Ken opened his eyes. He saw Al McGee on his feet. Argo rose to lean on him, and they began dancing again. But this time, Al’s foot struck Zora’s shoulderbag where she had left it on the floor near the parapet. The strap encircled his ankle and he tripped, twisting to regain his balance, falling against the waist-high wall. The weight of the dog pushed him farther and, before anyone could move, he was over the edge. His scream as he fell lasted only a couple of seconds.
Ken blinked. The scene was as before. Al said to Zora, “Your glass is empty.” He took it and got to his feet. Whimsically, he danced a ballroom turn away from the table. Argo saw his master’s movement and came at a run. The dog rose up and put his paws on Al’s shoulders. Laughing, Al continued the dance. Ken saw the shoulderbag on the floor, but said nothing. He watched as his host’s shiny patent-leather loafer hooked the strap. In moments it was over — the stumble, the lurch, the slide across the parapet, the fall to the pavement seven floors below.
Zora was stunned. She seemed to be in shock. Ken got up and looked over the edge. The dog whimpered beside him. Ken went to the telephone and dialed 911. Waiting for the operator, he said, “I could have prevented that.”
“What?”
“The red wine? The empty stomach? I had a flash. I saw the whole thing happen before it happened.”
Zora looked at him with major hatred. “I can’t go on living with you, Ken. You are crazy beyond belief.”
For the next couple of days, Ken kept wondering if he was guilty of something. The police had logged McGee’s death as an accident. Was there a crime known as accessory before the fact of accidental death? There was a risk now that their apartment-manager job might vanish. Whoever inherited Al’s estate could decide to move in and manage the building.
Ken and Zora spent an afternoon in Arcadia visiting his parents. He told them the story of the landlord’s fall. He mentioned the dance with Argo, but not his premonition. His father, who was losing it fast, said, “A man’s best friend is his dog.”
As they left the house that evening, his mother slipped a folded twenty into Ken’s shirt pocket. “Buy yourself something,” she whispered, glaring at Zora.
Driving home through Glendale, Zora said, “Spending time with your parents helps me understand why you’re so weird.”
“I love you too.”
“Count your blessings.”
“What for?”
“If I thought you could have spoken up and saved Al’s life, I’d throw you out onto the road and back over your broken body.”
Ken was doing some serious thinking. It was odd to consider his wife a bereaved woman, but it was the truth. To abandon her in the state she was in might seem cruel. But it could also be the best thing for everybody. She talked about protecting her future. He could only do the same for himself.
“I’m going out for a walk,” he said when they were home.
“There are dangerous people out there,” she told him. “Take your time.”
It was Monday evening. He had been thinking of Rachel Hagerty all day. He remembered her promise to see him at the place on La Brea. When he got there, she was on her accustomed seat at the bar. The mahogany hair shone, and a strand of pearls enhanced the cleft of the sheer black nylon blouse she wore.
“You made it,” she said, turning to him with a magnificent smile.
“Couldn’t wait.” He slipped onto the next stool and then, risking it, kissed her on the cheek. “What happened to Dalton Lee?”
“He’s vanished. The bar reported his coming in last week. I don’t think we’ll see him for a while.”
She was a good listener. For the next hour, as he drank beer, Ken told her everything about himself. He described his ageing parents, his estrangement from his wife, the taxi accident that changed his face and did something to his brain so that he could occasionally see the immediate future. He ran through the vision of Lee invading the bar to commit murder.
“You’ve got this incredible talent,” she said, accepting it without question. “And you saved my life with it.”
When he told her about his big wins at the roulette table, her response was immediate. “Why don’t we go to Vegas! Switch you on and make our fortune!”
“Let’s do that.”
“I mean right now. My car is out back. The tank is full.” Her eyes sized him up. “Ever drive through the desert at night?”
Zora was not home. Ken left a message on the answering machine saying he was heading for Vegas with a friend. He joined Rachel in the parking lot where she was warming the engine of a white BMW. He climbed in beside her and belted up.
“Great wheels.”
“It’s one of my father’s cars. Dad owns Hagerty Security. That’s where Dalton Lee came from. He did watchdog assignments until he started pursuing me. Then he got suspended for taking bribes and now he’s in real trouble.”
“I hope I can pass inspection.”
“I told my father how you saved me. He thinks you’re sensational.”
They made a coffee stop near Victorville. Getting back on the road, neither of them noticed the black sedan that followed at a distance. It was the same car that had crept out of a lane way onto La Brea when they began the journey.
Later, Rachel said, “Are you hungry?”
“Getting there.”
“When we arrive, let’s feed you some red wine. Then we can hit a roulette wheel before we go to bed.”
A silent mile went by with painted lines flashing beneath the car. Then Ken said, “You don’t owe me anything.”
“Who said I do?”
“I didn’t always look like this.”
“Will you cut it out?”
“When we get to the hotel, I want to stop at an automatic teller machine.”
“The hotel is on me. My credit card bills go to Dad.”
“I want to get five hundred out anyway.”
“Men are so funny.” She took a hand off the steering wheel and found his fists clenched in his lap. “Will you relax? It’s not how you look or what you have. It’s who you are.”
Ken said, “I know that.” Then he sat there in her father’s car, knowing he looked bad and he didn’t have enough.
The new Excalibur was the first hotel off the freeway. Lit up at night, its turrets resembled the closing titles on a Disney movie. The parking lot was not busy in the wee small hours of this Tuesday morning. Rachel wheeled the car into a slot close to the main entrance. The black sedan parked fifty feet away. Its lights went out.
“I need that ATM,” Ken said. They were out of the car, approaching the main doors.
Somebody was coming from the parking lot, walking fast. It was Dalton Lee. He held the gun pointing straight up, inches from his cheek. Thin face, narrow eyes, oiled hair — the man looked like some piece of lethal equipment.
“Caught you this time,” he said. He leveled the gun and took aim at Rachel.
Ken ran forward without thinking. He heard Rachel scream, “Don’t!” as he closed with Dalton Lee. Lee was frighteningly strong; it was like grabbing a bronze statue. All he could do was use both hands to force the gun off line. But with a forearm under Ken’s jaw, Lee moved the weapon slowly back towards his assailant.
Behind the glass doors, a security guard in the lobby saw the struggle. Drawing his nightstick, he came outside on the double. The gun went off and the unarmed man went limp. He fell to his knees and sagged prone as the guard arrived behind Dalton Lee. The nightstick came around sharply, making contact above the ear. Lee sprawled face down, the gun skidded away.
Rachel was bending over her companion. Ken was bleeding from a wound on his forehead. The guard dragged Lee’s arms behind his back and snapped on handcuffs. Then he used his radio to call for backup and an ambulance.