Bullet Beach (3 page)

‘We didn't do nothing,' Slurpy said.

‘Get down on your knees.'

‘Do as you're told,' Cross repeated.

‘We didn't do nothing, Cross.'

He heard the dogs now. The barking was louder, angrier, it seemed. What followed was serious gunfire. Cross couldn't count the shots. He was sure some were simultaneous.

After several minutes – it seemed like hours to Cross – he was searched and pulled to his feet. He saw Slurpy's body on the ground, face up. One of the cops was holding the shotgun. Cross figured it out. Slurpy had pulled the gun out, maybe in response to the onslaught of the police dogs.

Could the night get any worse? ‘That was so unnecessary,' Cross said to the cop standing beside him.

The cop didn't respond.

There must have been two dozen uniforms on the scene. They were searching the Audi and a couple of them had moved to the Lincoln Town Car. The trunk was popped from the inside.

‘Over here,' a uniform said.

Cross was close enough to see what the cop wanted the others to see. A body. Probably dead, Cross thought. It could get worse. It just did.

He was led to the back of a police cruiser and put in the back seat. His hands were cuffed behind him so he couldn't scratch the inevitable itch above his right eye and he couldn't get comfortable. Not all the cops were busy now. Most of them were standing around, but no one was talking to him. No one asked him questions. He thought they ought to be full of questions.

From the back window, Cross had a view of the action when it came. The medical examiner's team arrived and passed by him, red, white and blue lines flashing on the white clothing. So many times, too many times crime scenes looked like carnivals or celebrations.

Then, in time, Cross knew why no one asked him anything. A late model, shiny, black Ford Victoria pulled up. From a rear door a tall, black man stepped out with the demeanor and the look of a celebrity. Cross knew him. The man's grandmother would have called him Maurice Collins. But others would refer to him as Lieutenant Collins, perhaps Ace if they were truly close to him. He was the hotshot on the homicide team.

Collins talked with a couple of uniforms, was taken to the body in the trunk. He took a look around the Town Car and then the body. He talked to someone with the medical team. He did all this patiently, it seemed to Cross – taking his time, taking it all in.

Finally, he turned to look in Cross's direction. He walked slowly toward him and as he closed in Cross saw his impeccably white and starched shirt, open at the collar and his expensive dark suit. The man wasn't smiling. But he wasn't angry either. His face was blank, uncommitted.

The lieutenant opened the door and motioned for Cross to get out. Cross did, awkwardly because of the cuffs. Collins grabbed an arm to steady him. Collins unlocked the cuffs and motioned again, this time for Cross to follow.

They went to the back of the Town Car. It wasn't just one corpse, but two, one of each gender. As the flashlight danced over the bodies, it was clear that they were wet from roughly the waist down, higher on her.

‘You know them?'

Cross saw what appeared to be a young man and woman – maybe in their twenties.

‘No. You?'

Collins smiled.

‘I will. What in the hell are you doing hanging out with Slurpy Thurman?' It was said calmly.

‘I needed a hand,' Cross said.

‘What kind of hand?'

‘I needed a driver. I pick up a repo. Slurpy follows in my car.'

Collins nodded, guided Cross back to the unmarked Crown Victoria.

‘I didn't think I'd see you so soon.'

‘That was the plan,' Cross said. ‘How'd the police know to come here?'

‘Someone saw you guys in the lot in the middle of the night. Thought it was suspicious.'

‘Not true,' Cross said. ‘You sent half the police force.'

‘All right, anonymous tip. Said we'd find bodies in the back of a silver luxury car. Killers were at the car lot.'

That made sense to Cross. He nodded in the direction of Slurpy's corpse.

‘That didn't have to happen.'

Collins gave him a sharp look.

‘Is that why you're being nice to me?' Cross continued.

‘Am I?'

‘Seems like it.'

‘You complaining?'

‘Worried,' Cross said. ‘I always worry when a cop is nice to me.'

‘About Slurpy, he was living on borrowed time. If he didn't have a massive heart attack some gang banger would kill him in a bar fight. You have any idea how many times he was arrested?'

Cross didn't answer. He knew the police didn't want any trouble with the police shooting. Collins nodded toward the back seat. Cross climbed in. Collins followed.

‘What happened tonight? Tell me everything.'

Cross did, and when he was done, Collins leaned forward and told the uniformed driver something and they drove off. The driver also said something into his mic.

‘We're going to have to keep you overnight,' Collins said. ‘Otherwise it looks like I'm soft on you. You should go ahead and call a lawyer. You still run around with that biker? Kowalski?'

‘I know him. He'd be my pick.'

‘You're a funny guy,' Collins said.

‘Is that a compliment?'

‘No, funny as in odd. What are you doing with your life?'

‘I'm getting by.'

Collins shrugged, shook his head. ‘You hang out with strange people, that's all.'

Cross knew what he was getting at. Cross had fallen in love or lust or obsession, whatever it was, with an exotic dancer who turned out to be a murderer. Cross was friends with what the police thought was a trouble-making old private eye. And in the thick of it was a trouble-making, Harley-riding defense attorney. ‘Why don't you like normal people?'

‘You want to do dinner and catch a movie later?'

Collins laughed. ‘I think you'd be going from bad to worse.'

There were about ten minutes of silence, Collins sitting in the back of the car with seeming immense patience. The car pulled up in front of a house on Drexel. The same house. Two cop cars pulled up beside them. Four uniformed police officers in flak jackets with serious weapons approached the house, two in front, two toward the back. In moments, a short, chubby black man was on the front lawn. An equally chubby black woman was outside on the porch. The porch light and the shadows might have exaggerated the look of horror on her face.

Collins and Cross remained in the car.

‘That him?' Collins asked.

‘No,' Cross said.

‘That was quick.'

‘Couldn't be more different.'

Collins looked down, rubbed his hands together.

‘Wait here,' he said and went out to talk with the stunned man in a sleeveless tee shirt and boxer shorts.

THREE

Shanahan was not superstitious. The only signs he accepted as true were the literal ones – dead end, sharp turn, no parking. So he was surprised at the softening of the walls of his rules of reality. The dreams about Fritz took him to new places, places perhaps opened when a bullet traumatized his brain, making new pathways. Just as Maureen had come along and brought new life, the bullet came along to remind him the world was still a mysterious and dangerous place. And it was clear he was being driven on this venture by something that was altogether unclear.

Here he was now in the cool and cramped interior of a silver tube sliding through space to another world. Maureen was asleep beside him. A couple of rum and tonics and she was blissfully unaware of anything in the conscious world. He pulled the blanket up over her shoulder and around her neck. He sat back and closed his eyes. He would recount what led to this trip, this moment, until he fell asleep.

It began when he rummaged through old photographs. He came upon several small black and white photographs of his childhood. There was one of a young Dietrich Shanahan. The boy was looking at something off camera. But it wasn't entirely off. There was part of a leg showing in the lower right hand corner of the picture – a leg kicked up behind. Someone running, as if trying to escape. It was his brother Fritz.

And it was true in some fashion. Fritz had suddenly disappeared when he was maybe eight years old. And the boy was not an acceptable topic of conversation. Before he disappeared, Shanahan had hazy memories of the boy being shut in a room, of a doctor coming and going, sad faces in shadowy light. And he remembered a somber evening when a big, black Hudson pulled up in front of the house. That was an event in itself. And Fritz was taken out to the car. Shanahan remembered Fritz taking one last look back. That was the end of it. It was truly the end of it. Fritz had been purged from Shanahan's mind until he saw the photograph. His parents had missed it, this little piece of Fritz, proving his existence.

About a year ago, perhaps a little longer, the dreams came – Fritz running through hallways, hiding, going up stairways, teasing Shanahan. It was hide and seek with a sinister edge. If it was a game, it wasn't fun.

Shanahan opened his eyes. He looked around the coach. So quiet. It was pleasantly dark, except for a scattering of lights for those trying to read and a bluish light that came from TV sets mounted on the back of seats. There were those who could not sleep and didn't want to think. He thought about turning on the set in front of him, but decided against it. Perhaps he should try to remember his brother, his personality. Maybe something like that would provide some insight into what he was like now. What he could remember.

Shanahan felt as if he was diving into a pool now. He sensed the danger.

‘Your son was sure happy to see you,' Maureen said, eyes opening as a few streams of light came through windows where shades had not been completely drawn. Morning was coming.

The word ‘son' had an odd sound to Shanahan.

‘I didn't have much to say.'

‘You never have much to say. They don't mind.'

The lunch had gone well. Son, son's wife, son's son were there. Wine was sipped. The five of them walked across the Great Highway to Ocean Beach. They weathered the wind, the blowing sand that bit at them, watched the kite flyers who ran around with boundless energy, who were undaunted by the treacherous drafts of air.

His grandson, now a young man, was bright and warm. He encouraged them to come spend some time with them in wine country. Shanahan remembered how Maureen's eyes brightened at the suggestion.

‘I'm glad we stayed over a day,' Maureen said.

‘Me too,' Shanahan said. The stay-over broke up the dreary, prison-like hours in the plane. The airlines, it seemed to Shanahan who remembered when flying was something elegant, were doing their best to make their trips unpleasant.

Cross didn't get out the next morning. He spent an additional night. Lieutenant Collins backed off his initial offer when it was clear that the man who lived in the house on Drexel and who owned the Lincoln Town Car wasn't the man who supposedly came upon them with a shotgun. This, said Collins, destroyed the time line. This meant Cross and Slurpy had hours to set all this up – find the victims, shoot them, and attempt to hide them in a locked garage on East Washington.

‘One lie,' Collins said, ‘that's all it takes for me.'

James Fenimore Kowalski finally got him out by threatening to sue for wrongful death on behalf of Slurpy Thurman, which he thought he might do anyway. Slurpy, Kowalksi contended, had a well-below average IQ, and, not knowing there was a body in the trunk, was merely retrieving the shotgun, which was probably true.

The police were edgy. On one hand, they had to stand behind the shooting no matter what. Deny, deny, deny that firing was premature and that they were not really threatened. It was likely that most of the likely interest groups would support the police. On the other hand, the police weren't eager to make it a public debate and Collins didn't believe that Cross shot a couple of young people and threw them in a trunk.

Kowalski made bail for Cross and stopped by Cross's place to take care of Shanahan's dog and cat as he had done the night before.

‘You know a five-year-old could pick that lock,' Kowalksi said.

‘Have to be that old, you think?' Cross asked. They went to Harry's bar on Tenth and sat in a booth at the back.

‘Where's Shanahan?' Kowalski asked.

‘In Thailand. Either fried or drowned.'

‘Sounds like boiled to me.' Kowalski wasn't as big as he looked. He was probably just six-foot, and no more than 200 pounds. But he had a large head and it looked like it was cut from granite. He had jagged features, long black hair with silver streaks, swept back. He looked like he was moving when he wasn't. He always wore a black suit, a white shirt, no tie, and motorcycle boots. It was the same whether he was riding his Harley or arguing in court.