Whistler's Angel (45 page)

“That’s if it starts. Go try. I’ll park this one.”

“Park the Cadillac, where? You mean here in this lot?”

“Down the end. Pick me up down the end.”

Nobody, thought Kaplan, can be that fucking dumb. He reminded himself that neither was Lockwood. Not always, at least. But it’s like he wears blinders. It’s like he only has room for one thought at a time and his only thought now… and for like, the past year…has been what he wants to do this Whistler.

Kaplan started to explain that when the owner comes out, he is likely to call the police. The police will come and they’ll see this red Cadillac that no one who works here seems to own. The police will then wonder…never mind. It’s not worth it. He told Lockwood, “We’ll leave it up the road.”

Up the road was beach parking. Lots of cars. Lots of spaces. From there they were only two minutes away from where the wacko was hiding. They found the house, 22 Lagoon Road. Kaplan pulled up in front and cut his engine.

He said to Lockwood, “Let’s get out nice and slow. Let the guy look us over so he sees we’re not cops."

“He’ll know we’re not cops. He expects us.”

“He also has a shotgun and is maybe a bit tense.” Kaplan lowered his voice. “Here’s a plan.”

“I make the plans.”

“Okay, then here’s an option for you to consider. We wait until the guy waves us in. You introduce yourself, then you introduce me. I shake his hand, I hold on, and you shoot him.”

“That’s good, I guess. Except first shut the door.”

No shit, thought Kaplan. “Good suggestion. Where’s my head?”

“Give a tap on the horn. We don’t have all day.”

“Oh, damn. On your left. Is that him?”

A man was approaching, dressed in golfing attire. He had come from behind a thick bamboo hedge that ran from the side of the garage to the street.
The man had a golf bag slung over his shoulder.

Lockwood’s hand went to the gun that was still in his bag. He said, “Yeah, I think. What’s with the golf?”

Arnold Kaplan was almost too stunned to speak. The man walking toward them looked ridiculous. He wore powder blue shorts that showed bone-white legs. His golf shirt was pink and his jacket was yellow. He wore a floppy hat, orange, that said “Cincinnati Bengals.” The clubs in his bag had those novelty
headcovers. On his longest club, his driver, was a fluffy orange tiger. Another club had one of those happy face things. On his feet were two-tone golf shoes that clacked on the driveway. His face and hands were dotted with little round band-aids. He
gave them a look that said,
“
You must be the underlings
.”
Lockwood spoke first. He said, “You’d be Crow?”

“I am
Mister
Crow. Are we ready?”

“
Ready for what? You were supposed to wait inside.”

“You would be Lockwood. The description was accurate. I was not told this other man’s name.”

Kaplan was busy scanning their surroundings in the hope that no one would see this. Slowly, reluctantly, he got out of the car. Lockwood said, “This is Kaplan. Now answer my question. What’s going on with the golf?”

Crow frowned. “You said Kaplan? That’s a Jew name, is it not?”

“It’s an alias,” said Kaplan. “Don’t sweat it.”

“Why are you dressed in such gaudy attire? Why not a suit and tie like your associate?”

Kaplan couldn’t believe this. It’s the pot and the kettle. Lockwood said, “Hey, look. Never mind what we’re wearing. What the hell are you doing standing out in the open, especially in an outfit like that?”

“When in Rome, of course. Don’t you realize where you are? There are golf courses everywhere one looks on this island. There are thousands of men who are dressed in this manner. It makes an effective disguise.”

“Except here,” said Kaplan, “they understand mix and match. You look like some hick from Ohio.”

“Ohio. Precisely.” Crow did not seem offended. Just the opposite. He seemed pleased with that appraisal. He said, “These garments belonged to a man from Ohio. They flock to this place from that state for some reason. All the wiser to adopt their taste in costume, don’t you think?”

“What’s all over your face?” Kaplan asked. “That the windshield?”

“Not any longer. These are bee stings.”

“Come again?”

“Or should I say they’re from wasps? Either one. Doesn’t matter. I am reminded that golfers are stung on occasion while hunting lost balls among the trees. So if anyone should wonder what I’m doing at the hospital, I will answer that I have come there from the golf course in order to have these stings treated.”

Lockwood stood blinking. “What is this about a hospital?”

“The devil’s spokesman still lives. But we’ll see to that, won’t we? Everything that I’ll need is in this golf bag.”

Kaplan asked, “This spokesman…you mean the TV guy, right?”

Crow narrowed his eyes. He was studying Kaplan. “You look and sound Jewish. Are you sure you’re not Jewish?”

“See, that’s part of the act. Like you and your bees. Fact is, my name’s O’Malley, Southern Baptist, Jesus loves me. Now, tell me…you intend to try for Ragland again?”

“Of course. That’s why you’re here.”

“Who says?”

“Mr. Poole.”

“Wait a minute,” said Lockwood. “No one said that to me. We’re only here to help you get away.”

“Where they’ll never find you,” Kaplan added with a smile. “And now that we’ve met, I can’t wait.”

Kaplan could have done without saying that, he realized. His meaning,
however went over Crow’s head. But Crow would catch on in another few minutes if they ever got this turkey off the street.
The Jesus guy said, “Yes, but first you must assist me. My work isn’t finished. All you two need do is create a diversion while I finish what poor Leonard started. Oh, and first I’ll need you to locate his room.”

Lockwood turned to Kaplan. “Who’s Leonard?” he asked.

“Vern…please. Not now. Not out here.”

“He’s the other guy, right? The one who’s a vedge? He’s the one the girl stuck with the knife.”

“Vernon…not now, for Christ’s sake.”

But Lockwood already had got Crow’s attention. “What girl?” he asked, startled. “A woman did that?”

“We’ll tell you all about it inside,” Kaplan answered. He started to walk toward the
house
. “Front door open?”

Crow shook his head. “No, go through the garage. But first answer my question. Are you saying that some barroom tramp attacked Leonard?”

“Yeah, that’s it pretty much.” Kaplan shot a hard glare at Lockwood, asking him, please, if they could leave it at that. He lifted the nearest of the two garage doors. He saw the Dodge van with Ohio plates. It had two bikes leaning against it. Inside, he saw luggage and groceries strewn about. Another set of golf clubs. A couple of beach chairs. The keys were still in the ignition. He said, “Let’s all get in here before someone sees this. Mr. Crow, would you show me to the bathroom?”

“Off the kitchen.”

“Would you show me? I’m suddenly not feeling so good.”

All Kaplan wanted was to get this man indoors. Never mind the front hall. Shove him into a bathroom. Throw him into the shower, pop him once in the head, then open some arteries to let the guy drain. That’s poetic, come to think of it. This way, he dies kosher. He dies fast and easy; the shower cleans the mess; it makes chopping him up that much easier.

This was Kaplan’s new plan until Lockwood started thinking. You can tell Lockwood’s thinking when he suddenly has lips. He starts pushing at them with his tongue. Lockwood said, “Wait a minute. You don’t know about Whistler?”

“Vernon…do you mind? Get him into the garage.”

The Jesus guy asked, “Who is Whistler? Who’s this girl?” But he did step through the overhead door. At least he was out of public view.

“Whistler is the one who tried to shoot you last night.” Lockwood said this as Kaplan pulled the door down and shut. “He’s the one who gave you all your bee stings from the glass. The girl is the one who knifed whatzizname… Leonard. She should not have done that to poor Leonard.”

Kaplan glared at him again. “Hold that thought, okay, Vernon? First I need him to show me the bathroom.”

Crow’s eyes had become slits. “Where are these people now?”

Lockwood turned to Kaplan. “It’s only right he should know.” He said this in all innocence, as in what’s fair is fair.

Kaplan had enough. “No, I’ll tell you what’s right. What’s right is we do what we’re paid for, okay? Vern, I know you. I don’t like where this is going.”

Lockwood said, “Hold your water. Let me think.”

This man thinking, thought Kaplan, was never good news. He was going to tell Crow about Whistler and his boat. He was thinking what we’ll do is show him the boat. He was thinking, “
Aubrey said don’t touch Whistler, so we don’t. We let this guy whack him, both him and the girl, and then, after that, we finish Crow
.”

Sure enough, Lockwood said, “They’re still around. They’re on a boat.”

“You will point them out to me?”

“My pleasure,” said Lockwood.

“But the hospital first. Those two will have to wait.”

Kaplan couldn’t help asking, “What did you have in mind? You waltz into this hospital and blast him?”

“So to speak,” Crow answered. He patted his golf bag. “As I’ve said, I have everything I need.”

“So, what’s in there?”

“My shotgun, of course, and I’ve made us some sandwiches. I’ve brought
a thermos of milk for myself and two bottles of Snapple Iced Tea. I’m sure that you’re accustomed to a proper lunch, but we may find ourselves pressed for time.”

“Good planning,” said Kaplan. “Never short-change nutrition.”

“There is also my scanner to keep track of the police. There’s some literature that I wish to distribute while we are departing the hospital. Oh, and of course the explosives.”

Lockwood’s eyes came to life. “You got explosives?”