Dangerous Times (16 page)

Ling was hard to forget. His skinny
sticklike body supported a big clean-shaven head, with a round
lemony face that was pure Chinese.

As a kid, Ty had called him Lollipop, and
she couldn’t contain the laugh that came from between her lips.
“Sorry, Mr. Ling,” she apologized. “Seein’ Frank like this’s got me
outta control.”

Ling displayed a bright toothy smile.
“Laughter is the best medicine,” he said in proper English, each
word enunciated with academic precision.

Ty watched the stick figure move to the far
side of the bed, thinking it had been a long time since she had
seen anyone in a sharkskin suit.

She sat quietly while Ling studied the
patient. Ty had been smart enough to push the exposed brown hair
under the head bandages. Though she still had to pray Ling was
being fooled by the astronaut, just as she had been.

“Frank Lester Moore…” Ling whispered
mournfully. Then to Ty, “Yes, you are no doubt in much pain.”

“Yeh, uh-huh,” she nodded sadly, then got up
and went into the bathroom. Ty closed the door, leaned on the sink
and stared into its whiteness.

Lollipop’s lookin’ for the money, she
thought, certain now that Frank had run off with it…4, 5 million.
Wondering suddenly how Ling had gotten here so fast—must’a followed
her here, Ty suspected.

She gazed into the mirror and sighed at her
reflection. 32 years old, she sulked. “Starvin’ teddy bear,” she
said to her face.

Ty turned from the mirror and opened the
door. From where she saw Lollipop’s bony fingers on the manila
envelope that had Frank’s name on it.

She returned to the chair and sat. Ling
approached and fit himself between her and the patient. “I was
awakened by Mr. Eddie after a mere two hours of sleep,” he said
backed against the bed. “With all due respect,” he yawned, “perhaps
I might sit on the edge.”

“Go ‘head,” Ty squirmed, anxious to
leave.

Ling read the anxiety, but not what was
behind it. “You wish to be alone with your husband. I shall be as
quick as possible,” he said. “The call I received from your uncle.
He was most troubled. I presume you know Gim San and Mon Lew?”

“Kind’a,” Ty shrugged.

“They had disembarked your uncle’s yacht to
transport Mr. Moore to the Los Angeles coast.” Ling held his shiny
black eyes on her. “Unfortunately, Gim San and Mon Lew did not
return to the ship as scheduled. That is why Mr. Eddie woke me
with—”

“Question,” Ty interrupted. “This got
anything to do with me?”

Ling’s toothy smile reappeared. “We may come
to the answer soon enough. To continue,” he said, “Mr. Eddie’s
concern is based upon a suitcase of money Mr. Moore had in his
possession.”

“Suitcase’a money,” Ty thought aloud,
playing it dumb. “Uh-huh,” she pretended to conclude. “Gim San and
Mon Lew beat up Frank and stole the money.”

“Please permit me to enlighten you with the
facts,” Ling said tiredly. “Your uncle requested that I drive to
your home, to see if Mr. Moore might arrive there. If he did not,
and you were to leave, I was further instructed to follow you.”

“Follow me?” Ty said indignantly, already
having figured that one out. “And why would Eddie wan’cha to do
that?” she asked innocently.

Ling ignored the question. “While in the
hospital parking lot, I received a second call from Mr. Eddie. He
informed me that Gim San and Mon Lew had been found, miraculously.
Dead in the water, I believe the expression is.”

“Uh-huh…and you think Frank done it?”

“I happened upon the envelope which contains
your husband’s possessions. Written at the bottom was No cash.” His
expression turned deadly serious. “I do not think so. I would say a
more accurate figure would be ten million dollars.”

Ty sat stunned. Ten million…she had thought
it was…

Ling’s shiny black eyes lowered to her coat.
“Interesting,” he said. “I had also looked in the closet while you
were in the restroom. I did not see a coat, a necessary protection
against our current winter weather.”

“I noticed that too,” Ty replied, still
stunned by the ten million dollar figure. “Expensive camelhair
one.” She paused. “Could be proof he was robbed’a the money. Took
the coat when they took the suitcase.”

Ling showed her a doubtful look. “You have
grown into a most attractive woman,” he said unexpectedly. “Your
Eurasian mixture has served you well.”

Real attractive, Ty said to herself,
‘specially with the small breasts and starvin’ teddy-bear face.

Ling saying, “Should it become apparent that
you and your husband had planned this together, and you do not
cooperate, Mr. Eddie would most regrettably alter this beauty of
yours.”

“You threatenin’ me?!” she shot back.
“What’re you, crazy! Robbin’ my own uncle, for what?!” It dawned on
her that Ling might know for what, that it was Eddie who’d had her
parents killed.

Ty leaned sideways in the chair, looked past
Ling and eyed the bedded astronaut. “Lookit’im,” she said, “layin’
there half dead behin’ ya. Like we stole the money and I beat’im up
with the suitcase—Jesus!”

“The speedboat, Ty. That too is
missing.”

“So it got sunk or somethin’.”

“Mr. Moore’s suit shows no sign of water
damage, which leads us to our first positive conclusion: your
husband must have arrived on land.”

“Yeh, where he was robbed. What’s the
problem?”

“The problem may soon be solved,” Ling said.
“The bodies of Gim San and Mon Lew have been brought aboard the
yacht. Your cousin, Doctor May Kuan, is at this very moment
removing the evidence from Mon Lew. Unfortunately, the shot that
had killed Gim San was to the head. There is, I regret to mention,
no longer a head to examine.”

Ty grimaced.

Ling said, “Should the evidence extracted
from Mon Lew’s body belong to a Russian PSS pistol…a weapon your
dear uncle had given to your husband as a gift.”

“Uh-huh,” Ty grunted in near-defeat. “Frank
did it or not don’t matter any,” she shrugged. “I had nothin’ to do
with it. If I did I wouldn’t be sittin’ around here, tell ya
that.”

She opened her purse and reached in. Her
fingers brushed her Smith & Wesson. She pulled her keys out and
dangled them in front of the lemony face. “Here, why don’cha search
my car?”

“You are being quite helpful, but that will
not be necessary. I have already performed the task. A simple one,
harmless to your car, which required the use of a single tool.”

“Nice goin’,” Ty said, returning the keys to
her purse. “So am I off the hook, or what?”

“No, Ty, you are still ‘on the hook.’ But
things may not be as bad as they seem,” Ling said confidently.
“Your uncle is a reasonable and generous man. That is why Mr. Eddie
is offering a finder’s fee for the return of the money. A reward of
twenty percent.”

“Twenty percent…” Two million, Ty computed
quickly.

“I shall be your contact,” he proposed,
“with my every resource available to you. Which means, in all
fairness, we divide the fee. One million each, should you be
agreeable,” and he showed her his bright toothy smile.

“You’re askin’ me to turn against my own
husband,” Ty stated.

Ling said, “And at the same time being of
assistance to your dear uncle.” Then added, “Should Mr. Moore
regain consciousness, he shall be free of retribution upon the
return of the money. Though never again will he be permitted to see
or contact Mr. Eddie.”

Ty bit at her lip, eyes drifting toward the
life-support system. One million. Not good ‘nough, she thought.
Nowhere near the price she wanted Eddie to pay for what he had
done.

Frank don’t call means he’s run off with the
redhead, she schemed as she had done before. Find ‘em and kill ‘em
both. Take the whole ten million for herself. Lollipop gets in the
way, kill him too.

“Okay, partner,” Ty said, “a million
each.”

Chapter
46

Frank sat dressed in John Kirk’s clothes,
satchel alongside him. The satchel meant a lot to Frank, but he had
to get rid of it. Stuffed in it were his blood-stained clothes:
camelhair coat, gray suit, silk shirt and tie, and his shoes.

That’s all right, Frank thought. An imported
leather satchel was something Kirk-the-Cowboy wouldn’t own. And the
interior of the satchel had become damp with blood. But when and
where would he dump it…

Frank leaned forward and said, “Would you
say it’s a good hotel?”

“Best in San Pedro,” the cabby said, focused
on the foggy road ahead.

Frank settled back and relaxed. Things were
moving along just as he had planned. He had found an empty slip for
the speedboat, and used the bandages from its first-aid kit to
cover his grazed cheek. Then changed into John Kirk’s clothes on
the misty dock. From where he had used Tom Pincus’ cell to call for
the taxi, the suitcase of money with him now in the trunk.

His own phone, he wondered. Yes, he answered
himself. Long before planting it on John Kirk, he had remembered to
erase its phonebook, leaving only his home number on it.

Rest of it should be easy going, he figured.
Dye his hair at the hotel, get a little sleep, and then leave early
in the morning for the Beverly Cottages.

Frank leaned forward again. “Excuse me,” he
said. “I’d like to stop at an all-night market.”

“Little out of the way,” the San Pedro cabby
told him.

“That’s all right,” Frank answered.

His driver glanced at the meter. “Okay by
me.”

A traffic light appeared in the fog and the
cab came to a halt. Frank peered through the reddish haze of the
stoplight. 25th and Pacific, he thought. Staub’s Import Motorworks
is at 23rd, he grinned.

“I’d like to make a quick stop at the corner
of 23rd,” he said to the cabby.

“Yessir.”

The light changed and the cab rolled
forward. Frank sat back and flashed on what had happened a few
hours ago. Driving Staub’s pickup from the hills of Rancho Palos
Verdes to Staub’s shop, parking it outside the gate. Then using Tom
Pincus’ cell to call for the taxi that had gotten him to L.A. to
meet Eddie’s speedboat.

“23rd, sir,” the cabby said.

“Be right back,” Frank told him. He gave him
a hundred dollar bill and said, “Don’t want you to worry about me
skipping out on you.”

Frank got out with the satchel and crossed
the foggy street. “Christ sake,” he grumbled, John Kirk’s boots a
size too big for him, wearing an old jacket with a broken
zipper.

He approached Staub’s pickup and remembered
he had locked the doors with the key in the ignition.

Frank heard a growl. Guard dog behind
Staub’s gate, he thought—or stray dog on the street, he worried.
Eyes patrolling the mist he pulled his Russian pistol…

Nothing to be seen, and he holstered it. At
the bed of the pickup he lifted a corner of the tarp and raised the
satchel over the tailgate.

“Whoa!” Frank flinched, the head taking him
by surprise. Staub, he said to himself, and the head gave out a
doggish growl and snort. Staub was out like a light, drooling and
wheezing now.

Frank pushed the satchel in next to him and
re-snapped the tarp. Thinking Staub had abandoned his burial spot
and gotten back here to his shop somehow.

Frank was pleased he hadn’t done much damage
to him with the shovel. Now he could look forward to seeing Staub’s
picture in the newspaper. And the headline:

“Dumb Bastard Charged with Murder,” Frank
imagined.

Chapter
47

Ben Hicks left the cafeteria, thankful it
had been open. No hot meals at 1:30 in the morning, but plenty of
sandwiches. He’d had the ham-and-cheese, bag of potato chips, and
had gotten his two cups of coffee. “Should’a had three,” he
muttered as he got on the elevator.

Reaching the 4th floor he got off and
approached the ICU station. Nurse Betty Ruiz sat behind the counter
with her back to him. Hicks said, “Excuse me.” She spun around and
her chipmunk face tightened with fear.

Hicks wanted to say Howdy-doody, ma’am, big
black boogie-man’s come to rape an’ rob. Instead, he showed her his
ID and shield.

“Oh, sorry,” she flushed apologetically.
“You must be here about Mr. Moore,” the little nurse squeaked. Then
answered Hicks’ blank look: “The one who was found outside the
hospital.”

“No,” he said, “I’m here to look in on a
patient, name’a, uh, teenager who got beat up?”

“Yes, Lieutenant, that would be Sinclair,”
and she pointed toward the corridor. “Room 418.”

“Thank you,” Hicks nodded kindly. Thinking
cute voice, cute face. But then he was familiar with her sort of
cuteness, how irritating and unattractive it can become. “There a
way for you to record my visit?” he asked.

“Certainly, Lieutenant.”

Hicks held his ID down close while she
copied it into the computer. A detail that ought to work in his
favor. Proof he had been here to express his remorse.

Remorse…yeah, right. “Thanks again,” Hicks
said. He walked slowly into the corridor. He was in no hurry to
visit the jive-ass sucker.

Hicks paused alongside room 412, the fear on
the nurse’s Latina face still with him. He understood it in a way,
the late hour with the crazies awake and up to no good.

What Hicks didn’t understand was the
hostility between the Hispanics and Blacks. The angry poor of both
groups too dumb to know what they could accomplish if they joined
forces. Same with the penniless dumb-ass Whites, Hicks smirked.
Man, all the poor of every color ever got together—

His thoughts were blown away by the sight of
her. Heading toward him, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen;
looking deeply troubled, eyes lowered as she put her gloves on.
Grief for a hospitalized loved one, Hicks supposed.

He grabbed 412’s door handle, as if about to
enter, using it as an excuse to pause. Didn’t matter, though. He
was invisible to her, he thought, drawing nearer, heels clicking on
the hard floor.