Dangerous Times (10 page)

Kirk moved his eyes to the shelved whiskey.
Seeing the bourbon bottles he was reminded of the late afternoons
in the oldest bar in San Pedro…root beer for Johnny-boy,
boilermakers for Dad.

Kirk glanced at his Timex. Four and a half
hours until his father’s birthday. “Excuse me,” he called to the
bartender. She pranced over to him. He said, “Bourbon in a shot
glass.”

“You got it.” She turned around, reached for
a bottle on the upper shelf and her miniskirt rose up. Kirk
glimpsed her precious cheeks. The event dampened by the memory of
Lisa at home, naked at the closet, being heartless.

The goddess of the bar set the shot glass
down next to his beer. Kirk thanked her. She left him to answer
another’s call.

He hovered the shot glass over his mug and
dropped it in, same as his father had done. Lifting the boilermaker
he whispered, “Here’s to you, Dad.”

Kirk took a heavy swallow, set the drink
down and felt a tap on the shoulder.

“Johnny-K,” spoke Donald Green, a warm smile
on his chubby face. He grabbed the stool next to Kirk and caught
the bartender’s attention. “Geez, Becky,” he said to her, “you
ought to go home and get some clothes on.”

“And you ought to just go home,” Becky
cracked with a happy snicker. “Usual?” she asked then.

“Absolute-ly,” Donald grinned. Becky
proceeded to mix him an icy Absolute with tonic.

Kirk hadn’t been listening to them. Donald’s
excessive weight had brought Bob Staub to mind. Two overweight men
who were as different as night and day. Donald, far from hoggish,
had the compassion and humor that Staub lacked. Attitude, Kirk
decided, that’s what separated the two men.

Donald sipped his drink and nodded with
approval. He turned to Kirk. “You haven’t been in here in a long
time. What’s the occasion?”

Kirk raised his mug and had another swallow.
About to say something, Donald interrupted him:

“No, let me guess,” he said. “You’re done
with the forty-niner. It’s in the lot, where we’re going to lift
the hood and take a gander. Am I right?”

“Wrong,” Kirk smiled, “but she’s just about
ready.”

“Here’s to it,” Donald beamed, raising his
glass in a toast. Kirk raised his own and they drank to the
Ford.

Donald heard a clink as Kirk pulled the mug
from his lips. “Say, Johnny-K, don’t know if you noticed, but
there’s a glass in your glass.”

Kirk laughed a little. “In honor of my
long-gone father’s birthday.”

“Yes, yes,” Donald said. “When we were kids;
I remember him and his boilermakers.” Donald set his vodka down.
“And how kind he was to me,” he added with a note of nostalgia.

Kirk felt the warmth of their shared
history. Realizing now that in his present life, Donald Green was
the only one he knew who hadn’t caused him a problem.

Donald saying, “Lisa drove you here?”

“No,” Kirk said. “Took the bus,” and he
downed more of his drink.

“She’s here tonight, isn’t she?”

Kirk looked beyond Donald, gazed through the
plate glass window and surveyed the big inner room. Most of the
tables were taken. Weekenders lusting for an early start, Kirk
thought. Their faces under the red and blue swirling lights
reminded him of one of Dante’s nine circles of Hell.

“She’s supposed to be here,” Kirk answered
finally.

“Ohhh,” Donald said, “checking up on her.”
He followed Kirk’s look into the inner room. “Jeez, Amy’s doing her
schoolmarm routine again,” sensing he should get off Lisa.

Kirk finished his boilermaker, called Becky
over and ordered another. Donald certain now about his friend’s
troubled mood.

Kirk returned his eyes to the inner room and
watched Amy on the runway. Strutting to the music, wearing glasses,
her brunette hair pulled back into a bun; long dark dress accented
with white frill.

“Dumb act,” Donald critiqued, hitting on his
vodka tonic. “Got to be number one in the Stripper’s Handbook.
Going to have to talk to her about that,” he went on. “But not
until after she ‘tutors’ me tonight.”

Kirk said, “You’re a lucky guy,” and he
meant it. Amy was a reasonably attractive woman in love with an
unreasonably weighty man. Kirk guessing that Donald fulfilled her
every need, along with giving her a good laugh now and again.

Kirk heard his ordered mug of beer land on
the bar. He looked at Becky’s hands as she poured bourbon into a
fresh shot glass. Her slender fingers reminded him of Lisa’s.

Lisa, he thought. If it was finished, it was
finished. There was no reason to dwell on it. Why things couldn’t
be—

“There she is,” Donald poked him.

Kirk lifted the shot glass and dropped it
into his beer. He flicked his eyes toward the inner room, where he
saw Lisa weaving between the tables, a tray of drinks balanced in
the air.

Wearing her blue-pleated miniskirt, gone
were the tights and boots she had put on at home. Exchanged for
bare legs, patent-leather high heels topped off with white
socks.

Above the waist, Lisa Cashmere had become
Lisa T-shirt; Korky’s Klub printed in blue on the sheer white
material. Under it, her nipples were apparent.

Damn it, Kirk grumbled to himself. He turned
back to his second boilermaker and took a long swallow.

Donald had another vodka tonic delivered. He
took a quick sip and said, “I’m not finishing this one. No, sirree,
no DUI for me.” He said, “Hey, Johnny-K, change your mind yet about
handling pistolas?”

Kirk said, “I’m still stuck with the memory
of—you know.”

“I understand,” Donald nodded. “Just
thinking about the gun club. I’m going over there when I leave
here. Don’t want to waste my membership fees.”

“Couldn’t anyway,” Kirk told him. “Got to
get to the shop and work on the car.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Staub wants it out of there.”

“Can’t blame him,” Donald said, “he owns the
place. But that doesn’t make him a better person. Nothing could
from what I’ve seen and heard.”

“Don’t I know it,” Kirk agreed. He pictured
the bastard trying to seduce his mother; and he gulped down nearly
half a mug.

“Whoa,” Donald cautioned. “Work on the car,
you might replace the water pump with the carb.”

Kirk got up, steadied himself and drank the
mug empty. “I’m okay,” he exhaled tiredly.

“Staub give you the raise yet?”

“It’s coming…”

“I bet,” Donald smirked. “Look,” he
continued, “soon as the service department at Long Beach Honda has
an opening, you’re in. I’ve got clout,” he said proudly. “Even in
slow times, best salesman they’ve ever had.”

“Okay then, soon as there’s an opening,”
Kirk thinking what a big change that would be. Living in San Pedro,
working in Long Beach. Still stuck in the mud.

New cars, he thought. Space under the hood
filled to the brim. No room to get your hands on anything, relying
on computers.

“Ride to Staub’s?” Donald offered.

“That’d be great.” Propped up against the
bar Kirk laid his money down. Space under the hood, he repeated to
himself.

Space…

“Astronaut,” he mumbled.

“Astronaut?” Donald smiled with
uncertainty.

“Cut the ties that bind me…abandoned in
space…the silence, Donald, the silence…”

Donald got off his stool and raised his
round body on tiptoe. “Sorry, folks,” he announced to the crowded
bar, “Johnny-K is no longer available. He just stepped out to
lunch.”

Chapter
23

Following John Kirk and his friend, Frank
turned onto Pacific and glanced at the dash clock. Christ sake, he
complained to himself: 8:22. His pigeon had to be dead by 10, 10:15
at the latest.

That’s all right, Frank decided. Patience is
a virtue; and the proof was in the pudding. His pigeon had gotten
drunk and had become more vulnerable.

Frank stayed a block behind the shiny new
Honda. He relaxed and thought of the fun he’d had at Korky’s.
Seated at the busy bar with his sunglasses on, sipping his
cranberry juice, eight stools away from his look-alike.

And the icing on the cake, Frank smiled
inwardly. The bartender in her halter and miniskirt; the vein at
the back of her thigh tinted red in the sinful light of the room.
Frank again thankful he had left his straight razor at home.

The only disappointing part of being there,
he thought, was that he couldn’t go over to John Kirk and have a
playful conversation with him.

Frank Lester Moore was well aware of the
line between self-confidence and arrogance. It was one of the
points that had kept him safe from the long arm of the law. Frank
wondering now how close they might be to catching him; nabbing
their slasher at his bloody business.

That’s all right, he told himself. Tonight
would bring a new deck to the game. New identity, and all that
money he was going to grab from Eddie.

Traveling south on Pacific, Frank slowed.
The Honda had pulled up to the gates of Staub’s Import
Motorworks.

Frank parked across the street, in the
shadows between the streetlights. Through his tinted window he
watched John Kirk unlock the gates. Then saw him return to the
Honda’s driver side and chat with his friend.

It looked to Frank like his pigeon was being
dropped off, soon to be left alone. He studied Staub’s shop. The
bay doors were down. A dark shade blackened the office window.

Perfect.

Chapter
24

The computer screen was all Bob Staub needed
to brighten his paperwork. And there was no need to put the heat
on, not while wearing his sheepskin jacket. Shithead utility
companies weren’t going to pick his pocket.

Music poured from the computer, the disc
interpreting standards with a lot of strings. Staub knew people
liked to call it elevator music. Idiots, he had always thought,
what do they know about good music.

Alongside a speaker lay the remnants of two
double-cheeseburgers and fries. Standing within easy reach was a
liter of Jack Daniels. He curled his ketchupy fingers around the
neck of the bottle, took a swig and looked at the computer
screen.

Staub gazed at the parts list. Beverly’s
Johnny-boy popped into his head. Thinking if the fucker doesn’t get
here by—

The phone rang. He let the machine handle it
and waited to hear if it was Kirk.

“Hellooo-oh,” he heard. “Any bodies there?”
It was Beverly, and she was loaded. More than he himself was, Staub
could tell.

He snapped the music off and grabbed the
phone. “Hey there, Bev.”

“Hey there, Bob,” she mimicked drunkenly.
“Wanna speak to my Johnny-boy.”

“Not here yet,” he said.

“Water heater,” she said.

“Water heater,” Staub repeated, picturing
the way Beverly’s butt filled out her jeans. “Water heater?” he
asked then.

“Jus’ have’im call me when he gets
there.”

“Yeah, when he gets here.” Staub seized the
opportunity: “Nice to hear your voice,” he said warmly.

“Ohh, Bob,” she sighed tiredly.

Staub took a quick shot of the Jack. “We’re
like two kids with nobody to play with,” he persisted, “‘cept for
each other.”

He lifted the paperweight off his desk. A
ten-inch brass tire iron with “Staub’s Import Motorworks” scripted
on it. He twirled it in his stubby hand and listened to her
say:

“Oh, Gawd…y’know I don’ wanna see
anybody.”

“Oh yeah, you been tellin’ me that for
years. So now’s maybe a good time for a new set’a clothes.”

“New clothes?” Beverly giggled.

“Yeah,” he snorted with his own giggle, “an’
I’d be a perfect fit, wrapped tight all around ya.”

The lock on the office door tumbled.

Aw shit, Staub said to himself. He turned
his back to the door and brought the phone close to his lips. “Oh,
you bad girl,” he whispered, “drinkin’ all alone.”

“Call the cops on me, why don’ya,” Beverly
said.

Kirk stepped into the office. Closing the
door he eyed Staub in the glare of the computer screen, hunched
over the phone. No lights on, Kirk noted, feeling the chill in the
room. Cheap son of a bitch, he thought.

Staub gave him a nod and watched him
disappear into the bay area. “Hey, there, Bev,” he went on, keeping
his voice low. “You’re drinkin’ alone, I’m drinkin’ alone. Seems a
waste, don’t it?”

Staub listened to her breathe while he set
the paperweight down and threw back some more of the whiskey.
“Channel Grill?” he suggested. “Ten minutes from ya.”

“Sure,” Beverly snickered. “An’ then
what?”

“Then we have some fun,” he whispered
happily. “How long’s it been, somebody made ya tingle from head to
toe?”

“Not long enough, Bob.”

“Not long enough? That’s the ‘hole’
trouble,” he laughed. “Ya haven’t had one that’s long enough.”

“Jesus H…that’s it, I’m hangin’ up.”

“Aww c’mon, Beverly. Hole trouble, get it?”
Staub leaned back in his chair and saw Kirk in the bay doorway.

Aww, shit.

Kirk walked up to the desk and ripped the
phone from his hand. “Mom?” he said into it.

“You tell Mister Piggy I don’ wanna speak
t’im anymore. An’ when you get home, be a good Johnny-boy an’ give
the water heater a look-see.”

“Okay, and you try to get some sleep.”

“Oh, that again. Mean I’m drunk, huh?”

“That’s about it,” Kirk answered, still
feeling his own liquor, thinking who was he to talk.

“Jesus H…” she moaned, and she hung up.

Kirk put the phone down. He stood over Mr.
Piggy and watched him take a drink.

Staub raised his bloodshot eyes to him.
“What’sa matter, Johnny-boy,” he said with a creepy smile. “Think
she don’t need a real man around the house? Surprise,” he said, “I
was gettin’ somewhere with her. So put your monkey suit on an’ go
work on your fuckin’ car. I’m callin’ her back.”

Staub picked up the phone.