Stories (2011) (97 page)

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 had 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 enraged 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.

"Sonofabitch," Sol, or Baldy, as Slater
unaffectionately thought of him, said.

"What the...?" Gorilla said.

"Out of my way," Sol yelled and jerked the.45 up
to fire. His aim was dead on target.

But Slater suddenly became a zigging target. The shot missed
by inches, sang off into the night. Another blast and Slater's neck burned, but
it was only a graze.

Slater zigged and zagged all the way to the other fence,
went over it like a professional high jumper and landed in an unprofessional
heap on the far side.

The two goons jumped into the Plymouth, turned it around
with a screech of tires and headed around the other way, hoping to cut their
prey off.

Slater stumbled to his feet, realized he was in someone's
backyard. He veered wide of the house. He had no intention of drawing innocent
bystanders into this. Crossing the blacktop road in front of the dwelling, he
melted into a thick clump of trees that a real estate sign said was ready to be
bought and contracted.

He caught the lights of the Plymouth out of the corner of
his eye when he dove into the undergrowth. The grey car came by slowly and Sol
hung a flashlight out the window, bobbed it into the trees.

Slater was lying behind a clump of thick foliage, making
like ground moss. The beam didn't hit him.

They made several passes flashing the light. Finally they
stopped, got out of the car and went down into the trees for a looksee.

Slater inched his way into a wet ditch that smelled of sewer
or something equally rank, pressed himself down tight in the mulch and held his
breath.

He listened to the crunching of leaves and the talking of
hushed voices for what seemed like an hour but could have been only minutes.
Then, when the sounds stopped, he listened some more. Silence reigned for
another hour or so. Finally, he heard grumbled cursing, the sound of
leaf-crunching feet about their business again.

They came right up to him, flashed their beam into the ditch
once, but the shadows and Lady Luck protected him. He didn't breathe.

More time passed and the cursing began again, and he heard
the sound of heavy feet going away. Car doors slammed, and engine coughed to
life.

Slater crawled out of the ditch and elbowed his way back to
where he could get a good look. The moonlight showed the Plymouth pulling away
lickety split for Pasadena. It seemed that the goons had given him up.

Perhaps, thought Slater, they would have looked longer had
they known he had memorized their license plates, and of course, he knew their
first names, Sol and Jerry. Obviously these were not things that would have
worried them earlier. That sort of information doesn't help a dead man.

Brushing himself off as best he could, Slater made his
stealthy way over to the house next to the fence. He wrote a nice note of
signed explanation on a check stub, stuffed it in the screen door of the house,
hot-wired the '69 Galaxy in the drive with his pocket knife and drove the long
way back to
Strawberry Street
.

Keeping an eye out for the Plymouth, he parked a block from
his office and walked back. He used his key and took the stairs up. He unlocked
his office door and went inside cautiously. No one was waiting.

He got some fresh clothes out of the closet, washed up in
the bathroom, and changed. Next he got the.38 out of the desk drawer and loaded
it. He put it in his coat pocket, went back down to the Galaxy and drove over
to GulfCity and Happy's Good Time Bar, stopping along the way to make a phone
call.