Dangerous Times (3 page)

Bouncing in his tennis shoes he left Frank
and went to the DMV keyboard. He stood over it and punched away
while humming Farmer in the Dell. When done, Charlie returned to
Frank and said, “DMV screen, Frankie.”

Frank took his eyes off the copier and
looked over at it. Fingerprints were flashing now, and a pair of
them came to an abrupt halt, then floated together, one over the
other, passing each other to freeze at either end of the
screen.

“Far as the DMV’s concerned,” Charlie said
through his tight-lipped smile, “you’re John Allen Kirk, and John
Allen Kirk is Frank Lester Moore.”

“Magic,” Frank said in awe of the trick.

The copier buzzed.

Charlie pulled the tray out. “And now,
ladies and gentlemen…”

Frank saw three licenses on the tray. His
original and two copies. “Can I pick them up?” he asked.

“Be my guest,” Charlie said.

Frank lifted the first copy and it was like
his original, except he had John Kirk’s brown hair and eyebrows.
Along with John Kirk’s name and San Pedro address.

Frank lifted the second copy. It was a copy
of John Kirk’s license; brown hair and eyebrows, but with Frank’s
name and Los Angeles address.

Charlie rocked impatiently in his tennis
shoes while Frank slipped into thought:

Cops find John Kirk’s body. Find the license
and identify him as Frank Moore. And thanks to Charlie, the DMV
prints would prove it. The only outsider they could possibly call
in for identification would be his wife. He had already told Ty to
expect the unexpected, to go along with any surprises. When she
sees the dead man she’ll think the plan had taken a sharp turn.
Since Ty wouldn’t want to get beaten out of the money, she would
have to identify the dead man as her husband, even with the dark
hair and eyebrows.

Perfect.

Frank turned his eyes on Charlie. “You’re so
right,” he said to him, “Charlie Habakkuk is the best.”

“Time to reward myself,” Charlie gushed
happily. He dropped into the swivel chair and rolled over to his
dope. He shoved the straw into the pile of meth, put his nose to it
and snorted a batch. “Sure you don’t want some?” he asked.

“No, that’s all right.”

Charlie hunched forward for another snort.
Frank clutched Charlie’s dirty hair and yanked his head back,
Charlie hollering, “Hey, man!”

One good slice, that’s all it took.

Frank released him and stepped away.
Charlie’s neck sprayed blood like a punctured hose. He fell
forward, facedown into his dope, throat gurgling as the brownish
speed turned to mud.

The body quivering, Frank returned to it and
wiped the blade of his straight razor on Charlie’s sleeve. Folding
the blade he pulled a cotton handkerchief out, wrapped the razor
and pocketed it.

“Had to use the blade,” he said to the dead
man. “No bullet in the head for the cops to find.”

Frank grabbed Charlie’s hair again and
jerked the body upright. Using two fingers he tweezed the wad of
hundreds from the shirt pocket.

Frank went to the stuffed chair, lifted his
newspaper and rolled it up tightly. He passed between the
partitions and stopped at the stove. He lit a burner and set an end
of the paper on fire. He then casually torched the canvas
partitions as he returned to the computer area.

He lifted his satchel, ignited the stuffed
chair and everything else he could, including Charlie.

Frank moved to the military screen and gazed
at the blood-splattered image of John Allen Kirk. He shoved the
burning newspaper under the screen, picked up Charlie’s key ring
and strolled away calmly between the burning partitions.

At the stove now, he blew out the flames of
the burner he had left on. With the faint smell of gas filling the
room Frank went to the reinforced front door. He opened it, turned
and gave the hellish scene a last look.

Chapter
5

John Allen Kirk sat alone in the shadows, in
a booth by the rear exit. He eyed the bar clock and saw it ticking
toward last call. Better order a backup, he told himself.

Unable to sleep Kirk had gone for a walk and
stopped in for a beer, just one. He was already on his third. No,
he decided, no backup. Getting loaded meant giving other people a
headache, or a heartache.

Kirk slouched in the booth, sipped at the
last of his drink and eyed the bar. The oldest in San Pedro, he had
heard enough times while growing up in the neighborhood. Near
closing on a Thursday night, there were only two other drinkers.
Men, both in suits, sitting at the bar, close in conversation.

Observing the bigger one from behind, Kirk
saw nothing of him but the glow of ebony skin at the back of his
thick neck; head lowered out of view. The posture of a man in
trouble, Kirk said to himself. But then aren’t we all, he supposed,
in one way or another; sooner or later.

The other man sat on his barstool in
profile. Irish, Kirk guessed, judging by the receding red hair and
ruddy complexion. His face a little worn and battered with age,
looking awfully damn serious as he spoke with his drinking
partner.

Cops or gangsters, Kirk thought. So what, he
shrugged.

On his side of the aisle, the other five
booths were empty. It gave him a clear view of the illuminated
jukebox, standing silent by the front entrance. Kirk’s eyes stayed
fixed on it, losing himself in its hypnotic fan of colors.
Recalling the late-afternoons…

The bicycle rides to the cannery to meet his
father at quitting time. Walking the bike alongside him as they
headed home on foot; always making that one stop on the way.

Father and son seated side by side, elbows
on the oldest bar in San Pedro. Son crunching popcorn and washing
it down with root beer. Father working on his boilermaker, talking
with the bartender about anything and everything; bringing his
Johnny-boy into it with an occasional glance.

Eye contact, John Kirk remembered…more like
embraces.

The old bartender was gone now. So was the
cannery, and so was his father.

Forget the past, Kirk told himself, snapping
out of it. It was Thursday night. Get through tomorrow, then have
his two days off.

Sliding out of the booth, Kirk put his old
marine jacket on, knowing what he would be doing this weekend.
Finishing the restoration of his car. He would have worked on it
tonight if there hadn’t been so much else to do.

Like what? he wondered as he moved
thoughtfully toward the door. Plenty, he reminded himself, passing
behind the two men at the bar. He’d had plenty to do, and had done
none of it.

Damn it, there wasn’t anything he wanted to
do anymore. No, Kirk thought, that wasn’t true. There was one
thing, the only thing he wanted to do.

He wanted to get out of San Pedro.

Chapter
6

“Last call,” said the bartender to his only
two customers, snapping a wad of gum behind his smile.

Tim Burns passed him his glass. “Sorry,
forgot your name, I did.”

“Doug’s the name—booze ‘n’ cooze the
game.”

Alongside Burns, Ben Hicks held back a
groan. Dumb-ass college grad, he thought.

The two detectives had been here long enough
to go through two drinks each, and it wasn’t until now that Hicks
took a good look at Doug. The football jersey he wore, his blue
eyes and dusty blond hair; his impertinence. Hicks certain that
life hadn’t slapped him in the face yet.

Tim Burns saying, “All right then, Doug,
more ice this time. Don’t want to wake up with a hangover.”

“I like a man who knows his limits,” Doug
said, packing the glass with ice, gunning a full charge of ginger
ale into it. “So how long you been sober?” he asked, snapping his
gum. He waited for an answer while Burns took a sip of the watery
ginger ale.

Burns lowered his glass. “Going on four
years,” he said, shreds of the past racing through his mind.

“Congratulations,” Doug grinned with false
enthusiasm. His blue eyes shifted as he blew a bubble, tongued it
into his mouth and popped it. “And what about you, brother, another
for the road?”

Hicks wanted to punch him in the face, drive
the gum up into his brain where it belonged. Instead, he gave him a
nod and pushed the icy remains of his drink toward him.

Lucky lad, Burns thought. Brother wasn’t
what his friend liked to hear, especially from a white boy. “How
about some music?” he asked Hicks, hoping the change of
conversation would clear the air.

“Nothin’ on that box for me,” Hicks
shrugged. He watched Doug pour his Jim Beam on the rocks and set it
on a fresh napkin.

Tim Burns telling the kid, “It’s jazz he
craves. The old stuff, like Hank-uh, Hank Mobley.”

Doug laid their tab between them. “Never
heard of him,” he said, and he moved off to shut the bar down.

“Damn,” Hicks exhaled over the rim of his
glass. “I’m all alone in the world,” and he took a hard
swallow.

“Only when it comes to music,” Burns said,
setting some money down on the bar.

“I know, man,” Hicks said quietly. “Sure
‘nough, you’re the best friend I ever had, an’ that’s the
truth.”

“Ben, you’re on your third and you’re
drowning yourself in it.”

“Got every right to.” Hicks raised his tired
eyes to the bar clock. “I wished for change an’ damn if I didn’t
get it; six hours ago, when I bashed that motherfucker’s face
in.”

Detective Burns ran his fingers through his
thinning red hair. His friend was in trouble. He wanted to fix it
but didn’t know how. “Heard from the Captain yet?” was all he could
come up with.

“Just that they woke him with the news. I
get home, not a minute later, damn phone rings. Like I needed Fat
Cap to remind me this’s gonna be my second charge of excessive
force.” Hicks massaged his forehead with the flat of his hand.
“Yeah, woke him up with the good news.”

“Good news?” Burns asked with a twisted
smile.

“Chance to get rid of his only black
badge.”

“Afraid I can’t argue with you on that one,”
Burns said reluctantly.

Hicks raised his glass, took another hit and
drifted off in thought.

Leave him alone, Burns told himself.

Surprised then by the suddenness of Hicks
saying, “Thought about Colleen today.”

Burns wrapped his hands around his icy
ginger ale, felt the chill and said, “So did I. Seven years to the
month, it is.”

“January,” Hicks muttered, his memory lit by
her alabaster skin, pitch-black hair and green eyes. Colleen…damn,
born with a crippled heart that took her from Burns at
thirty-four.

In the silence Tim Burns’ eyes settled on a
fresh bottle of Irish whiskey, wrapped in shadow behind the grated
cabinet. Still feeling the pain of her absence; Colleen…seven
years…

Ben Hicks picturing them, the only white
couple he and Celia had ever gotten close to; all those dinners at
Hicks’ place. Hadn’t been for Celia’s cooking, Hicks thought back,
Tim and Colleen would’a gone broke on restaurant checks. Colleen,
couldn’t cook worth a damn; ‘cept for boiling potatoes, Hicks
smiled to himself.

Hicks’ thoughts drifted to the time Tim
Burns was laid-up in the hospital…

Burns took his eyes off the locked-up Irish
whiskey. “January,” he said. “Another test of survival in
January.”

“I was just thinking that,” Hicks told him,
still amazed at how the unspoken can be heard between two old
friends. “You loaded on your whiskey, messin’ up an’ takin’ that
.45 to the chest.”

“Lucky for me I was anesthetized,” Burns
snickered.

“Three years after your Colleen left us,”
Hicks said. “Four months after we buried my boy. An’ it was two
months after Celia left me, those nights sittin’ by your bed in
ICU, so afraid another loss was comin’.”

“I was on the doorstep, Ben, could feel the
cold ground around me.” Burns turned from Hicks, his barstool
bumped by the mop Doug was using. Burns watched its soggy strands
swirl over the floor. And again he fell into the past.

It was Hicks’ turn to gaze down into his
drink. He knew what he had in mind had to remain unspoken: The only
night he hadn’t visited Burns in the hospital. His friend in ICU
while he was out there taking a bribe. Hicks had often wondered
what Burns would say if he found out about it.

Prob’ly nothin’ bad, Hicks thought. Yeah,
maybe even turn it into a valuable lesson. Sure ‘nough, that’s Tim
Burns. Deals with scum all day an’ stays positive. How the hell he
does that…

Valuable lesson, Hicks repeated to himself.
Six hours ago, bashing the kid’s face in. Now there was a valuable
lesson he hoped the kid had learned: Take somebody’s money, take it
from somebody who—yeah, right, Hicks thought, like he himself had
done. Damn, ten thousand cash an’ nobody the worse off for it. Took
a bribe from one bad motherfucker who’d gunned down another. Caught
the sucker, weapon still smokin’ in his hand.

Tim Burns said, “I think the way to go is
psychiatric.”

Hicks surfaced from his thoughts with no
idea what his friend was talking about. “Psychiatric?” he
asked.

“Not easy for me to say, using your boy’s
passing as to why you blew apart. But it will make sense to them.
And it is the truth, isn’t it?”

“Sure ‘nough is,” Hicks nodded. “Damn kid
reminded me of Jefferson. An’ yeah, I went crazy tryin’ to teach
him a lesson. That’s it, man, that’s exactly what happened.”

“Then hard as it might be, you have every
right to use it,” Burns told him. “What time’s your meeting with
the Captain?”

“Nine in the morning. With him an’ the
inspector general—like we’re in the fucking army.”

“Well then, if our superiors have any
compassion at all…”

“Yeah, right,” Hicks smirked. “Only
compassion I’ll get from those suckers is they don’t execute
me.”