The Code (4 page)

I took a corner table away from the other diners. Even before Sheila moved toward me, I caught her gaze drifting in my direction, sizing me up.

"Welcome to Bonham. Plan to stay long?" she said when she reached my table.

"That depends on you, Sheila."

The expression to her fragile face froze. "My name is Susan."

"It's Sheila Brant and until Frank Abruze was killed, you were his mistress." My hand flashed across the table and I pinned her wrist. "Don't get up-right. Plaster a smile on that lovely face and pretend we're talking about what's on the menu,"

"The smiling part won't be easy. You're about to crush the bones in my wrist."

I loosened up on my grip, but didn't let her go. "The people you're running from know where you are. I can't imagine why they'd want to eliminate you, but that seems to be what they have in mind. You need help."

"And you're going to give it to me?" Her pretty mouth twisted. That's the story of my life. Men are always going to help me. And the more help I get, the more trouble I find myself in."

"I'm the man who's going to change all that."

"I was wondering who you are. Now I know. You must be Mandrake the Magician."

"The name is Ned."

"Well, Ned the Magician, it'll take a couple of miracles to clear up the complications in my life." Despite what she said, there was a stirring of interest in the dark eyes. "You want something in return for your help, of course."

"We'll discuss the terms later."

"Oh, I'm sure we will," she said in a sardonic voice.

Business or no business, I was hungry. I told her to bring me a thick steak and black coffee.

"You trust me not to make a run for it?"

"Cinderella didn't run out on her fairy godmother, did she?"

She laughed. "I'm no Cinderella."

She could have played the part, I thought. She looked like a girl a prince would bring a slipper to, and carry away even if the slipper didn't fit. Only her Prince Charming had turned out to be Frank Abruze, Mafia
capo.

When she returned with my coffee, she brushed against me as she placed the cup near my hand. I interpreted that as a sign that we were going to get along.

"Apparently you aren't the fuzz. And you aren't one of Abruze's friends. So who are you?" she asked.

"I'll explain that later, too."

The door banged and the three bikers came in, bringing a stench with them. None of them had touched a bar of soap in weeks. The man behind the cash register, presumably the restaurant's owner, regarded the trio with displeasure. He could have done without their business for at least the next ninety years.

They decided to sit at the table next to mine. They talked loudly, guffawing at each other's jokes. To amuse myself, I tried to determine which of them was the ugliest. The contest ended in a dead heat between the one with a knife scar curling down his cheek and the one seated nearest to me, a stocky man wearing a bead necklace, a greasy headband, and leather wristbraces. The one in the middle, who had long hair and a copper-colored beard, was the most presentable.

While Sheila was taking their orders, Scarface ran his hand up her leg. She took the offense with remarkable cool. Copper Beard slapped his companion's hand away. "Behave yourself," he said in an even voice.

The one seated near me caught my gaze and showed his teeth, several of which were missing. "What are you looking at, buster?"

"You," I said. "I was admiring your dental work." "A cop once stepped on my face. Would you like some of the same?"

"Not especially," I said, resisting the temptation to shove my coffee cup down his throat.

Copper Beard clamped a hand on his friend's shoulder. He squeezed so hard that the man with the missing teeth winced. "Don't kid around with the gentleman, Georgie. He might think you're serious. The last thing we want is a misunderstanding. Right?"

"Right" echoed Georgie. He didn't sound sincere. He sounded scared of the man with the hand clamped on his shoulder.

I finished my steak in peace and told Sheila I'd be waiting when she got off work at midnight. Returning to my hotel room, I settled down in the chair near the window to keep watch on the restaurant. For all I knew, the dead assassin had confederates who'd make a try for the girl.

The cycle bums emerged and meandered down the street in the soft dusk, still exchanging loud boasts and laughter. Only the one with the copper-colored beard was silent, striding between the others, a head taller than they were, smooth-moving as a catamount. They were heading back toward the bar. I watched them until they were out of sight.

Long before Sheila appeared, I was beginning to worry about Meredith, who hadn't shown up and hadn't called. Without taking my eyes off the restaurant's door, I placed the telephone on my lap and asked the night clerk to give me an outside line. I dialed the number of the gas station and got no answer. I sat in the darkness listening to the buzz and I had the feeling that events had taken another abrupt change in course.

Sheila came out of the restaurant, walking at a fast clip, glancing around as she made for the Volvo at the curb. A light mist of rain had started to fall. I could see drops forming on my window pane. Sheila was wearing the long coat she had worn in the film made by Meredith. I could guess that she was carrying a gun in her pocket.

"Baby, you are a tricky one," I said softly.

It wasn't midnight; it was only 10 p.m. She was leaving early — running out on me.

I kicked back my chair and reached the door in three quick strides. I went down the stairway fast, passed a startled desk clerk, and hit the street as Sheila drove away.

The sound of bike motors starting up merged with the pulse of the Volvo's motor. The cyclists charged past without seeing me. They were following the car. I saw the red glow of their taillights sweep around a distant corner as I sprinted for my battered Ford.

I picked them up as they sped out of town in pursuit of the Volvo, which was moving very close to its limit. As the town fell behind us, I cursed. Sheila was setting herself up for whatever the bikers had in mind.

I gave the Ford some more gas and closed in on them, and saw that the leader had forged up alongside the Volvo and was waving for the girl to pull over. She ignored him and tried to get greater speed out of her car.

When the beam of my headlights splashed over them they became aware that someone was horning in on the party. One of the bikers turned back, whipping into my path so suddenly that I slapped at my brakes to avoid a collision. I saw the ugly face of the man called Georgie as I slid into a spin on the rain-slicked pavement. I gritted my teeth and rode the spin out, bringing the Ford around again. I resumed the chase.

My headlights caught Georgie first. He was purring along between me and the others, maintaining a slower pace in order to see if I'd stuck with them. As he glanced back, he showed his missing teeth in a crude burlesque of a grin. He seemed almost glad I hadn't wrecked the Ford. Now he had another chance at me.

He turned his bike and from somewhere behind the seat produced a short length of chain. With the chain dangling in his hand, he gunned the bike and shot toward me.

I didn't hit the brake and I didn't slow down. I bore steadily forward, the beam of my lights licking through the night. Georgie drew nearer. When he saw that I intended to hold to my course even though he was in my path, he swung the cycle over into the other lane of the highway.

I could have swerved the car and struck him, but I was afraid to do that on the slick pavement. I didn't want to go into another skid. Giving the Ford more gas, I picked up speed instead. Georgie flashed past my window and I saw his arm move. He snapped the chain like a whip.

The unexpected burst of speed I urged out of my car caused Georgie's timing to go awry. The hard-swung chain smashed into the window behind me and not the one alongside my face. I winced involuntarily as I heard the glass crack. Then I was putting distance between us because he had to slow down in order to get the bike turned around again. I saw his light hanging on behind me as I streaked around a curve and up a rolling hill.

Cresting the hill, I spotted Sheila and her pursuers. The man on the lead bike was running alongside the Volvo. He gained on the car and started swerving into the driver's path, causing her to draw over toward the shoulder of the road in order to avoid a collision.

She was so engrossed in the duel with the cyclist that she failed to make the next curve. Leaving the road, the Volvo bounced and swerved like a paper boat in a swift gutter current. I was afraid it would turn over when it struck the ditch, but the jolt only slowed it down. Sheila had the sense to avoid a sudden use of the brakes. From the shimmy the car made, I could guess she'd thrown it into a slower gear. Then she sawed on the brake. The Volvo bucked and slid, but it didn't go over.

As she finally brought the car to a halt in an open field, the bikers were turning around. One of them jumped the ditch, a beautiful piece of riding, and raced across the field toward the car he'd been pursuing. His wheels churned up dirt.

The second biker didn't have the guts to jump the ditch. He stopped on the shoulder of the road, then saw me coming up out of the night. He killed his motor and got off the cycle.

Slowing down, I glanced into the rear view mirror to check on Georgia He was still on my tail and gaining. Soon he'd catch up with me.

I turned onto the shoulder near the field and shut off the car. I left the headlights burning when I got out. The waiting biker was the one with the scar curling down his cheek. He reached inside his jacket and brought out a knife. Light gleamed on the blade as he stepped toward me.

"Mister, you'd better get back into that car and get the hell away from here."

"If I don't?"

"I'll slice you up like bacon ready for the frying pan."

One knee bending, I half-turned. My left foot shot out. I felt the sharp contact with his kneecap. A Japanese master of karate had taught me that move and it was a good one. Scarface went down as if the ground had been jerked out from under his feet.

Rising to a crouch, he made a pass with the knife. I shifted and the blade whipped in front of me, an inch short of my belly. I clamped both hands onto his arm and brought it down over my knee and broke it. Scarface howled.

I picked up his knife and threw it into the darkness on the other side of the highway.

Then Georgie arrived on the scene. He rode straight for me, swinging the chain. I knew that if he hit me in the face I'd be blinded or scarred for life. I heard the chain whine as I ducked. Then Georgie had passed me. Before he could turn around, I had tugged down the zipper of my jacket and pulled the Luger.

I shot him out of the saddle and the bike kept going, careening into the middle of the highway before it fell on its side and slid.

Without giving Georgie another glance, I walked back to the car, shoved it in reverse, and flashed my headlights on the field.

Copper Beard had dismounted and was hammering on the window of Sheila's car with his fist. He stopped when the yellow beams of my headlights spilled over him.

I put the Ford in low and drove across the ditch. The bounce jarred me off my butt. Copper Beard started running back toward his bike. I got there first. I wrenched the wheel at the last minute so that only my bumper hit the bike, but the impact sent the machine spinning. Copper Beard was sprinting toward his friends now, probably hoping to reach one of their bikes. I turned the Ford so that I could see him clearly in the headlights. I got out and drew a bead with the Luger and shot the fleeing man in the leg.

Sheila Brant shoved open the door of her car. She was holding a .38 in one hand. Copper Beard didn't know it, but I might have saved his life.

"Mister," Sheila said in an awed voice, "you are something else."

I pointed the Luger at the Volvo's left rear tire and shot a hole in it. I walked past the staring Sheila and shot the left front tire. Then I raised the hood and yanked out some wiring.

"Are you crazy?" she demanded.

"You ran out on me once. I'm making sure you don't do it again."

"I didn't know if I could trust you. I don't even know who you are."

"I told you. The name is Ned."

"I'm used to running. I thought it was the thing to do."

"You can probably use that gun," I said, "but could you have handled all three of these Boy Scouts? Use your head, Sheila. You need protection."

Plucking the keys out of my own car and pocketing them, I walked back to Copper Beard, who was lying on the ground clutching his leg.

"You'll live," I told him. "If I decide to let you."

He licked his lip. "What does that mean?"

I leaned down and put the point of the Luger between his bushy eyebrows. "Tell me the reason for the night's activity."

"We wanted the blonde. What else?"

I prodded him with the gun barrel. "I thought you might tell me something else. Something more interesting"

"Man, I'll tell you anything you want to hear. But the truth is, we wanted the broad. She gave us frostbite in the eating place, so we decided to hang around and have some fun with her when she got off work."

"No one hired you to take care of her?"

"Like who?" He forced a shaky grin. "Man, what did we get ourselves into anyway?"

I wasn't sure I believed him. I said, "I can't be bothered with gathering you freaks up and taking you to jail. But stay out of my sights. If I get you in them again, I'll kill you."

"Man, I'll avoid you like the draft."

Sheila was standing at the open door of my car. "What were you two talking about?" she asked when I returned.

"I gave him the name of my doctor," I said. "Get in the car. We're going back to Bonham."