Emily threw a hand up. “All right,” she
surrendered. “What’s wrong?” she asked, seeing his mood darken.

“Pieces of the past pop up suddenly,” he
said. “Today’s Saturday, my father’s birthday. Died fifteen years
ago, to the day.”

“Died on his birthday?”

Kirk nodded, thinking of his mother, Beverly
grieving the day away, most likely flat-out drunk.

Emily let him have the silence he seemed to
need.

“That’s it at the corner,” Kirk said a
moment later.

Emily made a U-turn and parked in front of
Staub’s shop. She pulled Kirk’s cuffed wrist as they worked their
out and stood alongside the car. Emily gazed past him and eyed the
fenced-in lot of cars; dank and gloomy under the afternoon cloud
cover. She looked above the closed bays, at the sign: Staub’s
Import Motorworks. “That’s good to know,” she said.

“What’s good to know?” Kirk asked, following
her look.

With a laugh she said, “Good to know Staub
has an imported motor that works.”

“Never saw it that way,” he smiled.

“Why’s the shop closed on a Saturday?”

Staub and his weekends of whoring, Kirk said
to himself. “Staub had to go to a funeral,” he told her.

“Yeah,” Emily said, “and it’s going to be my
funeral if I don’t get out of these clothes.” She glanced at the
locked gates. “You have keys to get in?”

“No,” Kirk said, “only keys I’ve got are
Frank’s. There’s shop keys hidden on the lot. We’ll have to climb
the fence.”

“Cuffed like this?” she said. “I don’t think
so.”

“We can handle it,” he reassured her. “We’ll
walk around to the back fence, roll a dumpster against it and boost
ourselves over. I’ve done it before when I’ve forgotten my
keys.”

“Ooo,” Emily cooed, “that’ll be a lot of
fun.”

• • •

Hicks gazed out through the windshield and
thought about the anger he’d had for the world. It had been driven
away, and he knew it was because of Ty.

Hicks dropped his eyes to the CD case on her
lap. “Not luggin’ this around for nothin’.” He ran a finger over
the spines and stopped on a Bud Powell.

Ty tapped his hand. “They’re leavin’ the
car.”

Parked a block away on Pacific, Hicks and Ty
saw the cuffed pair follow the fence around the corner of 23rd.
Hicks crept the car forward, then sped up and swung left on 23rd.
They passed the alley behind the shop and got a quick shot of Kirk
and Emily pushing a dumpster.

“What the hell they doin’?” Ty grunted as
she lifted the CD case and set it on the back seat.

Hicks made a left on Grand. “Usin’ the trash
bin to climb the fence?” Circling the block Hicks made another
left. On 24th now, they passed the other end of the alley and got
another shot of the cuffed pair, on top of the dumpster, hands
gripping the fence.

“Yeh,” Ty concluded, “must be goin’ after
where the money’s hid.”

Hicks returned to Pacific and took their
same curbside spot. “We’ll keep an eye on your doctor cousin’s
car,” he said. “They won’t be goin’ anywhere without it.”

“May played her part real good,” Ty
smiled.

“Sure ‘nough did,” Hicks said. He twisted
toward the back seat, pulled the Bud Powell from the case and said,
“Little piano music couldn’t hurt.”

Chapter
91

Kirk unlocked the office. He turned the
lights on while Emily shut the door. He pulled her cuffed wrist and
led her to the desk. Kirk picked up the bronze tire iron and stared
at the dried blood; his blood. Emily did her own staring, at the
wall calendar. Its January picture dominated the room for her:
big-busted blond, naked on a motorcycle in front of a snow
dune.

She turned to Kirk. “That’s the paperweight
he hit you with?”

With a nod Kirk set it down. He opened a
desk drawer and took out Staub’s 10mm. Emily cringed as he ejected
the clip and checked the load. Reinserting the clip he racked the
slide and shoved the pistol into his waistband. “C’mon,” he said,
leading her to the workshop door.

They entered the two-rack bay area. Kirk
snapped the overheads on. He walked her to the workbench, slid a
drawer open and pulled out a set of keys. “The spares for my
place,” he said. His eyes then settled on the bruise Da Shan had
given her.

“Yeah,” Emily said, raising a hand to her
cheekbone, “bet it looks real attractive.”

“Purple looks good on you,” Kirk said.

She snickered away the comment and gazed at
the raised lift, the black Ford shining brightly.

Kirk flipped a switch, pressed the red
button next to it and the car started downward.

“That’s an imported car?” Emily asked.

“No,” Kirk said. “1949 Ford. Her name’s
‘Pension.’ Cost me most of my marine pension to bring her back to
life.”

“It’s yours?” Emily said in wonder.

“Mine, yes,” he answered. “Working on her
has been the best of times for me.”

“I hear wedding bells,” Emily said.

“Marrying her wouldn’t be so bad,” and he
led Emily to a pile of clean shop towels. “Little carburetor work,
hands-on diagnostic check of vital organs, fill the tank and she’ll
be ready to roll,” he told her. “Least I hope so,” he said while
they towel-dried their hair and whatever else they could. Kirk
glanced at the Patek Philippe on his wrist. “Take me maybe a
half-hour.”

“Now; work on it now?”

“Why not,” Kirk said, looking beyond her.
“We don’t have to wait to get to my place.”

Emily followed his look and saw the fresh
shop uniforms on hangers. “Dry clothes,” she said happily.

“You can change in the office while I change
here and mess with the car.”

“Okay,” Emily agreed. She started for the
uniforms and yanked Kirk’s arm.

“Cuffs first,” he said, pulling her gently
toward the workbench.

• • •

The piano music on low Ty said, “From
wha’cha told me, he deserved it.”

Hicks took his eyes off her and gazed out at
Staub’s shop. “Yeah, right, but didn’t deserve to die for it.” Ty
put a hand on his. “Funny thing,” Hicks went on quietly, “wanted to
teach the kid a lesson, didn’t want him to end up like my own
boy—an’ what do I do,” he slouched. “Punch him to death an’ get him
buried.”

“We get the money,” Ty said, “we start
clean.”

Hicks slanted her a look. “An’ if we don’t
get the money?”

“I got some saved,” she said. “Add it to
what we get from our houses, we’ll be okay ‘til somethin’ else
comes along.”

Hicks faced her finally and said nothing,
thinking how lucky he was to have found this woman.

Ty swung her eyes toward Staub’s shop.
“What’re they doin’ in there; what could be takin’ ‘em so
long?”

“Napping,” Hicks smiled. “White folks,
shiftless an’ lazy.”

Chapter
92

Beverly stood at the kitchen counter and
gazed at her bottle of Johnny Walker Red. The word Red got her
shaky. It reminded her of Bob Staub’s blood, and what she and Lisa
had gone through with the body.

Beverly focused on the name Johnny and she
imagined the return of her son, all the money she would have for
him; one and only reason to team up with Lisa, she nodded
worriedly.

She flinched as she heard the shower water
burst on. It was time to do her part, and get it all done in a
half-hour. Beverly dumped the ice from her glass, poured herself a
straight one and downed it.

She went into the living room, stopped at
the recliner and looked down at the carpet. What a lucky break it
was, Beverly thought, most of Bob’s blood soaked up by the big
throw rug he’d dropped on. And what a good job Frank did cleaning
up what had spotted the carpet. The memory of it all brought
moisture to her eyes.

“Jesus H,” Beverly muttered with a switch of
emotion. The suitcase wasn’t by the sofa. In a panic she tiptoed
toward the open bathroom door. Arriving at the threshold she saw
the suitcase in there, upright on its wheels.

Leaning in carefully Beverly spied the two
silhouettes on the shower doors. Under the sound of splattering
water she heard Frank give out a pleasurable moan.

Beverly pulled away from the doorway. The
suitcase within reach of the threshold, she got down on her knees.
Why did he have to take it in there with him? she whined to
herself.

Here goes, she thought, bending forward
hesitantly, shower water blasting over the sounds Frank and Lisa
were making. Beverly laid a hand on either side of the upright
Samsonite, pressed hard and pulled it ever so slowly toward her.
When the first set of wheels reached the threshold she let go and
stood up.

The open door blocked her and the suitcase
from the shower. It allowed her to take hold of the handle with
both hands and lift with a quiet grunt. The threshold cleared,
Beverly set the suitcase down and pulled it over the carpet. “Jesus
H,” she whispered; now she would have to switch it with the phony
one and go through the same sneaky thing.

Hurry—hurry, she told herself at the front
door. No time for another drink.

• • •

Beverly rolled the suitcase toward Cottage
Two as sunset tore through the cloudy horizon. She halted at the
sight of her shadow afloat on the dirty pool water. Darn that son
of mine, she thought, should have cleaned it before he left.

Beverly lifted her eyes to the far side of
the pool, toward Kirk’s Cottage Six. She wondered if he was having
a good time on his vacation, what he might be doing right now. A
glance toward Cottage Five brought Mrs. Fleming to mind, always on
time with the rent. Then looking at Cottage Four, Beverly hoped Hal
Ackerman wasn’t getting into trouble during his weekend in Tijuana.
And then there was Cottage Three, the Laclette couple, always
playing their music too loud, gone to Arizona for a relative’s
wedding.

Nice and quiet around here, Beverly thought.
Her blue eyes snapped to the Cottage Two vacancy. Get in there, she
scolded herself, standing here and wasting her half-hour.

“Hi, there,” said a voice.

Startled, Beverly spun around. It was Mrs.
Fleming returning from an evening run. She was in tennis shoes,
baggy sweats under her open winter jacket, jogging in place, short
gray hair bouncing.

“Hi, Gertrude,” Beverly said feebly.

Gertrude Fleming gazed at the suitcase.
“Going on a trip?”

“No, I’m-um going to store it in the
vacancy,” Beverly told her.

Gertrude raised a winner’s fist and said,
“It’ll get rented real soon; I can feel it!” and she took off in a
jog around the pool.

Beverly had no idea where a woman in her
late-sixties gets all that energy from. She continued on with the
suitcase while Gertrude veered from the pool and jogged to her
Cottage Five.

Beverly used the key Lisa had returned. She
opened the vacancy and rolled the suitcase inside. Closing the door
behind her, she looked at the fresh supplies Kirk had bought to
repaint the interior. Hasn’t even started yet, she complained to
herself.

Beverly shrugged it off on her way to the
bedroom. Soon enough she and her son would have the money to be
free of this place. Beverly Cottages, she thought as she entered
the bedroom, and she pondered how she would sell it from out of
town.

Beverly stood the suitcase upright and
opened the closet. She scanned the new Samsonite and the shopping
bag of extra paperbacks. “Ohh-kay,” she exhaled, unhappy with
having to compare the weight of the suitcases.