The Last Good Kiss (42 page)

make a little profit on the side."

"Can you blame me, man?" he said, then grinned.

"And I ain't kidding you, if I had that forty K, there

would be a lot less heat."

"That's your ticket to the movies, isn't it?" I said.

"You got it."

"Not in my pocket," I said, "but if you'll give me

sixty days, I'll do what I can."

"Quicker would help," he said.

"Listen, don't press me," I said, "not when I'm

holding this shotgun."

"Aw hell," he said, then waved his bloody hand at

me. "If you were going to kill me, man, you'd've done

it right out of the bag instead of screwing around that

dumb shit rat-shot bit. It's too messy, man--dead, I'm

just more trouble than it's worth, but alive, I can clean

up this end."

"Sixty days," I said, "and no promises."

"Okay, what the hell, it's worth it," he said. "Deal?''

"I've got to have an edge," I said.

"Like what?"

"Your prints on the piece that killed Hyland," I said,

"and the account books out of his safe."

"Or what?"

"Or I'm talking to a dead man," I said. "I'll leave

you in the room with Hyland, the Browning in your

hand, the .22 in his, and take my chances. "

"The pieces aren't registered to you, huh?"

"Out of Arkansas," I said, "as clean as whistles. "

"You ain't exactly a model citizen."

"I'm no kind of citizen at all," I said.

"You get the piece, I'll get the books," Torres said

calmly.

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"You get the books, I'll watch."

"Right," he said, then knelt in front of the sink

cabinet, opened it up and removed what looked like ten

years of accumulated kitchen cleaning materials. He

lifted the floor of the cabinet to expose a round safe

sunk into the concrete foundation. He worked the dial,

and paused before opening the door. "The first thing

out, man, is a piece, but it'll come out slow," he said,

then opened it up and lifted out a nickel-plated .32

automatic and handed it to me.

"A beautiful piece," I said as I unloaded it.

"Yeah," Torres said , "he must've paid at least twenty

dollars for it." He laughed, then stood up and handed

me a stack of narrow ledgers. "Can I ask one more

favor?"

"What?"

"If you send me copies of these," he said, "it'll make

the changeover all that much smoother."

"Okay."

"I almost believe you," he said.

"You mail me a receipt for a thousand-dollar contribution to the humane society," I said, "and I'll mail you copies. "

"You got it, man," he said. "I'm sorry about the

dogs. Hyland, he hated dogs and when this bulldog bit

him on the ankle, he went crazy. I tried to stop him,

really, but he-"

"Just shut up," I said as I leveled the shotgun at his

nose. "You got it?" He nodded. "Now let's go get the

Browning." I herded him outside, took the automatic

from Stacy, then prodded him back into the kitchen.

"Unload it," I told him, "and wipe it clean, then reload

it." He did it quickly and professionally. I didn't even

have to tell him to take each round out of the clip.

When he finished, he found a large plastic bag and

dropped the piece in it. "Now let's go down the hall and

pick up those five pieces of brass," I said.

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"You're a careful son of a bitch," he said as he

handed me the plastic bag.

"That's what I'm doing here," I said, "practicing my

careful act, scum bag."

"You don't have to insult me," he said as I followed

him down the hall.

"I wouldn't know where to begin," I said, then

stepped back as he opened the door and switched on

the light. The five shell casings were clustered behind

the door, and he picked them up and gave them to me.

"Now get me the magnum out from under the couch," I

said.

"Come on, man, that's my favorite piece," he

complained. "Besides, it's registered to me."

"That's even better," I said, and he knelt down to

reach under the couch. "Nothing personal," I said as he

pulled the revolver to the edge of the couch and I

clubbed him wjth the shotgun butt behind the ear. His

face slammed into the floor, his back arched, and his

feet tattooed across the rug. "Nothing personal at all."

I picked up the .357 and stuck it in my belt, then drew

my boot back to kick Torres in the face, but I knew it

wouldn't help. I put my foot down. I had gotten

Melinda out, but it hadn't provided any satisfaction

at all.

When I got to the car I motioned Stacy behind the

wheel, then climbed into the passenger seat and

dumped my load of arms on the floorboard along with

the ledgers.

"What took you so goddamned long?" Trahearne

asked as Stacy drove us away. "We must have been

sitting in the car for a goddamned hour. "

"Honey," Melinda chided him in a whisper, "honey,

hush. He got me out."

"Yeah, well, I'm paying him good money for it," he

said.

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Stacy slammed on the brakes, skidding across the

gravel of the driveway, and turned around and shouted

at Traheame, "You old fat bastard, you shut up!

No-you say thank you and then you shut up! You

haven't done a thing tonight but piss and moan and

fuck up, and if it wasn't for him, Melinda would be

doing it under the lights with that good-looking blond

dude, so you say thank you and then you shut the fuck

up!"

"It's okay," I said.

"Stop making excuses for him!" she shouted at me.

"I don't have to thank the hired help," Traheame

huffed. That made Stacy so mad that she flounced back

under the wheel and stuffed the accelerator to the

floorboard. The car shot down the drive and fishtailed

onto the highway.

Nobody said anything for a long time as we headed

back toward Denver, the silence only broken by the

whisper of tires, the gurgle and plop of Traheame's

bottle, and Melinda's sobs.

I had a long drink of water out of a canteen, then wet

a towel to scrub away the camouflage paint on my face.

When I finished and leaned back in the seat, Stacy

reached over to pat my thigh.

"Thank you," Melinda said softly, "thank you so

very much."

"Yeah," Trahearne grunted as nicely as he was able.

"You want a drink?" He reached the pint of vodka over

the seat back.

"Is that your answer to everything!" Stacy shouted,

wheeling in the seat and nearly running the car off the

freeway.

"Don't make him mad," I said as I grabbed the

steering wheel, "or he won't give me one."

"Oh," she muttered, then settled back to driving.

When I offered her a hit off Traheame's pint, she

cursed, but took a long swallow. "I don't know why you

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drink that terrible stuff," she said, spitting and coughing.

"It's the only way to get drunk," I said, and

everybody laughed as if I had said something funny.

"I'm sorry," Trahearne said, and that sent up gales

of laughter.

"You should be," Stacy said, giggling. "I can't

believe I missed that son of a bitch," she added, then

giggled louder.

"You couldn't've stopped that big bastard any quicker if you had blown his head off," Trahearne said, and they chuckled.

"Meaner'n a Marine," Stacy squealed.

"That's not saying much," Trahearne said. "My

mother's meaner than any Marine that ever lived."

"No kidding," Melinda offered in a soft, shy voice.

"She wouldn't have missed," she added, and they all

laughed again, so happy to be alive that they would

have laughed at a stop sign.

Back at the motel, we moved all the gear out of the

car into the room, then I left them there while I

unloaded Jackson from the trunk to the front seat.

Stacy's driving had left him some the worse for wear.

He wasn't bleeding too badly, but he looked like a man

who had just survived a terrible auto accident. I drove

him to the emergency-room entrance at Denver General and left him on the curb, a shoe in one pocket, a half-empty pint of bourbon in the other, assuming that

he would work it out after I explained that Hyland was

dead and nobody was looking for him. He nodded

briskly, then hobbled toward the hospital, hopping

quickly off his right heel.

"I'm sorry!" I shouted out the car window, but he

waved his hand without turning around, as if to say it

was all in a day's work.

When I got back to the motel again, it wasn't even

midnight yet, and I found the troops sitting down to

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delivered pizza and room-service beer, and we ate and

drank furiously until a flurry of fatigue swept over us

like a tropical rainstorm, dropping us like sodden flies.

Trahearne fell asleep with a piece of pizza in his hand

moving toward his mouth, and as she helped him to the

bed, Melinda tumbled down beside him with a quick,

sudden snort like a woman clubbed in the back of the

head. Within seconds Trahearne, flopped on his back,

began to snore as only he could.

"Jesus Christ," Stacy whispered, "how can she sleep

through that?"

I yawned. "She must love him."

"She must."

"I guess I have to sleep in your room," I said.

"Of course," she answered sweetly, then took me by

the hand and led me through the connecting doors.

Stacy was asleep on her feet, and as I collapsed toward

the bed with her, I went under too.

But it was, as I knew it would be, a quick, uneasy