Dangerous Times (9 page)

Bathed in light suddenly, Frank lifted his
eyes and saw the full moon edging its way above the wall he faced.
In the next moment it faded under a blanket of cloud.

Kirk’s cottage door closed, followed by the
slap of the screen door. Frank looked toward the front of the
cottage. John Kirk came into view, lit by the glow of the pool.
Dressed as before: scuffed boots, Levi’s, and the same old military
jacket.

Good news, Frank thought. He wouldn’t have
to lug the body from here to the alley where his car was parked.
Follow him, give him some neighborly talk, get him into the Lincoln
and kill him. Leave the body in the car at Angels Gate Park.

Kirk went past the fieldstone wall’s arch
and stopped at the door of Cottage One, a set of keys in hand.
Frank unsure now which nest it was that his pigeon called Home.

He brushed back his blond hair and gave his
Patek Philippe a glance: 6:20. A little less than 4 hours to kill
him. Then call a cab and get up to the L.A. marina by eleven.
Plenty of time, Frank figured.

He studied John Kirk over the distance; Kirk
motionless at the door of the lighted cottage, as if listening to
what was going on inside. Frank wondered how many people might be
in there. How many he would have to kill if Kirk spent the entire
evening with them.

Always expect the unexpected, he reminded
himself. Thinking then he could go to the door, come up with a
performance that would get Kirk to leave with him. Yes, some kind
of fun plan…

That’s all right, Frank thought. Kill him
here, kill him there, kill him anywhere. Along with anyone else who
might get in his way.

Chapter
20

Kirk listened at the door of Cottage One.
Her voice was on the rise and becoming clearer now: “Jesus H—can’t
take no for an answer!”

Kirk unlocked the door. Pushing it open he
was surprised to see Bob Staub standing with Beverly at the edge of
the sofa. Both looked back at him with equal surprise; Beverly with
the top buttons of her blouse undone, a portion of bra showing; a
glass of scotch in her hand.

With her long blond hair and slight figure,
it was hard to tell she had recently passed her 52nd birthday. Even
the tiny wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and blue eyes were
appealing. Kirk had often contemplated the absurdity of it, if
Beverly’s preservation had anything to do with her consumption of
alcohol.

She gave him a look of exasperation and
buttoned her blouse. While Bob Staub stood like a kid caught with
his hand in the cookie jar.

Kirk closed the door, walked toward him and
said, “Told me you had a rental to look at.”

“Yeah,” Staub mumbled, eyes lowering to the
carpet.

Kirk could almost hear the hog’s mind,
shifting and grinding for a way out of this. Staub raised his eyes
and went into his bully stance. “Thought you were going to work on
your car,” he said.

“That’s my plan,” Kirk answered, “right
after I leave here.” He looked Staub straight in the eye. “And
what’s your plan?”

Beverly couldn’t take this and walked off
with her drink. Staub glanced at her backside as she disappeared
into the kitchen.

Kirk understood the look, her thin waist and
tight jeans outlining the body of a younger woman. Understanding at
the same time that Staub didn’t have the decency to control himself
in Kirk’s presence.

Staub picked some real estate papers off the
coffee table. “Plan was to celebrate. Building I checked out was a
beauty, so I hadda act fast. I wanted to show Beverly what I
bought.”

“Okay, then,” Kirk said, letting him off the
hook.

Staub relaxed and said, “So let’s have a
drink and keep the party goin’.”

“I’d like to have dinner,” Kirk said, “then
get back to the shop to work on my car—remember?”

“Oh yeah, sure, that’s good.” Staub ran a
hand over his salt-and-pepper crew cut. “No, no time to party.”

“But time enough to say goodbye,” Kirk
suggested lightly. He went to the door and opened it for him.

“Whatever you say, Johnny-boy,” Staub
grinned on the approach. He stopped in the doorway. With a turn of
the head he called out, “Talk to you later, Bev.”

“Jesus H…” was heard coming softly from the
kitchen.

Kirk followed him outside and watched him
until he disappeared through the archway. Son of a bitch, he
thought, recalling the two of them in the pickup, Staub saying
something about a better woman he was after.

Kirk looked past the archway and into the
darkness alongside his Cottage Six. Change the bulb tomorrow, he
told himself, not in the mood to get the ladder. Change the bulb
and clean the pool in the morning.

The moon poked between the clouds. Kirk saw
a shadow move over the fieldstone wall. He looked skyward. Tail of
a passing cloud he assumed.

Beverly put on her bunny stove mittens,
opened the oven and slid the stew out. She carried it to the table
and set it on the quilted pad.

Kirk walked in and said, “How long has he
been after you?”

“I don’t know,” she answered him quietly,
slipping the mittens off.

He hung his marine jacket on the back of the
chair, stood at the table and said, “Okay then, how about a
guess?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Beverly shrugged on her
way to the scotch bottle. “Nothing’s ever happened, and it never
will.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“‘Cause there’s nothing to tell.” She poured
herself another Johnnie Walker Red and teetered in her slingback
wedgies. Beverly steadied herself and turned her eyes on him. “I
love my two Johnnies,” she smiled awkwardly. “Want one?”

“It’ll slow me down. I’m going to try to
finish the car tonight.”

“You and that darn car,” Beverly sighed.
“Si’down and eat,” she said.

Kirk could tell she was only a few swallows
away from oblivion. “We’re not done yet,” refusing to sit. “Was
Staub chasing after you when Dad was alive?”

Beverly leaned against the refrigerator and
stared into her drink. “Li’le bit…” She took a swallow. The rim of
the glass lingered on her lower lip, and her eyes welled up with
moisture. “It’s your father’s birthday tomorrow.”

“I know.” Kirk felt his mother’s grief,
still running deep after all these years. Thinking of Staub then,
angry with himself for not seeing what the son of a bitch was up
to; family friend, playing the father…

“My hero,” Beverly said. She went to him and
gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Saving me from the big bad
wolf.”

“Would I still be your hero if I dumped your
drink out?” he threatened.

“Oh Gawd, my son’s mad at me.” She took a
defiant swallow and set the glass on the table, put her hands on
his shoulders and pushed him down into the chair. “Yeah, an’ I’m
jus’s mad at you, mister!”

“Take it easy,” Kirk said. He ladled some
stew into his bowl. “Why don’t you go lie down,” wanting her to
leave the kitchen so he could eat in peace.

“Take it easy,” Beverly mimicked him. She
took her drink off the table and took another swallow. “How can I
take it easy when I worry ‘bout this space—place all the time.
Jesus H,” she complained, “why’s the pool temp’ture so high? Nobody
uses it, so cold out.”

“Thermostat, probably. I’ll check it in the
morning when I clean the pool,” Kirk told her, hoping she was done.
In the uneasy silence that followed he started in on the stew.

“Darn thermal-stat,” his mother said at the
sink, gazing down at a soaking pot. She turned to him and caught
his smile. “Oh, an’ now Mr. Take It Easy thinks I’m bein’
funny.”

“It’s therm-o-stat,” he explained.

“It’s not the thermal-stat, it’s the water
heater. Works, doesn’t work, works, doesn’t work—Mrs. Fleming
bangin’ on my door ‘bout it!”

Kirk watched her put a hand on the
countertop and steady herself. Lowering his eyes he had more stew.
And he forced his thoughts onto the carburetor he would be putting
in tonight; going over the other parts he needed to check to make
sure the car would perform properly.

Thoughts soon broken:

“Mrs. Fleming bangin’ on my scream-less
door. Where is the new scream door you promised me? Place’s is
gonna be flull a lies—I mean full a flies,” Beverly giggled.

“Scream door,” Kirk said with a sad shake of
the head. “It’s winter, Mom. There aren’t any flies,” he added with
appetite dwindling.

“Oh Gawd, guess I’ll jus’ hafta wait ‘til
summer,” she spoke in singsong.” Then said harshly, “Jesus H!”

Kirk wanted her to stop. He wanted them all
to stop; Staub…Lisa…

Beverly going on about how she can hardly
meet the mortgage, the one vacancy driving her to ruin. She said,
“You get pract’ly free rent with that tramp you live with—an’ you
don’t help like you’re s’posed to!”

“Lisa’s not a tramp,” he insisted, feeling
the need to protect her. Though he did have his doubts, wondering
again about her…semper fidelis, always faithful.

Beverly took another drink and backed
against the sink to support herself. “I know what it is,” she
nodded. “It’s her lookie-looks. Yup, Lisa’s a real plum. Well,
lemme tell you this, mister, every plum turns into a prune.”

“Hasn’t happened to you,” Kirk said.

Beverly turned her back on him and played
nervously with the ends of her long blond hair. “You’re my son,”
she said. “You see me different…”

Face hidden from him, he could hear her
crying. Kirk got up and went to her. “C’mon,” he said, draping an
arm around her, “a little sleep will do you a lot of good.”

“No!” she snapped, freeing herself from him.
“I wan’ my darn scream door!”

“Okay then, I’ll go to the hardware tomorrow
and have your screen door made; I promise.”

“Tomorrow—everything with you is tomorrow!
It’s Friday night an’ they’re open ‘til nine,” Beverly pleaded
drunkenly.

“That’s it, we’re done,” Kirk told her.
“Have another drink and I’ll see you later.”

Passing the kitchen table he grabbed his
jacket off the back of the chair. He headed for the door and heard
Beverly holler after him:

“You get back here, mister, an’ finish your
food! If your father were alive!”

Damn it, how many times had he heard that.
He left her there, crying softly, repeating, “If your father were
alive…”

• • •

Frank stood at the side of Kirk’s Cottage
Six, in the shadows under the burned-out security bulb. He had a
clear view of Kirk leaving Cottage One and heading for the archway.
Frank took a step forward, pistol in hand, ready to snatch his
pigeon and get him into the Lincoln.

Frank halted. A woman had come out of
Cottage Five: elderly, with cropped gray hair, wearing a bulky
jacket over a sweat suit. “Kirk,” she called out.

Kirk stopped at the archway and turned to
her. In tennis shoes, she jogged around the pool and came to a stop
alongside him.

Frank couldn’t hear much of their
conversation. Then as they left together through the archway, Frank
put his pistol away.

Christ sake.

Chapter
21

Detective Ben Hicks stood at his boy’s
grave. Jefferson’s headstone glowed pale under the moon, and the
chiseled letters took on the look of dried open wounds. Hicks
dropped to his knees, drove his fingers into the earth and began to
dig desperately for his son.

Hicks cracked his eyes open and groped for
the ringing phone. He took hold of it and swung around to the edge
of the bed. Waking in his suit, he loosened his tie and said hello
to the real world.

“Woke you up now, didn’t I?” said Tim
Burns.

“Yeah, man, it’s okay. What’s doin’?”

“It’s seven o’clock. Thought we’d try that
new place you told me about.” Burns paused. “Chicken Shack, is
it?”

“Yeah, right.”

“Have you visited Earl Sinclair yet?” Burns
asked.

“No,” Hicks answered softly into the phone.
He didn’t want to think about the kid he nearly beat to death.
“Stayed at the Sandpiper after you left; got home an’ had to sleep
it off. Bet you ‘member those days.”

“Afraid so, Ben.” Burns quickly got off the
drink subject. “After dinner you can stop at the hospital and visit
the lad. Make some points in your favor, you could.”

“Comin’ with me?”

“Sorry, Ben, I’ll have to get back on
duty.”

“Don’t I know it,” Hicks yawned. “How’s it
goin’ at the station?”

“Captain has me doing your job until you get
out of the mess you’re in.”

“Mighty big mess. Don’t get free of it,
nobody but you deserves my stripes.”

“Thanks,” Burns said lightly, “but let’s not
forget the Yogi Berra line: It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.” Then
said, “Chicken Shack in a half hour?”

“Fell asleep in my clothes,” Hicks squirmed.
“Got that creepy-crawly thing goin’ on. Say in an hour, so I can
shower an’ all?”

“That’s fine. See you there between eight
and eight-thirty.”

“Right,” Hicks said, and they hung up.

Hicks sat at the edge of the bed feeling the
squeeze he was in, knowing it was going to get tighter.

Damn…Psych Services tomorrow—City Attorney
on Monday—Internal Affairs on Tuesday…

No way out.

Chapter
22

The music wasn’t as loud at the bar, where
Kirk took a stool and ordered a beer. Just one, he told himself,
then get to the shop and finish the car.

The bartender set the mug in front of him
and gave him a smile. Kirk returned it and watched her move off;
the seductive body all the more alluring in the reddish light of
the room.

Korky’s Klub was embroidered on her cap. The
gold stitching matched her blond hair. Full round breasts stretched
the halter she wore, and her blue-pleated miniskirt crowned a pair
of long perfect legs.

Kirk grew uncomfortable with his stare and
shifted his eyes down the length of bar, to where a man dragged a
stool out, sat and began talking with two other drinkers. What had
caught Kirk’s attention were the tortoiseshell sunglasses, the guy
keeping them on under the soft reddish light of the room. With the
expensive-looking brown suit and blond hair, Kirk thought he was
probably a TV actor who had come down here to do some boating.