Authors: Charles Knief

Sand Dollars (10 page)

BOOK: Sand Dollars

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Ed Thomas was a big man in his late sixties with white hair thinning on top and a white mustache and goatee that made him look like a fit Kentucky colonel. He wore a double-breasted blue blazer and an open-necked blue shirt over tan trousers with knife-edge creases. His boots were polished to a high sheen. His gun was barely noticeable, riding high on his right hip.

“You're Caine?”

I stood up and shook his hand. He had a firm grip. It gave me hope.

“You're Thomas?”

“Esparza gave you my number?”

“Yeah. He said you were good.”

“Probably wants a cut. I trained him when he first came on, my last year. He's a good officer. Lots of potential there. Maybe someday he'll be chief.”

“He said you're a private detective and that you knew protection.”

He nodded. “You need bodyguard work?”

I explained the problem and explained the client, which in most cases amounted to the same thing. In this instance it was beginning to look like the family lawyer might be a part of the problem. I explained that, too. Thomas nodded understanding when I laid out the deal. Something about him reminded me of Obi Wan Kenobe, but taller and with less hair.

“Heard about Peters. It was all over the papers when it happened. Thought it was just an accident.”

“Maybe. The wife doesn't think so.”

“I guess not.”

“Can you do it?”

“Two men can cover sixteen hours. You'll cover the other eight?”

“I don't want to do it that way. I'm following something and I don't want to be tied to a schedule.” I also didn't want to be available when the widow Peters had a few drinks and became amorous. There was no telling how long my willpower would last. It was getting more difficult as time went on. “But she should be okay during the day,” I continued. “She seems to be afraid of the dark.”

Thomas snorted. “Aren't we all?”

We agreed on a daily rate for the two shifts. Ed said he'd man the graveyard shift himself, and he had a good man, retired San Diego PD, ex-SWAT, who could work early evening to midnight. He assured me that between the two of them there wouldn't be any trouble they couldn't handle.

“Prowlers, you say? You want us armed?”

“Yes.”

“Side arms and shotguns?”

“Whatever you think appropriate. I'm not going to tell you how to do your job.”

He squinted at me. “Well, you're a rare son of a bitch. I thought everybody was an expert on everything these days.”

“When can you start?”

“We'll both be there tonight. You got the address?”

I wrote it on a napkin and handed it to him.

He looked at the address, brought it closer to his face so he could read it, and snorted again. “Fancy neighborhood. You know who lives across the street?”

“The governor?”

“Close. Her royal highness, the mayor.” He stood up, pocketing the napkin. “A bigger pain in the ass you'll never meet. I know we were supposed to have lunch, but I'd better start setting this up. You don't mind, do you?”

“Not at all, Ed. I'll see you tonight. About five?”

“Tell the lady not to worry. Ed and Hatley will be there.”

She surveyed beautiful. Got 'em to expedite, since you're in such a hurry. Got a little dry rot in the bilge, but nothing to worry about. You'd expect that in a wooden boat. New engines. The latest electronics. New generator. New hull paint. She's in better shape than when she was first launched.” Jack Kinsman, the boat salesman, was happy with the report. It meant no delay in the completion of the sale, which meant no delay in receipt of his commission.”Wanna come sign the papers now?”

“No,” I said. I was standing naked at the window, dripping water on Intercontinental's carpet fifteen floors above his floating sales office. It was still raining hard along the waterfront.

On the television across the room, the weatherman admitted he really didn't know when the rain was going to end. It was an El NiÃ±o year and San Diego, it seemed, was in the path of something called a storm track. Another gully washer was on its way, currently pouring on the good folks in Seattle, but it would be here in a day or two. In the meantime, the present deluge had backed up an emergency storm drain, filling the basement apartment of a woman confined to a wheelchair, drowning her while her husband was at work. The public-works spokesman said he couldn't understand it; everything worked fine all summer.

“I'm sorry, Jack. Can't make it this afternoon. Let's leave it for Friday as we'd planned.” I lusted for the
Olympia
, couldn't wait to own her. But I had a standard daily rate to earn, and things were getting interesting.

Kinsman called when I was fresh out of the shower. I had
run again despite the rain and worked out hard at the hotel gym when I returned. I compromised and took the elevator to my room, ordered room-service coffee and pastries, and then hit the shower.

I'd just hung up and was toweling dry when the knock came at the door.

“Just a minute,” I called, wrapping the towel around my waist. I opened the door a crack. “I'm just out of the shower. Can you leave it at the door?”

“Of course, sir. Can you sign for it?” A pale white hand thickly covered with blond hairs pushed the invoice and a pen through the crack. I added a fifteen-percent tip, scribbled my signature, and pushed it back. “Thank you, sir,” said the voice in the corridor.

Still wearing only a towel, I counted to ten and opened the door, looked both ways to make certain the hall was deserted, picked up the tray, and shut the door. I carried the tray to the little table and sat in the easy chair near the window, poured some coffee into a china cup. Rain spattered against the glass. Ah, the joys of casual dining.

There was another knock at the door.

“Who is it?” I called from my chair. I wasn't expecting anyone and wasn't inclined to move. My body was a little stiff from all the recent exercise.

“Room service.”

It was a different voice. Another pot of coffee? More pastries?

“Already got it,” I said, still not moving, except to take a bite from one of the bear claws.

“There was a screwup on your order,” said the voice outside. “I'm here to make it right.”

Curiosity got the better of me. This wasn't the same kid who delivered the tray. This voice was crude, untutored. A street voice, not what I was used to in this hotel.

“Just a second,” I said, getting up and securing the towel around my waist. It was my intention to open the door a crack and send him on his way.

It didn't happen that way.

I turned the lock and the door imploded at me, the leading edge hitting me between the eyes like the blade of an ax. I bounced off the mirrored closet door behind me. As I rebounded, a fist hit me square on the point of my chin.

Shooting stars and comets filled my head. Another powerful blow struck me in the stomach. I doubled over, gasping for breath. He hit me again. The mirrored door broke and I went backward through the glass and fiberboard into the closet. I lay on the carpet, naked and bleeding, unable to breathe. Voices filtered through red haze at the edge of consciousness.

Somebody kicked me in the ribs. I didn't respond.

“He's done,” said the same voice.

He was right. After getting hit by a bunch of fists and a door, I was done.

“Where's the money?”

“He can't help you. Get his wallet!” Someone closed the door to the corridor.

I was aware of two young men, hinky and nervous, yelling at each other. It upset me that they were yelling, offending my sense of professionalism.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, somewhere deep inside where I keep the rational side of my thought processes, I was reminded that I wasn't supposed to root for these guys. I wasn't on their side.

I opened my eyes, careful not to attract attention.

The two young thieves, opening drawers and dumping my clothing on the carpet, were a nightmare Laurel and Hardy. One was tall and thin, emaciated like a junkie, the other short and powerfully built. Both were totally bald, shaved heads glistening like oiled bowling balls.

The taller one picked up Paul Peters's leather jacket and pulled out my wallet, fanned through it to verify its contents, and stuck it in his hip pocket. The short, thickly muscled Hardy, who reminded me of a fireplug, took the wallet away from the junkie.

“I'll keep it,” he said. There was no objection from the tall bandit. Fireplug retrieved my Rolex from the cabinet top,
then got down on his hands and knees and looked under the bed.

“What's this?” He pulled my Halliburton briefcase into the light.

Most of the five thousand dollars Stevenson had given me for expenses was in the wallet along with my credit cards and other identification. That was an acceptable loss. The briefcase containing the quarter million to purchase
Olympia
was not.

I watched them try to open the combination lock. And I waited. The longer I lay there, the better I felt. The haziness began fading and my thinking became less fuzzy, slowly coalescing as the situation focused. I ignored the pain. It was insignificant. My body was tight. My heartbeat slowed to its normal sixty beats per minute, a steady pumping of the fluids. I became calm.

I was a carnivore, lying in wait for prey.

And they had to pass me to get to the door.

“What the fuck?” Fireplug was on his knees, my briefcase in front of him, the combination lock giving him trouble.

“What's that?” The junkie reacted to a noise, a door slamming somewhere down the corridor. His eyes were wide and white around the pupils. His hands shook.

“It's nothin',” said Fireplug.

“I'm outta here!” The skinny junkie took two steps toward me and I came up off the floor and grabbed him by the throat and the testicles, using his momentum to pick him up over my head and swing him around in a full circle like kids playing airplanes. Fireplug turned just as I unloaded his partner on top of him, swinging him down in an arc that brought both men together with as much force as I could muster.

The tall one's body covered the little guy and didn't move. Fireplug squirmed out from under and produced a butterfly knife, which he held in front of him, aimed at my navel. I spread my arms wide, anticipating the quick stab. If he was trained, I'd have some problems. If he handled a knife like O. J., I'd be all right. I had about eight inches in height and probably
a foot of reach on him. No matter what, he wasn't leaving with that briefcase.

“Get out of my way!” The fireplug's voice cracked. It wasn't so much a command as a plea.

I shook my head, grinning. It must have given him pause. A big old white dude, naked and bleeding but still standing, still blocking his way to freedom, still challenging his authority even though he had the knife, and grinning like this was going to be fun.

“I'll cut your little white dick off, you don't move, mutha-fucka.”

“Your move, asshole,” I said quietly. “You came in here, you bought the whole thing.”

Confusion crossed his face. He had the weapon. I was the one who was supposed to be afraid. I was just some old tourist, easy pickings. Things weren't going according to plan.

He made a feint toward my face. I went in under it, got his elbow in my right hand, his wrist in my left, and yanked backward with everything I had.

He screamed as the tendons separated.

He dropped the knife.

I kicked his leading shin, connecting with the ball of my foot, and he went down.

He lay where he fell, curled in a fetal position against the bed. I picked up the knife, found my soggy sweatpants where I'd dropped them and pulled them on, chancing a quick glance in the mirror. My face and back were covered with blood. I traced a finger over my forehead and found a deep cut between my eyebrows, souvenir of the edge of the door. Something stuck me in my back, causing sharp pain whenever I moved.

The two on the floor lay still. I poked their buttocks with my toe. I was not gentle.

“Hey!” Fireplug was conscious, still curled into a ball, holding his maimed right arm.

“Give me my stuff and get out of here,” I said.

“Fuck you,” said Fireplug, sniffing, his breath coming in quick pants. “You fucked me up.”

“Probably,” I said. “You'll probably lose most of the use of that arm.” That was exactly what I'd intended.

“Fuck you!”

“Suit yourself. Give me my watch and my wallet and get up and walk out of here. I won't call the cops. I won't call Security. You get a free ride. Continue to argue with me and the fight hasn't ended yet. You'll leave through the window over there. Your choice.”

For the first time, the little guy really looked at me. He knew I wasn't lying. “What about him?”

“If you can take him with you, he can go, too. Just make sure you're only taking what you brought with you. I'll keep the knife.”

He shook his head as if none of this were real, then rolled to the side, nearly made it to his knees, found himself off balance, and fell heavily onto his injured arm. He whimpered when he hit the floor, but he didn't cry out. He was almost as tough as he thought he was.

“Help me,” he said.

“Nope. You're on your own. My watch, please, and my wallet.”

“In my pocket.”

“Take them out and hand them to me.”

He struggled with his left hand, but managed to pull out my old stainless-steel Rolex Submariner and my wallet. He handed them over. I expected him to do something stupid, but he'd learned something in this room, and he wasn't about to go over the line again.

I checked my watch and slipped it on my wrist. I'd bought it in Hong Kong on an R and R during the Great Southeast Asian War Games and had worn it without pause ever since. It kept passable time and because of its history, was one of the few possessions I really cared about. This young man was not the first to try to take it away from me.

“Get your buddy,” I said.

He looked down at the limp form at his feet. “I can't. He's too heavy.”

“Oh, come on,” I said. My voice had taken on a friendly tone, almost like the chiding of a favorite uncle. “You're a big boy. You work on those muscles. Lift weights. You can do it.”

“He's dead.”

I reached down and felt the carotid along the neck. The pulse was strong, his breathing regular. “No he's not. He's just resting. Now pick him up!” The last I shouted in a parade-ground bark.

Fireplug grabbed his partner and pulled him to his feet. The junkie's eyes fluttered open. He looked around, not comprehending where he was. “Wha's happening?” he asked.

“You're going home, son,” I said. “You've had a bad day.”

“Yes,” he said. He spoke as if he had seriously considered the word and found it profound. “I believe I have.”

“You gonna open the door?” Fireplug had his hand full trying to stand and support his partner at the same time. Another obstacle, like the door, seemed more than difficult. Well, that was the idea.

“Nope. No help. That's the deal. You can do it.”

Fireplug struggled with his partner, finally getting him to stand on his own. The junkie didn't actually stand. Fireplug just leaned him against the wall, pinning him there with his body. It was the only way he could get the door open. They shuffled into the corridor.

Before he closed the door behind him, Fireplug turned and glared at me, his anger coming back, bringing some courage with it.

“I sure hope I see you somewhere,” he said.

“You better hope you don't,” I said. “That's the other part of the deal.”

“What's that?”

“I see you anywhere near this hotel again, you're going off the roof.”

BOOK: Sand Dollars

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