Jack started writing. “So. This Komoko character-” Sandy grabbed a can opener from the counter. “Maybe you should ask that sweet young hoale out by the pool. She checked in yesterday, and the first thing she did was ask me about Komoko.”
Jack glanced over his shoulder. Through the office window, he saw the woman from the five-and-dime, the one who’d stood up for him. She was sitting on a chaise longue by the swimming pool. Only now she’d lost the black T-shirt and fatigue pants, and her combat boots were tucked under the lounge. She wore a black bikini and she was smearing sunscreen on her belly, her hand moving in slow, lazy circles-
“Down, boy,” Sandy said. “Don’t drool on my carpet.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“Nothing. Except her name is Kate Benteen, and she’s from some shitsplat called Grizzly Gulch, Montana. And she makes me kind of sick, of course.”
“Why’s that?”
“Just look at her. I mean, how many women can pull off that look? A black bikini and combat boots. Gidget Goes Ballistic." Sandy shook her head. “That little girl makes me pine for my misspent youth, is what she does.”
“Yeah, but-”
“We’ll catch that wave another day, Mr. Baddalach.”
“Okay. You’ve got a date. When can we-”
“Don’t make any promises you can’t keep.” Sandy pointed at Kate Benteen. “See how you feel after your private incursion with Ms. Rambette out there. You end up getting down in the trenches, that’s fine. Don’t worry about putting the big hurt to my little ol’ heart, because I’m a strong believer in first impressions. And while you seem like you’d be a fun guy once we got past all the woe is me I’m a washed up pug stuff, I figure you’re just a turista here in Pipeline Beach, and I hate good-byes almost more than anything. It looks like I’m here for the long haul, and I don’t see a guy like you hanging around fixing air-conditioners and ice machines, warning little brats that the water’s gonna turn orange if they pee in the pool.” She sucked a deep breath. “So here’s the big picture according to Sandy Kapalua-Dayton-maybe we’ll have us some fun and maybe we won’t. All I know is right now I’ve got to feed my dog.”
“But-”
Sandy shrugged. “Amigo, it’s just like Doris Day said, ‘Que sera, sera.’”
Jack wanted to say that maybe it wasn’t that way at all, not in the big picture according to Jack Baddalach. But by the time his mouth kicked into gear Sandy Kapalua-Dayton had already stepped through the back door.
She headed toward the junkyard with a can of Alpo in one hand and a can opener in the other.
Jack had never heard anyone swear in Hawaiian.
But he was sure he was hearing it now.
SIX
Woodrow’s blood was much darker than sandstone, and it flowed like the night itself.
He stared down at his left hand. Both of them. He blinked furiously. Each blink sent an angry jolt of pain through his skull, as if his eyelids were made of iron. But blinking did no good.
The illusion persisted. Two left hands. Both of them bleeding.
His stomach churned. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He’d cracked his head. That was all. In a moment, the dizziness would pass. And when he opened his eyes he would only have one left hand.
But it would be bleeding.
He couldn’t delay.
He had to do something about that.
He opened his eyes.
Thankfully, he only had one left hand.
He wasn’t going to worry that it seemed to have three extra fingers.
Woodrow turned on the tap in the kitchen sink. A stream of cold water rinsed the blood from his hand and stirred a brittle ache in his palm that made him momentarily sympathetic to the sufferings of Jesus Christ.
Momentarily was the key word here, for Woodrow’s sympathy was generally fleeting when it came to the suffering of others, especially the sufferings of Christian martyrs.
Simply put, he had his own problems. He examined his hand, turning it this way and that. His vision sharpened, and the illusory additional digits faded away.
Back to five fingers. His head continued to throb, but that pain was nothing compared to the agony of his hand. Four angry puncture wounds puckered his flesh. Two on the back of his hand, roughly along the ridge of tendon behind his first knuckle. Two on his palm, piercing his lifeline. However, the latter bit of irony did not distress Woodrow any more than the wounds themselves. They were simply part of the job, a result of the ever present element of risk engendered by same.
But blood had spattered the cuff of his left shirtsleeve. That simple fact distressed Woodrow. His shirts were expensive. Tailored specifically for his frame, as were all his clothes. Loose enough to allow the athletic mobility often required by his profession, but tight enough to create an aura of fitness and, by extension, professional competency.
Woodrow did not enjoy shopping for clothes. Therefore, he was as meticulous about maintaining his wardrobe as he was about maintaining his weight, which never crept above 175 pounds.
As a result Woodrow ate a lot of salads. Quite often he was hungry, especially when he was in the presence of food. . say, in a supermarket or a restaurant. But at present he was not hungry at all.
His stomach churned again. Just thinking about food had been a mistake. He closed his iron eyelids and fought off the pain, concentrating on the cool rush of tap water.
Minutes passed. He felt a little better. Good enough to open his eyes. He turned off the tap. Immediately, four thin streams of blood pulsed from his wounds. Soon scarlet droplets pattered against the stainless steel basin.
Woodrow watched a pattern take shape as if he were back in the prison psychiatrist’s office at Rahway examining a Rorschach test.
One Rorschach test. . then two. . two strange creatures in the sink. Tarantulas covered with blood, their hairy legs scrabbling over stainless steel. .
No. He closed his eyes. He would not see these things. God, if he actually had a concussion … if he passed out here, in Jack Baddalach’s condominium. .
Those thoughts were negative. Woodrow erased them from his consciousness. He drew a deep breath and held it, searching for the oasis of peace that Allah nurtured within his soul.
A moment later he exhaled and opened his eyes, assuring himself that he was once again in control. A neatly folded dish towel with a wagon wheel and cacti pattern hung over the refrigerator door handle. Woodrow wrapped it around his wounded hand.
At the same moment the front door of Baddalach’s condominium swung open.
Woodrow reached inside his coat. The fingers of his right hand closed around a Colt.45 Double Eagle Combat Commander nestled in a polished black leather shoulder holster.
Johnny Da Nang entered Jack Baddalach’s condo and closed the door behind him.
Almost immediately, he wished he hadn’t done that.
Because there was a broken lamp on the living room floor, and the coffee table had been busted in two. Frankenstein was lying there amidst the rubble, drooling blood, thick bands of duct tape encircling his legs, his poor battered head practically mummified in the stuff.
Johnny blinked. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a slight movement in the kitchen.
He started to turn.
“Don’t do that,” someone said.
Johnny’s well-cultivated South Central LA street instinct informed him that this was the kind of voice that meant business. A voice that sounded polite on the surface, but a voice that might as well have screamed Don’t fuck with me, slope because underneath the clean polish was a history of mean and dirty streets.