Dangerous Times (15 page)

Phoof-phoof—two muffled shots from the
built-in silencer and Mon Lew folded in his seat. Frank spun
around. Phoof, and the back of Gim San’s head exploded.

Frank twisted himself down onto the satchel,
arm crooked over his face, avoiding the storm of bloody garbage
that blew over him.

Gim San’s body fell against the hand
throttle and the speedboat raced faster. Frank got up. The boat
took a hard turn and he lost his balance. Heading overboard he
dropped his gun and grabbed one of the straps that secured the
suitcase.

Frank steadied himself, let go of the strap
and continued forward, readjusting his balance with every step. He
reached Gim San’s body and clutched the wheel. He kept hold and
used a foot to kick at the dead mess until it spilled downward on
deck. Red slime on the pilot bench, Frank stood at the wheel,
pulled at the throttle and the speedboat came to an idle.

The 28-footer rocked on the water. Frank
turned toward the suitcase, looking for his gun. What he saw was
Mon Lew still alive at the stern, weakly raising his .44.

The shot came as Frank dropped behind the
pilot bench. He brought a hand up to the burn of his cheek, leaned
out and eyed Mon Lew, dead at last.

Frank lowered his hand and became mesmerized
by the pattern of blood on his palm; color changing under the
speedboat’s nightlights…He returned the hand to his cheek, the burn
of the graze unrelenting. Frank pulled his handkerchief out and
pressed it against the wound. He got to his feet, removed the
handkerchief carefully, its cotton material sticking at first.

Good sign, Frank thought; the wound’s
clotting.

He bent down and lifted the legs of Gim
San’s body. Frank dragged the load across deck, the shattered head
losing pieces on the way. Frank swung the legs overboard, hefted
the upper-half of the body over the side and let the hulk slide
into the sea.

Christ sake, he frowned at the blood on his
camelhair coat. That’s all right, he thought then. He wasn’t going
to need it, not while playing the John Kirk role. Buy himself a new
one, once clear of Eddie’s reach.

Frank set his eyes on Mon Lew, dead at the
stern. “You’re next,” he said to the heap. On his way to the body
he caught sight of his Russian PSS. He picked it up and holstered
it under his suit jacket.

Get Mon Lew overboard, Frank told himself.
Change into John Kirk’s clothes, stuff his own bloody ones into the
satchel. Set the GPS, then get down to San Pedro and start his new
life.

Cheek grazed or not, his luck was still with
him. No doubt about it, Frank smiled at the suitcase.

Chapter
41

Ty started her two-seater Mercedes; and
every time she did, there was the flash of her parents being blown
to bits in Paris. But not this time, her mind too busy wondering
how Frank had landed in the hospital.

‘Fore or after he grabbed the money, she
worried. Was it Uncle Eddie who done it to him; would he be comin’
after her next…expect the unexpected, Frank had warned her. Be
prepared for any sudden turns and twists, he had said.

Impossible. How could bein’ in the hospital
be part’a the plan? “Stop thinkin’ about it,” she sighed. The
answer had to be in San Pedro.

Ty pulled out of the drive. Turning the heat
on, she wished it were summer so she could put the top down.

Ty drove to Wilshire and took it to the 405.
She got on the freeway and was reminded of how much traffic there
was in L.A. at 11:55 on a Friday night, she said to herself.

“Party town!” she hollered toward the car
alongside her. She snapped the radio on and found some dance music.
Ty rocked to the beat as she drove, trying to shake off the worry
that had begun to creep back into her thoughts.

Turning up the volume she was unaware of the
shiny black Cadillac that had been following her since she had left
home.

Chapter
42

Ty got off the elevator on the 4th floor.
She went to the ICU station, leaned on the counter and looked down
over the computer.

“Just a sec,” squeaked the youthful nurse,
rapidly working the keypad.

An hour ago Ty had heard the same shrill
voice on the phone, and she eyed the name tag pinned to the nurse’s
baggy greens.

R. N. Betty Ruiz finished feeding the
computer and sat back in her swivel chair. “Now, how can I help
you,” she asked sweetly.

Little too sweet, Ty thought. “My husband is
Frank Lester Moore,” she said, studying the nurse’s cute chipmunk
face; black hair pulled tight into a ponytail.

“Admissions for you to sign, Mrs. Moore.”
Betty Ruiz placed it on the counter. “The provider card I asked you
to bring?”

“Yeh, I ‘membered.” Ty reached into her
purse, pushed her phone aside and found the proof of insurance
under her .38. She handed the card over, then gazed at the form she
had been given. Asking at the same time how her husband had gotten
into a coma.

“Not a coma at first,” chipmunk-face said.
“But yes, a coma is what it developed into.”

“Oh,” Ty nodded. She didn’t care about
Frank’s condition. She was after what had caused it, what had
thrown their plan off course.

“Your husband was found outside the
hospital, unconscious at the bus stop,” Nurse Ruiz continued to
explain. “Have any idea how that could have happened?”

Hispanic nurse must’a been born here,
speakin’ English so good, Ty said to herself. “No, I don’t know
nothin’ about it.”

Done with the insurance card, Betty Ruiz
returned it. “Please sign the hospital form,” she smiled
impatiently.

Ty signed it, wondering if she should drum
up some tears.

“Thank you, Mrs. Moore. I’ll show you to his
room now.” Nurse Ruiz got out of her chair, so short she looked
like she was still sitting.

All chipmunk, Ty thought. On the surface,
anyways. Prob’ly one’a them ferrets underneath, she imagined.
Following behind the little nurse Ty eyed the ICU rooms they
passed, drapes closed over their monitoring windows.

Passing one with its drapes open Ty looked
into the lighted interior. Long enough to glimpse a patient with
his or her face wrapped like a mummy. Next to the bed sat a
middle-aged black couple, chairs touching, the woman’s head at rest
on the man’s shoulder.

Nurse Ruiz halted at the next room, its
drapes closed. Ty watched her push the door open. It was dark in
there, except for the green glow that permeated the room.

Ty took a deep breath. Stepping forward she
heard the beep of the life-support system under the rising beat of
her heart.

Chapter
43

Ben Hicks was having another one of his bad
dreams…Jefferson back from the grave. Celia with him; ex-wife and
son ripping the flesh from Hicks’ body.

He woke with the terror of the dream still
before him. He settled down, and its meaning became clear to him.
The past was tearing him to shreds.

Eyes on the dash player, the music he had
been listening to had just ended. No, Hicks realized with a glance
at the dash clock: 1:05. He had been asleep for at least an
hour.

He looked up through the windshield and saw
a wave of heavy fog spill into the lot. “Yeah, right,” he yawned,
getting his bearings. Hospital parking lot. The kid he had to
visit. The trouble he was in with his superiors.

“Money,” Hicks mumbled. Money was what he
needed to unlock the cage he was in.

First things first, he smirked with a grunt.
More than anything, what he needed right now was a cup of coffee.
He wondered if the cafeteria would be closed at this late hour. If
it was, there had to be a caffeine machine somewhere in that house
of pain.

Have two cups, he decided. Then flash his
shield so they’ll let him see what’s his name. Ask for the
motherfucker with the bashed-in face, Hicks thought angrily. This
was the last place he wanted to be.

He got out of the car. Over the distance he
saw the skinny figure of a man, featureless in the thickening fog.
The figure left the side of a black Cadillac and entered the
hospital. Doctor called in for an emergency, Hicks supposed.

Hicks headed for the entrance, eyes held on
the lighted sign above its doors: Little Company of Mary Hospital.
The misty blur of color reminded him of his mother’s bible. The
illustration he had seen in it. The one that had pictured the
entrance to Hell.

Chapter
44

Ty sat bedside under the fluorescents. She
stared at the comatose patient while Nurse Betty Ruiz smoothed out
his blanket. Ty thinking how weird Frank looked in his helmet of
white bandages, face distorted under the oxygen mask.

Like an astronaut in one’a them sci-fi
movies, she thought.

Positioned away from the wall, the
life-support system stood tall behind the head of the bed. Like a
creepy alien, wormlike tubes feeding off its victim’s bodily
fluids; its monitor screen, one big green eye.

And that damn beeping. Ty didn’t know which
was worse, the metered chirp of the alien or the nurse’s squeaky
chipmunk voice.

“My goodness,” complained the by-the-book
nurse, twisting the wedding band from her patient’s finger. “Should
have been removed and put with the rest of his things.”

Ty felt a pang of sorrow. After all, she and
Frank had been through a lot together.

“Unless you’d rather take it with you,”
Betty Ruiz said.

“Yeh, uh-huh,” Ty nodded. She held her hand
out.

The little nurse came over and set the gold
band down onto the open palm. Telling Ty she’ll try to get a doctor
in here to answer any questions she might have.

“You don’t hafta bother,” Ty said, slipping
the ring into her coat pocket. “Okay with you, I’ll stay the night
and see one’a them in the morning.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Moore, that would be
fine.”

“The beeping,” Ty said with a sour look.

Betty Ruiz stepped away and silenced the
life-support system, then stood and studied the monitor screen.

“Thanks,” Ty said gratefully. The sorrow for
her husband dissipated as she thought about what a cheat he was,
him and his red-headed bitch…. Uncle Eddie’s money, she worried
then.

Ty held back asking if a suitcase had been
found. The chipmunk might think that’s a strange question for a
grieving wife to ask.

“Guess if he’s in a coma,” she said instead,
“there’s no tellin’ when he’ll come out of it.”

“Unfortunately, that is correct, Mrs.
Moore.” Nurse Ruiz turned from the monitor screen and gave Ty a
sympathetic pout. Then said, “I should get back to my station. If
there’s anything you need, press the white button.”

Ty eyed the white button, and the chipmunk
marched off. “Good,” Ty sighed, hearing the door click shut behind
her.

Stay the rest’a the night? Unh-unh, she told
herself, though unsure of what to do next…wait ‘n’ see if Uncle
Eddie calls. Yeh, she decided, clutching her purse with her phone
in it.

Eddie calls lookin’ for Frank means the
money’s been stolen, she figured. Eddie don’t call means Frank got
away with it and Eddie don’t know yet.

She gazed at the astronaut. Lost in space,
she thought. Noticing now the catheter tube stuck in a bag at the
edge of the bed, and one of her Brooklyn friends came to mind.

Marcia use’ta call it a Catholic Tube, Ty
smiled. ‘Cause there was nothin’ a cheatin’ man could do with his
root but take a piss.

Smile sagging, she wondered again about the
suitcase. Ty crossed her legs and slouched in the cushioned chair.
She tilted her head and looked under the bed.

Seeing nothing but a bedpan Ty slid upright
and got out of the chair. She went to a closed door and opened it.
Bathroom. No suitcase. She walked around behind the creepy alien,
stepping over its cables, thinking it a good place to store a
suitcase. But no…

Opening the only other door, it was a
closet; Frank’s brown suit was in there, and his shoes with socks
rolled up in them. And no camelhair coat—somebody stole it, Ty
thought. Along with the suitcase, she feared.

Ty bit at her lip, thinking Eddie’s men
might’a caught’im. Took the money back and left’im for dead—and
took his coat?

“Jesus,” she grumbled with confusion.

Eyes on the soiled suit, it was hard for her
to picture her natty husband in dirty clothes. Dirty from gettin’
attacked in the street, she guessed.

Ty searched the pockets, looking for what,
she didn’t know. Nothin’ in ‘em anyways, she shrugged.

She closed the closet door and spotted a
bulky manila envelope on the near countertop. A white paper was
stapled to it, Frank L. Moore handwritten with a list of contents:
phone, watch, wallet, keys, and at the bottom was written “No
cash.”

Ty returned bedside, grabbed the limp hand
and tugged on it. “Wake up!” she snapped. “Get the money or
didn’cha?”

As if expecting an answer she leaned down
close to the frosty oxygen mask. Her eyes then went to the helmet
of white bandages. A sliver of sideburn showed, and some strands of
hair were exposed at the nape of the neck.

Brown…dark-brown hair?

Ty turned the hand over to examine it and
saw the military tattoo on the inner side of the forearm.

She dropped the hand and covered her mouth.
“It’s not him!” she said into her hands.

Chapter
45

Ty sat bedside, slouched in the chair. Yeh,
she concluded, expect the unexpected, Frank had said. Turns and
twists; go with them, Ty could hear him saying to her.

The door clicked open behind her.

“Ty Kim Moore,” he said.

She straightened and turned to him. It was
Ling, Eddie’s U.S. chief of pushers and soldiers. Ty hadn’t seen
him since she lived in Brooklyn with her parents—before good ol’
Uncle Eddie had ‘em killed, she told herself.