Move to Strike (13 page)

“When?”

“I can’t get there until later. Midnight.”

“That’s too late, Scott. Anyway, my mother’s here.”

“Get rid of her.”

“She’s really upset about all this. I don’t think . . .”

His tone changed. “I’m coming over, so get her out of there.”

He ran around like a Sierra wildfire, she had thought once. Quick, turning anything that got in his way into dust. He scorched you if you turned your back. She had thought he was everything she ever wanted. But what was this about stealing? She thought back to those nights. They had gone out two or three times . . . sprayed a few cans of paint, picked up throwaway things people left lying around outside. But they had never broken into anyone’s house.

He could have gone back on his own. He probably had.

But Scott was going to have to be her connection to the outside. He was the only one that might know how to do what she needed done. She couldn’t ask Bob. She didn’t want to involve him in this. Scott could take care of himself. She would have to trust him one more time, then maybe . . .

Could she handle him? She would have to.

Nina and Bob stayed to watch a movie but left Matt’s at midnight.

Bob fell asleep on the way home. She looked at the few long hairs jutting from his chin and cheek and realized he needed a razor. He needed instruction in how to take care of himself as a young man.

The dark rushed by. She hadn’t wanted to stay at Matt’s. If there was a hope of a good long rest, she felt she had a better chance of finding it at home under the soft comforter on her own pine four-poster bed. There she would fight the insomnia and win or sweep the kitchen, or get some work done, or listen to the late-night radio maniacs rail at the government. She had her choice of appealing alternatives.

She was just turning off Pioneer Trail into the neighborhood of Indian-sounding names, Minniconjou, Hunkpapa and Kulow, her street, when she saw a car she recognized reflected in the rearview mirror. She reached up, tilting the glass for a better view.

Headlight beams from a passing car illuminated the car and its driver. The old silver VW convertible she had seen in front of the Zack house, with Daria Zack driving. What in the world was she doing driving around at such an hour with her daughter under house arrest?

CHAPTER 10

NIKKI HAD GOTTEN her mother out of the house late at night by telling her she had an earache. When she was little, an earache had always meant an ear infection. Convinced it prevented more serious trouble, Daria developed the habit of dosing her with eardrops early on. Naturally, Nikki had flushed the eardrops first, insuring the need for a trip to the pharmacy.

Before she would go, Daria fussed for a long time. She didn’t want to leave Nikki alone, like she had an idea something was up. Nikki said whatever she could think of to ease her mother’s suspicious mind, covered her skimpy house clothes with a jacket, and pushed her out with directions to the twenty-four-hour pharmacy.

Scott was already waiting up the street in his car, engine running, headlights out. He ran to the front door before she could even close it, grabbed Nikki and tried to kiss her.

“Don’t!” She wrestled away from him.

“You called me, right? So what’s the problem?”

“We’re in plain view. Let’s not give anyone anything to talk about, okay?”

He came in and made another grab for her, but she moved toward the kitchen. “Want a Coke?”

“You sound like your mother,” he mocked. He’d shaved his head since she’d seen him last. She didn’t like it, so she didn’t say anything.

She slammed the refrigerator door shut and came out, popping a can of soda. “I’m thirsty,” she said. She took a long gulp, never taking her eyes off him. “I like your jacket. Mmm. It’s real leather, isn’t it?” she said, moving closer, touching his arm.

He liked that. “Yeah.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“What’s the difference?” He yanked his arm away, mad again. Settling himself onto a pillow, he propped his dirty sandals flat against her mother’s favorite white cotton pillow. “I’ve been thinking,” he said as she sat cross-legged on the floor nearby. “If you didn’t rat me out, it must have been one of the other guys in the band. I mean, nobody else knows anything.”

He always talked as if the band really existed outside of their own conversations, as if it was out there somewhere rehearsing, getting gigs. “Hamid or Jane? I can’t believe it.”

He took her Coke away from her and threw his head back, sucking it down. “Who else? Unless it was that asshole who’s been hanging around. Bob.”

“He’s not an asshole. Anyway, it wasn’t Bob.”

“You sound pretty damn sure. Why’s that?”

“I didn’t tell him anything. Did you?”

“Not yet.” Finding the remote control next to him on the floor, he flicked the television on and began to flip channels.

“What’s that mean?”

“Well,” he said, reaching down and touching her ankle monitor, “you’re not much use to me now, are you?”

“Be serious. He’s a little kid.”

“Less time if he’s caught.” He laughed.

“So you were robbing those houses?”

“Steal from the rich. Wouldn’t Che approve?”

“Why did I ever trust you? You never told me anything about this. You got me involved . . .”

“You loved it.”

“You know what? It was stupid. I was stupid. You don’t care about anyone else, do you? You haven’t asked me one thing about what I’m going through . . .”

“Because I don’t give a shit, Nikki.” He ruffled her hair. “You’re tough. I know you can handle it.”

“You lied.”

“About what?”

“About everything. About the band. There’s never gonna be any rehearsal. You don’t want a band. You want a gang. And you lied about how a person who is younger doesn’t do as much jail time. They say they’re going to try me as an adult.”

“Well, gee, Nikki. It was you who got the bright idea to kill your uncle.” He tossed his car keys into the air. “I don’t remember advising that. I’m not going to take the blame for that. Besides, what’s the longest they can hold you? Ten years?”

“Life, Scott.”

He let out an impressed whistle. “Big-time convict!”

“I’m not going to jail. There’s got to be a way out of this.”

He shrugged and continued to flip his keys.

“Scott . . .”

“What?”

“You can’t stay here. If Daria finds you here . . .”

“I’ll give her a good hard rap on the jaw if she gives me any lip.” He illustrated, cuffing her lightly on the chin.

“Don’t talk like that!” She stood up, deciding he couldn’t help her after all. Scott always followed his own agenda. She must have been nuts to think she could arrange anything through him. “Why don’t you just go. Just get out.”

He stood, towering over her. “I’m not through with you, Nikki.” This time when he kissed her, he held her neck and pressed her toward him, not giving her the option to get away. He kept his face very close to hers, and held her hair in his hand. “You owe me.”

He knew something. Or was he pretending to get her to admit something? That was his style. “What are you talking about?”

“Remember, we split everything down the middle. Don’t tell me you killed him and didn’t even grab a souvenir.”

“Let go.”

He pulled her hair.

She beat him with her fists, but he held on. “Ow! Stop!”

“Where is it, button nose? What did you take?”

“I didn’t take anything. What makes you think I did?”

“The newspaper says you did. Killed him while you were burglarizing the place.”

“Don’t! Please, Scott, you’re hurting me!”

“Said some neighbor spotted you taking something. And remember, I taught you everything you know. What was the number-one rule?” He let go of her hair.

She rubbed her scalp. “You tell me.”

“Never leave empty-handed.”

“There’s nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

He said it with such assurance, she shivered.

He put his lips to her ear and whispered, “You owe me, Nikki, and you’d better believe I plan to collect.” He waggled a meaty finger at her.

Their heads turned to the window. They both heard it at the same time. Daria’s car.

“You have to go now,” Nikki said. “Use the back door.” She pushed him toward the kitchen.

“What if I don’t?” he said, turning suddenly, putting her off balance. She stumbled against the table. “What if I stay here? Let’s discuss this whole thing with your sexy mom. She’s bound to agree with me that you shouldn’t hold out. She know about our adventures around the lake?”

Her fury and frustration overcame her. She couldn’t hold back a second longer. “You leave,” she punched his arm, “my mother,” she punched it again, “out of this! Or I’ll kill you, Scott! I swear I’ll kill you!” She kept her voice as low as she could, hoping her mother wouldn’t hear.

They struggled briefly as he tried to hit her and she fended him off. He pinned her arms to her sides. “I’m shakin’ in my boots, bitch! Come and get me!”

A key scratched in the living-room door.

“Just go,” she cried, wriggling. His fingers were embedded deeply into her arms. “Please, Scott!”

He shoved her so hard she fell to the floor, then ran out, leaving the screen swinging.

“Honey?” Daria called from the living room.

“Right here,” Nikki said. She caught hold of a chair and hauled herself up. “Getting myself a snack.” The back door slammed.

Her mother came in, looking around. “Is someone else here? What was that?”

“I had the radio on.”

“Oh. I had to go to two stores to find the right kind of drops,” she said. “It’s a good thing just about everything stays open late on the Nevada side.” She looked at Nikki with concern. “Are you all right?”

Nikki opened the refrigerator and looked inside. The door shielded her from her mother’s view. “Fine. Funny thing is, my ears feel fine. After you went to all that trouble. Isn’t that weird?”

Daria put the bag and her keys down on the table, yawning. “No, it’s typical. Just like taking your car in for a repair. If by some miracle someone’s available to work on it at all, you can bet that funny sound went away between your garage and the shop.”

Nikki unwrapped a square of rubbery American cheese and stuffed it into her mouth.

“You want crackers with that? You don’t eat enough.”

“No, thanks,” she said, waving her mother off. “Think I’ll go beddy-bye. Good night.”

“No kiss?” said Daria.

She pecked her mother on the cheek and fled upstairs to her room, rubbing the sore spots on her arms, her mind whirling. She couldn’t leave the house for God knew how long. She was so stuck.

Scott was totally out. She could see it now. He was just another user, like the men Daria dragged home. He treated her like dirt and didn’t respect her. He had led her the wrong way and worse, he pushed her around. If only she’d never met him, she might not be in this fix. She might never have gone to her uncle’s that night. Then she wouldn’t have seen . . .

A lump formed in her throat. She couldn’t think about that.

So she let herself get mad at Scott again. There was never going to be a band.

She needed someone who would do something for her without demanding anything in return.

Maybe Bobby would.

The first thing Paul did when he got out of the hospital on Thursday morning was to hire a Lincoln town car so that he would have more legroom. He could drive with his left foot but the cast was a problem, and the pain when he tried to contort himself into even this large car was a bigger problem.

“You sure your doctor said you could drive like that?” the young rental car agent said, frowning, eyeing Paul’s cast and crutches. He turned his head and scanned for someone, anyone, to shoulder the responsibility of rejecting this disabled driver, but there was no one else around.

“Definitely okay,” Paul lied. He bought the extra insurance and drove carefully down the road toward John Wayne Airport, radio blasting out the crying cramp in his right calf.

Since he had missed the transfer hearing, and couldn’t have done much good even if he’d been there, there was no immediate need to get back to Tahoe. Meanwhile, Dave LeBlanc’s sudden absence from the scene bothered him and he intended to look into it.

During a slow patch in traffic, he pulled out his cell phone, which had survived the crash undamaged, and called the NTSB guy. They were still evaluating the evidence, he was told. They had found nothing new. They were going over the Beechcraft splinter by splinter. Paul made an appointment to talk to the chief investigator the following week. He ought to be back at Tahoe by then. He called Sandy at her ranch and told her to look for him then.

“What happened to you? You better have a broken leg or something.”

“Nothing happened to me. Well, actually, I do have a broken leg.”

“Very funny. She was worried about you.”

“Were you?”

“None of your business.”

“Sandy?”

“What.”

“I’ll see you on Monday. Will you greet me with a smile?”

“What’s got into you?”

“Will you? Please?”

“I might bring you coffee, if you ask me nice.” But he thought she was smiling.

He turned the phone off. It was good to be back in action.

Arriving at John Wayne Airport by noon, he parked in his favorite spot and stumped over to the hangar, leaning heavily on his crutches, feeling decidedly uncool and worse, weak. There was something to be said for the mind-body connection. He found himself looking at flights of steps with loathing, felt the anger welling inside when he confronted even a slight unevenness in the pavement. This could definitely insert a minor chord into his spirit. He said to himself, anger got you into this spot, buddy. Take four deep breaths and take them slowly.

Heat appeared to vibrate along the miles of asphalt in the fume-soaked air. Fortunately, the hangar and LeBlanc’s office were located at ground level. The door was unlocked, but there was no sign of LeBlanc inside. Even more puzzling, his office had been cleared of all the ray guns.

“They fired his ass,” said a passing mechanic.

“Why was he fired?”

“He’s been off his game lately. Coming in late, picking fights. Guess they decided he wasn’t worth the trouble.”

“Any reason you know of why he might be having a rough time?”

“Women?” the man said, taking a guess.

“Who’d he fight?”

“He got loud a few times, but the fistfight was with me. Accused me of lifting his tools. He cooled off and apologized after I punched him out.”

“Where’d he go?”

The mechanic shrugged. “I don’t know. It might be hard getting a job when you’ve been fired plus have a record.”

“Anybody here a good friend of his?”

“He’s a loner. Decent maintenance tech, though. He helped me out a few times. Knows his planes. I’m sure he’ll land on his feet.”

By the time Paul got back to the Lincoln, he was sweating from the exertion. He tossed the crutches in the back seat, turned on the air-conditioning, and leaned back. Took a deep breath. He didn’t want to go to Newport. He wanted to go home. He wanted someone to tuck him into bed with a drink, turn on ESPN—he’d even watch soccer if that was all that was on—pull the blinds, and let him sink into pleasurable convalescence.

LeBlanc lived in a five-story apartment building on Westcliff Drive, a busy thoroughfare off Newport Boulevard. While located some miles from the seashore, the building sported an ersatz beach ambience, with four palm trees struggling for survival in front and impossibly round bushes below the windows of apartments with the bad fortune to back onto the noisy street. Once again, Paul lucked out. The apartment was on the first floor.

Paul knocked but there was no answer. He rang the bell of the apartment manager.

“Hello,” he said. “You must be Eddie. We talked on the phone.”

“Hey! I thought you were gonna stiff me,” said the fellow who stood in the doorway. He looked like one of those ex-gang members who shapes up when he grows up. A tattoo on his hand had been blurred beyond recognition but he still wore his baseball cap backward. He held his hand out.

Paul reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet but didn’t open it. “I need to go in,” he said.

“That’ll cost another fifty.”

Not too expensive. Paul nodded. Eddie came out with a set of keys and they went back to LeBlanc’s apartment.

Hot, stifling air. The living room had been turned into a workshop, with white melamine cabinets lining the walls and tools and small machine parts strewn all over, what looked like an air filter here, engine parts there. On a table in a corner under a greasy sheet were smaller things, coiled bales of wire and string, nuts, bolts, wrenches, even a turkey baster. Posters from
The
Phantom Menace,
with Princess Amidala prominent with her powdered face and unearthly beauty, had been tacked up on the walls, and some strange imaginary weaponry of the future was lying around. Eddie lifted a plastic tarp from the rug. “Oil spots,” he said with disgust. “When I came in before, I shoulda looked the place over better. I never knew what he was up to in here. He’s out, man.”