No Beast So Fierce (32 page)

I swung off the bed, started to reach for my shoes and remembered the pistol. It was better if Joey didn't see it. “Go tell your mother to come here for a minute.”

While the boy was gone I slipped the revolver into a hip pocket and put on my shoes. I was combing my hair when Mary came in. “What's this about movies?”

“Yeah, on me. Tomorrow's Sunday and you can sleep late. I'll throw in hamburgers and malts. The kids need a night out. So do you.”

“It'll take a while to get ready.”

“Hurry up, okay?”

Nobody questioned driving across town to a movie, nor did they ask what they were going to see. It was just as well, for I would have been unable to answer. I knew the whereabouts of the drive-in theater, three miles from Beverly Hills. I thought about taking a taxi from the theater, but rejected the idea. The last three miles was where I really needed the cover. Two women and two children in an automobile would quell suspicion if the police were still watching the area.

Allison carried the conversation during the journey, talking to Mary. Joey kept his nose out the rear window, like a puppy loving the wind. Lisa sat quietly beside him. Her withdrawn, almost sulky manner indicated that she hadn't wanted to come. She'd never forget our first meeting. I felt sorry for her—not because of what had happened but because of her life and future. She was pretty, with more than the natural prettiness of all young girls. A budding rose, but doomed to wilt prematurely. Alternatives in her life were so few that it was depressing to contemplate. Without knowing any better, hoping to escape drudgery, she would marry some neighborhood boy too soon—simply because he was available. The fresh beauty would disappear, for she would never learn the tricks of keeping it. Her slim body would lose its comeliness from too many babies too quickly, for on the level of society where the pill was really needed it remained unused through false shame and ignorance. I wondered if she dreamed, and decided that if she did it was of small fancy. She lacked the articulateness of big dreams.

My whimsical concern was more than altruism; it was simultaneous with realization of her young, nubile beauty. Notwithstanding the sexual implications, I was indignant at the unfairness of her life—an unfairness starkly illustrated by her being fifteen years old and riding in a car as cover for a murderer.

I had changed freeways downtown, using the Santa Monica Freeway rather than the Hollywood. The detour took us south of where the surveillance for me would be most intense. The movie was ten blocks north of where I got off.

One car was ahead of us at the ticket booth. The marquee blazoned
The Great Escape
and
Dillinger Days.
Mary nudged me and shook her head ruefully, believing I'd deliberately sought out the gangster film. The fact was that I didn't even see what was on the screen, and sitting through the films was like sitting through eternity.

I turned the automobile right on Wilshire Boulevard instead of going straight ahead to the freeway.

“Where are we going?” Allison asked.

“I've got some business. It'll take a couple minutes.”

She said nothing more, but I knew from her sudden, absolute silence that she understood, at least partly, that there'd been a reason for the movie, Nobody else said a word. They were happy for the evening away from the bungalow.

The stores and shops on Wilshire Boulevard were closed, but the display windows remained cunningly lighted, showing everything from mink to Rolls Royces. A police car went by us in the opposite direction with only a glance from the driver.

“Why don't you put the radio on?” Lisa asked.

“It's got a short or something. After a couple minutes it starts smoking. I'll get it fixed tomorrow.”

I saw the theater with the passageway behind it. The marquee lights were extinguished. My stomach felt hollow. The enclosed yard could be a deadly trap. If I was alone I'd have come from the other direction, starting a block away and moving in an inch at a time. If the police were waiting they'd be keyed in on the passageway and the gate. By coming up behind them, by waiting, I'd know if they were there. Because of the carload of people I lacked the time for this.

I turned down the street beside the theater. “When I park right now,” I said to Allison, “get behind the wheel and drive around for ten minutes. Then come back.”

Everyone in the automobile now knew I was up to something. It made no difference. I had control of the situation.

“What are you going to do, Max?” Mary asked.

The car was stopping. I didn't bother to answer her. I got out and went around the rear of the car, darted into the passage, halted just long enough to see the automobile start moving. I tiptoed through the darkness. Vague, darker shadows were all that designated objects. The tiny crunch of my steps sounded loud. I had the revolver out, the hammer cocked. I had an intense urge to urinate—but every sense was keyed to the surroundings. If the police were in ambush they'd be on top of the garage. To cut off escape they'd certainly be waiting behind the theater's emergency exits.

“Fuck it,” I said. “If you're there let's get the shit down.” I walked forward and turned through the gate, pausing not to see if anyone was there but to adjust my eyes. Joy swelled through me. The jewels and M16 were still there; if the police had found the stash they'd know I was coming back. I pissed against the fence, uncocked the revolver, and returned it to a pocket.

Heedless of the sound or the mess, I turned the box on its side. A dog yipped in another yard. I grabbed the bag, opened it, stuffed in my coat and the Browning. I had no way to hide the M16. “Fuck that, too,” I said, thinking that I'd carry it next to the bag to partially disguise what it was. If I moved quickly into the car and put it on the floorboards the children might not see it. One thing was certain: I wasn't going to leave it. I'd rather have left half the diamonds.

I waited in the gate until I saw the car pull up, then hurried forward. As I went around the rear of the automobile to the driver's seat, I kept the sack and rifle down low in one hand, and shoved them to the floor as I slid behind the wheel. Allison and Mary saw what I'd done, but the children didn't know what they saw.

“That wasn't long, was it?”

Nobody answered.

“There's a good drive-in on Crenshaw and Wilshire. Anybody for a hamburger?”

“No,” Mary said. “Take us home.”

“Mom! I'm hungry,” Joey said.

“I'll fix you something.”

“That isn't the same thing.”

“Be quiet.”

“Gee, Mom …”

“Don't argue with Mother,” Lisa said.

Joe flopped back, sulking, arms folded over his chest.

I turned south toward the Santa Monica Freeway.

3

N
OBODY
said a word during the drive back to El Monte. Mary and Allison seethed, and Joey pouted at his mother. Between my feet the bag swayed with the motion of the car, a rustling sound, gold and diamonds caressing each other. The freeway went through the downtown civic center. Among the tall buildings was the Hall of Justice, its top floors housing the old county jail. The lights up there shone out dimly from being filtered through steel bars and mesh wire. I recalled that from up there Los Angeles looked like a smoky and sullen bed of hot coals.

When the headlights swung across the driveway and sprayed the bungalow, I told Joey and Lisa to go inside, that I wanted to talk to their mother for a minute. They ducked into the bungalow, the lights inside flashing on.

“What'd you do, Max?” Mary asked, holding tight rein on her anger.

“I picked up something that I had stashed.”

“Why'd you take us with you? It was a plan all along.”

“I thought the fuzz might be looking for me in the neighborhood. They think I chilled a cop this afternoon. It's on the news.”

“Oh God!” Mary gasped; then said nothing more for a long time. Finally, “What shall I tell the kids? They'll hear about it tomorrow. Probably the police will be here.”

“I don't know what you should tell them. That's up to you.”

“It's not your problem, right?”

“I've got worse problems. I can't think about anybody but myself.”

“What would've happened if the police had been back there?”

“They weren't.”

“What if …?”

“You know what would've happened.”

“You're a bastard, Max.” Again she was silent, thinking. “I don't know what to do. I don't want to call the police, but what are they going to do when they question Joey and Lisa and find out the truth?”

“Do whatever you think is best. If I were you, I'd wait until ten or eleven tomorrow morning and call them. Tell them you just found out I was wanted and tell what happened. It won't make things any worse for me.” I took the wad of money from Allison's handbag, opened the car door for light, and counted out five hundred dollars. “Take it and forget where you got it.”

“I'll take it because we need it, but it doesn't make right what you did.”

“It helps my conscience.”

“Conscience!”

“We've got to split, Mary. I'll probably never see you again—but I want you to know that I'm sorry, for whatever it's worth.”

Mary left the car, closed the door, and leaned in the window. “I still like you,” she said. “I don't know what else to say.” Then to Allison, “Look after him.”

Ten minutes later, when we were back on the freeway, Allison spoke for the first time in half an hour. “You're the dirtiest sonofabitch I ever met. Using those children …”

“Hard times make hard people. I've told you that before.”

At the top of the Southland news … law enforcement authorities are continuing the search for Maxwell Dembo, an ex-convict wanted as a suspect in the murder of a Beverly Hills police officer during a daring daylight robbery of a jewel firm. Also slain during the holdup was Gerald Francis Shue, one of the holdup men. Captured at the scene was Aaron Billings. The loot, an estimated five hundred thousand dollars in diamonds, has not been recovered …

“Nothing new,” I said. We were on the Long Beach Freeway, swinging onto the Santa Ana. As long as we broke no traffic laws the freeways were safe. Similarly, the seven million population of greater Los Angeles was large enough to get lost in temporarily, until I changed my appearance and got another automobile. The fifty-mile sprawl of the megalopolis was useful to a fugitive. The hunt would center in Hollywood, downtown Los Angeles, and the northwestern suburbs. As long as I stayed away from those areas it was practically like leaving the state. Tomorrow, after questioning Mary and her children, the police would have a description of the automobile and Allison, but they wouldn't have her name or a photograph. Everyone whose name appeared anywhere in my records would be questioned and watched.

Orange County was part of Los Angeles in the sense that a marker was all that separated them. Anyone who missed the sign would never know that he'd crossed from one city to another. The police there would have the call, would be quickly getting mug photos, but they would never really be expecting me. Hundreds of motels were around Disneyland. I remembered one where the bungalows had carports and separate entrances so nobody would see me slip inside. I'd hide on the floorboards while Allison went into the office.

Before she turned on the bungalow lights, I slipped through the door. I quickly examined each room, peered out the windows at the surroundings, mentally planning possible escape routes. I unlatched two windows and opened them a few inches, making sure they slid easily. A trailer park was behind the motel. It had gravel walks, trees, and manicured shrubbery. From another window I could see the motel's driveway and office. Nobody could sneak in that way if I was watching.

Allison had been bringing our things from the car while I was examining the suite. “You look like an old tomcat prowling around,” she said.

“I feel like a cat with kerosene dabbed on his ass.”

“We're safe here.”

“I'm not safe anywhere.”

“You know something, I'm hungry.”

I'd been ignoring a dull headache. When she spoke I realized it was from hunger. “Yeah. Even a killer has to eat.”

“Don't say that word. It's too depressing.”

“I'm trying to get used to a depressing reality. You should do the same.” I glanced at my watch. “We passed an all-night market a mile back. Get something to eat—but get back here quick.”

“Don't you trust me?”

“If I didn't trust you, you wouldn't be here. But as soon as you're gone more than fifteen or twenty minutes I'll figure something happened to you.”

On my directions, Allison turned the lights off as she stepped out of the door, giving the impression that the suite was empty. I watched from a window as she drove away, the taillights flaming momentarily as she braked at the end of the driveway. When she was gone, I kept watching for another ten minutes, meanwhile thinking of things to be done: clean and reload the Browning, check the M16, wrench the diamonds loose from their settings, sort out and repack our belongings, which had been thrown into tangled bundles in our haste to flee the apartment.

Suddenly, I remembered the 1:00
A.M.
news on KTTV. It was a few minutes after 1:00.

Newsreel clips of the Vietnam war were on the screen, youthful American officers leading South Vietnamese patrols through knee-deep muddy water in rice paddies. The announcer came on, read the week's casualty figures—theirs and ours—and the number of bombing sorties. The figures were read as if they were football scores.

A commercial for terrazzo patios was next, followed by commercials for a detergent, auto insurance, and the American Cancer Society. A different newscaster appeared with news of the Southland. The slaying of the police officer and the bandit and the missing five hundred thousand dollars in jewelry was the big news. There were photos of the façade, then the interior, of Gregory's, and a few seconds of film showing the panel truck being towed away, it's front raised in the air; then a longer film of a sheet-covered body being loaded into an ambulance. The account of what had happened within Gregory's was supplemented by brief interviews with the secretary and Neissen. There was a photo of the slain police officer, young, blond, smiling. He'd left a widow and a six-year-old daughter. A grizzled police captain named me as the chief suspect, an exconvict suspected of several other robberies in recent months. He said they'd known I was operating in the area and had been on the lookout, had spotted “Billings” outside. While he spoke, I recalled Aaron's words, the sequence. They had seen him, turned and sent out an immediate robbery alarm—without questioning him.