The Last Good Kiss (40 page)

own pocket. He's gonna work Betty Sue until he figures

he's made his bread back, then he's gonna dump her

down a mine shaft."

"Nice people," I said.

"Just good business," Jackson said.

Instead of knocking a wad of his teeth out, I gave him

two codeine tablets left over from my last visit to

Colorado.

"What's that?"

"For the pain," I said.

"You know, it's amazing, but my foot don't hurt all

that bad," he said as he gingerly pressed the ball of it

against the bathroom floor.

"Take the fucking pills," I said, and he did.

By the time Trahearne and I carried him to the car

and stuck him in the trunk with a blanket and pillow,

Jackson was nodding away and 'calling us "Mummy."

"What's going to happen to him?" Trahearne asked

as I slammed the trunk lid.

"If we're alive tomorrow morning, we'll give him a

head start on his fri�nds," I said. "But if we're dead or

in jail or in the hospital, he'll probably die locked in

that trunk. Hell, even if everything goes like it's

supposed to, he's probably a dead man already."

"That doesn't bother you?"

"Not a bit," I said. "He's a piece of shit, man, and he

lied to me. I gave him every chance I could, and he still

lied to me, so fuck him."

"I lied to you too," Traheame said, looking away

toward the shifting lights of the airport.

"Yeah," I said, "but that's the difference between

you and him. "

"What's that?"

"He's worth killing and you're not," I said, then I

went back into the motel room and left him standing

outside.

216

I S ••••

LIKE EVERYBODY IN THE WORLD, I HAD SEEN TOO MANY

movies. I expected Hyland's place to be a large estate,

a fortress with high walls and a massive gate guarded by

a brace of men with automatic weapons, but it was just

a good-sized brick house on a suburban lot with a

four-foot-high chain-link fence. A man stood beside the

gate, but it was wide open, and he was obviously bored

stupid as he slumped against a gatepost. In the flash of

our passing headlights, I recognized him as a man I had

seen drinking coffee in a truck stop in Sheridan,

Wyoming. Even standing guard, he looked like a

trucker with bleary eyes, swollen feet, and itchy

hemorrhoids. I, on the other hand, had come dressed

for the party, decked out like a mercenary in jungle

boots and a tiger-striped fatigue uniform, even done up

in blackface like a night-fighter, and armed to the teeth,

a K-bar combat knife strapped to my calf, a .38 S&W

Airweight in a shoulder holster, and the silenced .22

Colt Woodsman under my belt.

As we drove past Hyland's gate, Trahearne laughed

and asked, "You loaded for bear, boy?"

"Be prepared," I said. "That's my motto."

He sneered. "That's for Boy Scouts. "

Before I could answer, Stacy said, "He's just jealous

217

because he doesn't have a uniform. " Which shut

Trahearne up.

She dropped me around the first curve north of

Hyland's gate, and I crept back up the ditch toward the

fence corner. Once there, I vaulted it, then bellied

slowly toward the back of the house, watching for the

other guard. I found him peeking through a slit in the

blackout curtains at a back bedroom window. Some

guys just can't get enough of that sort of thing. Even

though the mountain air was chilly, the air-conditioning

unit was going full blast. I used the noise for cover and

walked up behind him. It seemed a shame to spoil his

fun, but I sapped him silly, then trussed him like a pig

for slaughter. When I finished with him, I took his place

at the window.

Banks of movie lights filled the large bedroom with

white heat that seemed intensified by the huge mirror

over the king-sized bed. A naked black woman sat on a

stool, fanning herself with one hand and smoking a

joint with the other. On the bed, a blond, tanned guy

was being worked over by a chesty girl in shorts and a

halter, her head bobbing at his crotch with an angry

exasperation. Two guys stood beside the camera chatting and smoking dope, and a short, fat fellow paced around the room talking to himself. In the shadows

beyond the lights, Hyland and Torres sat on a couch,

flanking a woman with a ton of blond hair who wore a

flimsy robe, a very blank expression, and too much

make-up. Hyland had a tall, cool drink in one hand.

The other was draped casually over the blonde's

shoulders, where it kneaded her large, firm breast

regularly, as if he were exercising it. Only when I

glanced at the woman's face again, did I recognize

Melinda, then I looked away as quickly as I could.

At the gate I was supposed to wait for Stacy to stop

the car on the highway to ask the guard for directions,

but when I went around the house to wait for her, he

218

was off in some other world. I walked up behind him

and put him to sleep too. When Stacy stopped the car, I

stepped out of the shadows and waved her into the

driveway. She cut the lights and pulled in.

"Just a second," I told her, "I've got to finish

gift-wrapping this one."

She stomped on the emergency brake and followed

me behind the shrubbery. As I leaned over to finish

taping the guy's ankles, Stacy jerked the sap out of my

back pocket, and before I could stop her, she had

flattened his nose, crunched some teeth, and given him

a lump as big as a walnut between the eyes.

"Jesus Christ," I muttered as I wrestled the sap from

her.

"That'll teach the motherfucker to shoot dogs," she

said calmly.

She went back to the car, and I had to rummage

around behind his gag for fragments of teeth so he

wouldn't choke to death, but it was a hopeless task. I

cut the gag off him. His mouth was going to hurt so bad

that he probably wouldn't make much noise. If he woke

up at all. The knot between his eyes looked nasty,

maybe fatal, and I knew that Stacy didn't need his

death on her conscience.

It had been a long day, so I rode up the driveway on

the car fender, then hopped off and removed the valve

stems from the tires of the three-quarter-ton Dodge

van and the black Continental. Sitting on four flats, the

vehicles looked comic, but I was too tired to smile. As

Stacy turned the car around to face down the driveway,

I used the keys I had taken from the guards to try the

garage door that opened into the kitchen, but it wasn't

locked. I dropped the keys on the steps and went back

to organize Traheame and his shotgun.

"You stay outside," I told him as I checked again to

be sure that he didn't have a shell in the chamber.

"Don't come inside unless you hear gunfire, and if you

219

do come inside, don't shoot anybody until you're sure

who they are. Right?"

"Teach your grandma 'to suck eggs," he said.

"That's my line," I said.

He glared at me. "I had a platoon on the 'Canal

when you were still in diapers."

"Just stay outside," I said, "and try not to think

about it."

He grunted, and that sounded like the closest I could

get to an agreement. I changed clips in the .22 so I

would have three rounds of rat shot above six rounds of

hollow-point hot loads, then I got a Browning 9mrn

automatic out of the car for Stacy, jacked a round into

the chamber, and left the hammer back.

"If it happens," I said, "hold it like I showed you and

aim for their kneecaps and keep pulling the trigger until

it's empty." She nodded, breathing shallowly, her eyes

wide. "You sure you want to do this?"

"Let's do it before I change my mind," she said, and

followed me into the house.

As we eased through the darkened rooms, she

covered me while I cut telephone wires, which I had

forgotten to do outside. Every time I glanced over my

shoulder, she was standing in a crouch, the heavy

automatic clutched in her right hand, her left hand

holding the right wrist, the pistol covering the rooms in

long, smooth arcs. She seen too many movies too. I just

hoped that she would pull the trigger if I needed her.

After we had checked both floors and found all the

rooms empty, we paused at the bottom of the stairs to

catch our breath, then went down the hallway toward

the bedroom where they were filming.

I listened for a moment at the door. Somebody was

complaining about the working conditions, the late

hours, and the dubious physical accomplishments of

some so-called actors. "Have you ever had an erection?" the voice inquired as I opened the door, stepped 220

in, and shot the top off Hyland's glass with the hollow

point in the chamber. Just foi: the effect.

"Everybody be calm," I said as Stacy backed into the

corner beside the door. "Be real calm."

It almost worked. Everybody froze for a second.

Except for Torres. With one smooth motion, he stood

and reached under his left arm. At seven feet, a -round

'of .22 long rifle shot will pulverize a rattlesnake's head,

and when I shot Torres in his right hand, it seemed to

explode, but he didn't make any more noise than the

silenced round.

"You'll have to hire somebody to wipe your ass and

pick your nose," I said. He chuckled and let his hand

fall to his side.

As if that were some sort of signal, the film crew

broke out in a fit of small movements and aimless

chatter, but as soon as Stacy swept the automatic across

them, they all stilled and shut up. All but the chubby

director.

"All right," he demanded, "what's going down

here?"

"If he opens his mouth again," I said to Stacy over

my shoulder, "blow the back of his head off."

He opened his mouth, then shut it quickly as he

looked down the barrel of the automatic. He took

another look, sighed, and fainted into a puddle.

"All you film folk," I said, "I want you lying flat on

the bed, face down, with your fingers laced behind your

necks. Right now." Melinda stared at me, confused,

but when I jerked my head, she dashed for the bed and

joined the scramble for a place.

"Now, you two gentlemen assume that old familiar

position against the wall behind the couch," I said to