Neither of them said anything, but the breathing was louder.
“Okay,” I said, “let’s go back to basics.” I pointed the gun at Larry’s good knee. “It’ll be a bone shot, Larry. You’ll limp.”
Larry nodded. “Okay.” His voice cracked.
“Don’t tell him.” Kimberly was calm.
“Sure,” I said. “It’s not your knee.”
Kimberly Marsh’s eyes got dark. “This stuff is worth a lot of money,” she said. “We could share. We could share a lot.”
“What about the boy?”
“What about him?”
Something hot throbbed in my head and I felt my face grow tight. “No wonder Mort went for you, Kimmie. You’re all class.” I toed Larry’s bad knee. He went purple again. “The dope.”
Kimberly yelled, “No!” then snatched something from the shelves, threw it at me, and plunged her hands into the slimy aquarium. As she did, Larry grabbed my legs. I hit him with the butt of the pistol, but he hung on, digging at my crotch. I hit him again, harder. His forehead split and blood spilled down over his nose and brow. Kimberly pulled what looked like a large brick from the algae and seaweed, and ran back toward the kitchen. Her arms were green from the slime, and the stink of fish was strong. Larry gasped, still trying to pull me down, but his grip was weaker. I hit him twice more, this time over his ear, and he let go.
I stumbled away from him and ran toward the back of the house, around through the dining room, and into the kitchen. Kimberly Marsh was clawing at the back door when I caught her and slapped her as hard as I could. She made an unh! sound and dropped the brick. It was about the size of a five-pound sack of Gold Medal flour. Bits of scum and seaweed still clung to it.
She scrambled after it, kicking at me and making grunting noises. There were flecks of saliva on her chin. I lifted her by the arm and hit her again. It was hot in the kitchen. I shook her and hit her once more, hard enough to knock her down. It hadn’t been necessary, but then, most things aren’t.
On the floor, she started to cry.
I picked up the dope and went back through the house. Larry was where he had fallen, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. He looked the way pro wrestlers look when they’ve popped blood capsules all over their faces, only he hurt. He hurt bad.
“She went all the way for you, Lar,” I said slowly. “Just like she did for Mort.”
Larry’s eyes began to leak.
I went out the door and down the steps. He was crying. She was crying. But they weren’t crying for the same thing.
33
I drove to my office, called a woman I know at the phone company, and gave her Domingo Duran’s address in Los Feliz. She told me four phone numbers registered to Duran’s address. The first one gave me a tentative female voice with a heavy accent. When I asked to speak with Mr. Duran, she didn’t seem to understand, then there was a long pause and she hung up. Probably kitchen help.
On the second number a man with a very light accent said, “Mr. Duran’s residence.”
I said, “This is Elvis Cole, calling for Mr. Duran.”
The voice said pleasantly, “Mr. Duran is not available at present.”
“He’ll talk to me.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. Mr. Duran is entertaining guests, you see.”
“Tell him it’s Cole. Tell him I want to talk about the dope.”
The line went dead. I hung up. Pinocchio’s eyes tocked back and forth, the second hand swept his face. I picked up one of the Jiminy Crickets, inspected it, and blew off dust. I should dust more often. What had Jiminy Cricket said? “ Hey, enough’s enough! ” The phone rang.
“Cole.”
The Eskimo said, “You do not help yourself.”
“It’s been that kind of day. Let’s talk trade. I got the dope.”
“Be at the curb in front of your building in twenty minutes.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
He didn’t say anything.
“Just a joke,” I said.
Fifteen minutes later the limo pulled up and the rear door opened. I got in, and we pulled into the alley beside the building. Kato wasn’t driving. This was another guy, probably a machete killer specially imported from Brazil. The Eskimo said, “Where is it?”
“Are we going to fool around or are we going to do business?”
He looked at me without moving. I think he was chewing a piece of Dentyne. He nodded. “All right.”
“We pick a time and a place for the trade. I come alone, so do you. I give you the dope, you give me the boy.”
“All right.”
“Griffith Park,” I said. “Noon tomorrow, back by the tunnel. You drive up, I drive up. I bring out the dope, you bring out the kid. We swap, go back to our cars, that’s it.”
The driver was staring at me through the rearview. Maybe he had a gun in his lap. Maybe the Eskimo would suddenly yell Kill him! and the driver would open up through the seat. There are so many maybes in my life that they begin to lose all meaning. Maybe I should retire.
The Eskimo said, “There could be many people in the park.”
I made my eyes wide. “Garsh, I never thoughta that.” I do a pretty good Goofy.
He stared at me, nodded. “Bring the boy’s mother.”
“No.”
“I do not want to meet you for the exchange. Send the mother out with the cocaine. I’ll send the boy alone. She can leave the dope on the ground and bring her son back to you before I move forward for the dope.”
“No.”
“The boy’s hand is injured. He is frightened. Knowing the mother is there will calm him. If the child isn’t calm, it will not go well.”
“No.”
The Eskimo spread his hands. “Then we still have a problem. Perhaps you should keep the cocaine and we should keep the boy. Or perhaps we will simply come take the cocaine.”
“You’ll never find it.”
He was pressing hard for the mother. Maybe he wanted a family snapshot for his memory book. He spread his hands again and looked at me.
“All right,” I said. “Tomorrow noon. I send the mother. You send the kid. Back by the tunnel. You’re alone. I’m alone.”
“Yes.”
I got out of the limo, watched them pull away into traffic, then went in and down to my car.
Pike and Ellen were standing on the east side of my house when I pulled up. I got out of the car with the foil brick and walked around the front of the house toward them. Pike was saying, “You’re holding it too hard. Hold it firmly, but don’t clutch it. It won’t fly away from you.”
They were standing in the grass on the part of the hillside that tabled out and was flat before falling away. Ellen Lang was aiming a blued Ruger. 25 automatic at one of the two young gum trees that I’d planted there last year. Pike was standing to her right, adjusting her form with a touch here, a touch there. Her right arm held the gun out straight, her left bent slightly at the elbow so she could use her left hand to cup and brace her right. “Okay,” Pike said.
She exhaled, steadied, then there was a loud snap! Dry firing. Pike looked at me. “She’s pretty good. Her body’s quiet.”
“What does that mean?” Ellen said. When she wasn’t aiming the gun she cradled it in both hands against her stomach.
“It means your body damps your pulse and your muscles don’t quiver when you try to hold still. That’s natural. You can’t learn it.” Pike nodded his head at the foil brick. “Who had the dope?’ ”
Ellen’s eyes went to the brick as if Pike had just said, “ Who’s the Martian? ” She said, “Mort didn’t steal that?”
“No. Kimberly Marsh and her boyfriend stole it.”
“That woman had a boyfriend?”
“Yeah.”
“Someone besides Mort?”
“Yes.”
“Behind Mort’s back?”
I nodded.
Ellen pulled back the slide to cock the. 25, then aimed at the gum tree again. Snap!
Pike said, “You set it up with Duran?”
“The Eskimo. Noon tomorrow back by the tunnel at Griffith Park. Ellen brings the dope to the tunnel, puts it on the ground, then they send out Perry. She brings Perry back to me, the Eskimo goes out for the dope. End of deal.”