Dangerous Times (20 page)

He leaned forward and retied his shoelaces.
Kirk felt the pressure of the security guard’s gun in his
waistband. He straightened and took it out. .45 auto, 8-shot, he
said to himself. Then checking the chamber, it was empty.

He released the clip. It was full. He used
the heel of his hand to reinsert it, without slamming it back in.
That’s only in the movies, Kirk thought. Good way to jam your
weapon, he knew somehow; and he wondered where he had learned so
much about the pistol he held.

Not from the films he had seen—now there was
something he remembered. Movies. Novels. One of the books he had
read, the astronaut lost in space.

The irony of it, Kirk grinned woefully, the
foggy shine of the park’s lamplight like a giant star in a nebula
cloud.

Movies. Books. What else did he know? He was
Frank Lester Moore. Lived in Los Angeles. Other than that…

The difficult woman who had called him, and
Tommy Shee, both of them after money. And the other caller. Emily.
Her, too; hung up before she got to the money part, Kirk
supposed.

Eyes on the .45, it was comfortable in his
hand. Yes, that’s it, he understood now. He was a thief and must
have stolen someone’s money.

Chapter
61

Hicks stepped into the lighted mist. The
Daily Breeze lay open on the bench, top pages flat and dry. Sucker
stopped an’ took a breather, he thought. Or could’a been a homeless
person, he guessed.

Yesterday’s paper, Hicks noticed. He knew it
was the one with the excessive-force article in it. Teenager beat
up by a cop, names gone unmentioned. Saturday paper’ll be out soon,
he said to himself, hoping Fat Cap hadn’t released any names
yet.

Hicks heard voices crackle on his two-way.
He pulled it from his coat pocket and listened to a San Pedro
officer talking with a Rancho Palos Verdes officer.

When they were done, Hicks pocketed his
two-way. He continued through the park, taking the path that led
away from the bench. He wasn’t willing to give up on finding Frank
Moore.

Hicks moved through the fog and went over
the conversation he had just heard. Anonymous call that came in.
Empty shallow grave they came across. Down the hill from it,
unlocked Lincoln registered to Frank Lester Moore.

Sure ‘nough, Hicks thought with relief,
suitcase’a money would’a been mentioned if it was there. “Shit!” he
spat as it came together for him. His ticket to freedom was robbed
an’ didn’t have the money. Only reason he was on the run was ‘cause
he killed the guy in his hospital room.

Wait a minute, Hicks stopped himself.
Whoever robbed him had to have his own car. But why would’a Frank
Moore gone up in the hills alone—bury the money? Or he could’a had
a partner. Plan was to meet in the hills and split the take.

“Could be…” he said to the misty trees that
he passed. Means the sucker knows who tried to kill him. Gets outta
the hospital, then goes straight for the money, straight after his
partner.

Hicks recalled Ling telling him there was a
Mrs. Moore, Ling holding back something about her. Yeah, Hicks went
on with it, what if the partner was a she? Deceitful wife? Why not,
in a world full’a backstabbers…the detective unsure now, asking
himself how Frank Moore ended up on a bench outside the
hospital.

Wife grabs the money but has too much heart
to kill him? Dumps her husband at the—lotta work for a woman alone,
Hicks thought. Unless she had her own partner.

He came to the edge of the park, where it
met Oliver St. He stopped in the foggy glow of a streetlamp and
took out Frank Moore’s address: 1350 Armacost Avenue. Los
Angeles.

Get to the wife, Hicks told himself.

Chapter
62

Kirk stood at the corner and didn’t know
which way to go. On a hillside of homes he couldn’t see more than
half a block away, to where the streetlights disappeared into the
fog. Cold and hungry he needed to find an all-night restaurant. No
cash on him, he thought. He would have to use one of the credit
cards. Damn it, police would trace his location if he did.

Kirk’s phone rang. He got it out and
connected. He answered softly, eyes scanning the dark windows of
the corner house.

“Wha’cha doin’?” she asked.

“Not you again,” he whispered, “whatever
your name is.”

“Name’s Ty. T-Y,” she whispered back.
“What’sa matter, somebody in the room with ya?”

“I’m not in the hospital anymore, and I
wasn’t there the first time you called.”

“Good news,” she perked up, losing the
whisper. “Where are ya?”

“Stuck in San Pedro without a car,” Kirk
grumbled.

“Sorry to hear that,” she said. “‘Member
anything yet?”

“Wouldn’t tell you if I did. I’ve got a
funny feeling you’re nothing but trouble.”

“Keep bein’ nasty,” Ty said, “I’m not gonna
come getcha.”

“Come get me? Why would you want to do
that?”

“Nothin’ goin’ on here with Frank and his
redhead,” Ty yawned. “Must’a dumped her, too.” She paused. “Loss’a
memory or not, figure I’d better stick close to the guy who could
be Frank’s partner.”

“Last time you called, I told you I don’t
know anything about your Frank and his damn redhead.”

“Might once I get my hands on ya,” she
threatened. “Beat your brains in, maybe get your memory back.”

“What’re you, crazy?” he whispered
harshly.

“I’m kiddin’,” Ty laughed. “Just think it’d
be nice for us to be together when ya get your memory back.” Then
said, “What street ya on?”

Kirk looked up through the mist at the
corner street sign. “Oliver and Meyler.”

“All I know’s Gaffey,” Ty sighed. “Gotta
come from L.A.,” she thought aloud. “You where it’s flat or
hilly?”

“I’m on a hillside, in a residential area,
not too far from the hospital.”

“Yeh, hospital’s on 7th,” she said. “I dunno
how many streets, but you gotta go downhill and stop at
Gaffey.”

“How are you going to find me?”

“You’ll be on Gaffey, somewheres near 7th,”
she told him. “Be nobody else around, Saturday morning, still
dark.”

“Yeah, but the police are looking for
me.”

“Really; why’s that?”

“Tell you when I see you,” Kirk said. “I’ll
find a doorway or something. You can call me when you get onto
Gaffey.”

Ty said, “Half-hour or so,” and she hung
up.

Kirk pocketed the phone and flicked his eyes
up Oliver Street. Half a block away a man was stepping out of the
fog and into the mist. His overcoat was open, and out from under it
he pulled a pistol.

Kirk took-off on Meyler, desperate to gain a
half-block’s distance and escape into the fog. Picking up speed,
the hospital guard’s pistol jumped out of his waistband—no time to
stop and retrieve it.

Hicks had bolted to the corner and was on
Meyler now. Chasing after the sucker he hollered, “Police—stop or
I’ll shoot!”

Chapter
63

The San Pedro fog 25 minutes behind him,
Hicks drove the 405 into Los Angeles. Mulling it over he decided
that losing Frank Moore wasn’t so bad—half bad, the detective
shrugged. Sucker doesn’t have the money but knows where to get his
hands on it; or sure ‘nough looks that way, he told himself.

Near six in the morning Hicks was sleepy. He
turned the music up and got pumped by the tenor sax that shot into
the tune; like the bullet he had tried to put into Frank Moore’s
leg. “Hadn’t been for the fog,” he complained.

Lee Morgan’s trumpet blew into the “City
Lights” track. City lights, Hicks thought, seeing the distant
lights of downtown Los Angeles, starlike under the predawn sky.

Damn, he sulked, focusing in on the closer
Westwood high-rises. Hicks dug into his memory, trying to target
which of those condo lights belonged to his ex-wife. Wondering if
Celia was awake, cooking breakfast for her new white-ass lawyer
husband.

Startled by the blast of a diesel horn,
Hicks swerved back into his lane. “405 Freeway,” he grumbled, “nuke
it an’ there’d still be traffic.”

Reaching his exit Hicks coasted down the
ramp, had the light and turned west on Wilshire. The “City Lights”
tune had ended, “Tempo de Waltz” playing now. He glanced at his
rearview. The condo lights receded, and his thoughts of Celia with
them.

Hicks drove a half-dozen blocks and went
south onto Armacost. 1350 was coming up on his left. Creeping
forward he found a parking spot on the right. He wheeled into it,
shut the lights and cut the engine. Hicks left the ignition key on
auxiliary and turned the music down, Lee Morgan improvising now on
the third tune.

Nice little house, Hicks thought, seeing it
from across the street. No car in the drive. Nightlight over the
front door. One other light on, behind the drapes of a window.
Somebody in there. Maybe. Only one way to be sure, Hicks told
himself.

He clicked out the ignition key. The music
gone, he sat a moment in silence. A bad thing to do for a man who
had lost his wife and son.

Grabbing the door handle, his eyes fell on
the side mirror.

“Damn,” he croaked; fucking cop sneaking up
from behind. Hicks took his ID out and pressed it open against the
driver’s window.

The cop saw the move, drew his weapon,
snapped on his flashlight and approached cautiously. Reaching the
window he shined his light on the tough-looking black guy; coat
open, suit showing, Hicks squinting under the glare.

The cop looked between Hicks and the photo
ID, back and forth a few times. The squint of Hicks’ eyes made out
the dumb-ass surprise on the youthful white face.

The cop turned his light off. “Sorry,
Lieutenant,” he apologized.

Hicks got out and the cop shrunk in the
presence of the detective’s size. Hicks saying, “What the hell you
doin’ here?”

“Stake-out, sir,” he spoke softly in the
quiet of the street. “APB on a Frank Moore.”

“Yeah, right,” Hicks said, knowing it must
have been bonehead Diaz who had spread the news. “Where’s your
partner?” he asked.

Whiteface relighted his flash and beamed it
a few cars down. Shifting it curbside, he illuminated his partner,
a Latino cop leaning against the trunk of a jacaranda tree.

Hicks scrubbed his forehead. He had to get
rid of these guys. It wasn’t Frank Moore he was after, not right
now anyway. It was the sucker’s wife.

“‘Fraid I’m gonna have to ask you boys to
stand down,” Hicks said. “It’s turned into a one-on-one,” he
improvised, “between me an’ the perp.”

“Yes, I understand, sir.”

Hicks glanced across the street, toward
1350. “Since we’re out here yappin’ like this, guess you’re sure
nobody’s home.”

“That’s right, sir,” the cop said
confidently. “No one’s in there, and there’s no car in the
garage.”

“Right,” the detective said. “We better
break this up before the neighbors start fillin’ the street.”

“We’ll go back on patrol,” the cop said.
“Got your radio?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Hicks answered.

“West L.A. Division. Car 10, if you need
backup.”

“Thanks, man,” Hicks smiled, and he tossed a
wave to the other officer. The two cops met at the curb and moved
off into the shadows, Hicks figuring they had parked around the
corner.

He got into his car. No choice but to wait
awhile, see if anyone shows at the house. He put the ignition key
in and set it on auxiliary. The music returned. Hicks pushed his
seat back and slouched. Eyelids dropping shut, his thoughts ran
into each other and became a kaleidoscope of past events, grinding
down finally into one clear image of Ling. Moonface and his toothy
smile.

“Murdered the sucker,” Hicks mumbled tiredly
under the music. Asking himself now what his life had come to;
bribe-taker…killer…

Tim Burns floated over the image of Ling’s
shattered head; Burns’ ruddy Irish face saddened by the crimes his
friend had committed.

The music folded over Hicks and carried him
off to sleep.

Chapter
64

Frank got out of the cab at the corner of
10th and Cabrillo. He stood at the curb in the foggy haze of the
streetlamp. Lifting the cuff of the marine jacket, John Kirk’s
Timex read 6:17. Right on schedule, Frank congratulated
himself.

He rolled the suitcase to the sidewalk,
stopped and surveyed what was to become his San Pedro hide-out: For
Rent sign stuck in the patchy lawn, the walk that led to the
flagstone wall, BEVERLY COT AGES bolted into the stone with its T
missing. The open archway, where the fog soaked up the greenish
mist of the pool. Above the wall, the security lights cast a
haunting glow over the six angled roofs.

Home Sweet Home, Frank said to himself.

He rolled the suitcase up the walk and
passed through the archway. He halted by the pool and took John
Kirk’s keys out. His pigeon had unlocked and entered two different
cottages last night: One and Six. Flip for it, Frank decided as he
pulled a quarter from his pocket.

Chapter
65

“Six-thirty.” Lisa yawned. She slid her key
quietly into the door of Cottage Six. She used her other hand to
keep the screen door off her back. Lisa was worried about smudging
her cashmere coat. Kirk, she scowled, him and his damn can of oil,
squirting it on every hinge and latch he could find.

But then thankful now that he had. There
wasn’t a single sound as she entered and closed the door. Adjusting
her eyes to the darkness, Lisa noticed Kirk’s gold-plated trophy
was gone from the coffee table. Must have hid it from her, she
guessed.

Lisa smiled a little. That had been a good
one, making him think she was going to sell it. The only fun she’d
had with him lately, teasing Kirk and getting his dander up.

Pretty sure she hadn’t woken him, Lisa stole
softly over the carpet. She pulled her coat off and stopped in the
bedroom doorway. The shadowy bed was empty; unmade, the way she had
left it when she went to work last night, her bathrobe rumpled on
top of the pillows.