The Last Good Kiss (39 page)

Wendell Holmes. "This is your show."

"What now?" Stacy said as she walked into the

bathroom, dressed in jeans and a black sweat shirt.

"Go back in the bedroom," I said.

"I signed on for the duration, man," she said,

suddenly resolute, "and after fucking that creep, if you

blow his brains out, I deserve to watch. I earned it.

Shit, if you did it, that would be a ray of sunshine in my

life."

"You are the sunshine of my life," Traheame

crooned, then sipped from the vodka.

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"Let's have some of that," Stacy said as she jerked

the pint from his hand.

I guess I grinned without meaning to and shook my

head without thinking about it. When I saw Jackson's

face, he looked like a man in the clutches of the

Manson Family, and I didn't blame him.

"Are you going to tell me where she is?" I asked

him, and he made the mistake of shrugging. "Get me

the telephone book," I said to Traheame.

"The phone book?" Stacy went into the bedroom

and brought it back.

I lifted Jackson's feet and sat them on the thick book.

His genitals had balled up in his crotch and they looked

like some vital organ that had slipped from his body. I

stood up and took the .22 out of my belt.

"You don't know where she is?" I asked. He

shrugged again, and I said, "Okay." I let the automatic

dangle from my hand as I waited for the sound of a jet

making its final approach over the motel. "Last chance,

" I said before the noise got too loud for him to hear.

He shrugged again. "You know I'm not going to kill

you, don't you?" I said. He shook his head, but his eyes

smiled. He might be a piece of shit but Jackson had

some balls on him. Either that or he was more

frightened of his business associates than he was of me.

That was a real mistake on his part. When the landing

jet swept over the motel, I leaned down and pumped

two rounds into his right foot. Blood splashed over the

telephone book and the bathtub, as red as Jackson's

face was white.

"Jesus Christ," Traheame muttered as he sank onto

the toilet. As he slumped, Stacy leaned over the sink

and vomited with a single quick motion.

"I'm all right," she said, then she rinsed out her

mouth. "Shoot the fucker again."

"You didn't have to shoot him twice," Trahearne

said.

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"Once to get his attention," I said, "and once to let

him know I was serious." Then I looked down at

Jackson. "I am serious, you know." Without waiting to

see if he believed me, I jerked him up and shoved the

telephone book under his butt. "You understand?" He

nodded quickly.

"I don't like this," Trahearne said.

"Then get out of the room," I said without turning

around. He didn't leave. Then I tapped Jackson under

the chin with the silencer. "Now, the first thing you

have to get straight in your mind is that you're through

in this town. This part of your life is over. Either you

leave this room dead or you leave it having told me

where Betty Sue is, which won't make your friends

happy, so give up this part of your life right now. Get

your mind straight on that. We'll even buy you a ticket,

but get this part out of your mind right now. Okay?"

He didn't nod, he jerked his head up and down in a

blur. "Now I'm going to take the gag out, and you're

not going to make any noise at all, right?" As soon as

his head quit bobbing, I took out my pocket knife and

sliced the tape over the sock and tugged it out. He

moaned with amazing restraint. I took the vodka from

Trahearne and gave Jackson a quick hit off it. "Now

can you tell us where she is?"

"Yes, sir," he whispered.

"Where?"

"This guy I work for, Mr. Hyland-! think maybe

you met him up in Fort Collins once--he has a house

between Evergreen and Conifer, a big red brick

colonial on the west side of the road on a three-acre lot.

You can't miss it. Up there it sticks out like a sore

thumb, and he's got his name on the mailbox. "

"She's there?"

"Yes, sir."

"What kind of security has he got?" I asked.

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"Security?" Jackson said, looking very confused. I

gave him another sip of vodka.

"How many men does he have guarding the place?''

"Guarding the place?" he asked. "Oh, yeah, well,

when they're shooting-"

"Shooting?" I interrupted.

"Yeah, you know, making a flick," Jackson explained to me. "When they're shooting, Mr. Hyland has a guy on the gate and another dude walking the

grounds. To keep the neighborhood kids away, you

know-kids don't have any respect for private property

anymore, so Mr. Hyland has Petey and Mike sort of

watch ·things when they're shooting. "

"What about the big Mexican?"

"Torres? He's Mr. Hyland's personal man and he's

always next to him," Jackson said.

"Don't they know we might try to take her back?" I

asked.

"I don't think they know who you are," Jackson said,

trying to be as polite as possible. "I know I don't."

It didn't seem necessary to explain who we were, and

as I glanced around the crowded bathroom, I wasn't all

that sure myself.

"How did they know where to find Betty Sue?" I

asked.

"Her daddy, you know, out in Bakersfield," Jackson

said. "He knows some people we know and he got this

postcard-we thought she was dead-! mean, that's

what we heard a long time ago, and that's what you said

after they roughed you up-so anyway, when her

daddy's friends called about the postcard, Mike flew up

to Montana and followed you down."

"Great," I said. I didn't even bother to tum around

to give Trahearne a dirty look. He cursed under his

breath and walked back into the bedroom. "Do they

have Betty Sue locked up?"

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"I don't think so," Jackson said. "They're shooting

tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Yeah, they rent the equipment to use in the daytime

at Hyland's ad agency, so they have to shoot at night."

"Cheap bastards," Stacy muttered.

"Has he got a fence around the place?'' I asked.

"Yeah, a chain-link fence," he answered.

"Any dogs?"

"Dogs?"

"You know, guard dogs," I said.

"No, nothing like that," he said. "Hyland hates

dogs."

That reminded me. "Did you go with them after

Betty Sue?''

"I drove the car, that's all," he said. "I didn't go up

the hill. I wouldn't shit you, man, not about' that."

"It doesn't matter," I said. "Listen, I'm going to

cut your hands loose, and I want you to draw me a

layout of the grounds and a floor plan of the house,

okay?"

"Could I have another hit of that vodka first?" he

asked.

"Sure," I said, then cut the tape and let him hold the

bottle himself. When he finished his drink, he held the

pad on his knees and drew for me. "Do your best," I

said.

"I'll try," he muttered, then wet the pencil lead with

his furry tongue.

"Act like your life depended on it," I reminded him,

and he applied himself to his task with renewed vigor.

When it was done, he handed it to me. It wasn't bad.

"Only three doors?" I asked. "Front, back, and

garage? No patio doors or sliding doors or French

windows?"

"Right," he said.

"Where do they film?" I asked.

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"In this downstairs bedroom here," he said, pointing

it out with the eraser.

"Okay," I said, "you've done great so far. Now I'm

going to leave you here in the company of this young

lady . . . "

"I'm not staying here for a minute," Stacy said.

"Like I said, I'm going to lock you in the trunk of our

car, and if everything goes well, we'll put you on a

plane in the morning."

"Couldn't you just take me to the hospital?" he

asked. "I wouldn't call anybody."

"You jerked me around once," I said, "and you're

sleeping in the trunk until tomorrow morning."

"I guess I can understand that," he said.

"Good," I said, then I cleaned up his foot. Both

wounds were through and through, and the bleeding

had nearly stopped when I went to work on his foot.

"You reckon it's fucked up pretty bad?" he asked as I

wrapped gauze around it.

"You're going to limp for lying the rest of your life,"

I said. He nodded as if that were a system of justice he

understood. "Will you get me his clothes?" I asked

Stacy. She snorted but she went to get them, then

tossed them on the floor and went back into the

bedroom.

As I helped Jackson dress, I asked him, "Why did

they go to all this trouble? Not over a five-year-old

doctor's bill."

"That was part of it," he said as he limped into his

pants, "yeah, but the forty thousand, that was what

pissed them off."

"The forty thousand?"

"You don't know about that, huh?" Jackson said

with a superior smile.

"Tell me," I said.

"When Betty Sue split, she hit the till for forty K,

man, and Mr. Hyland, he had to make it up out of his

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