"You got it." Shorty McFadden stood up and sauntered through the crowd, shaking hands. Then he climbed onto the stage, picked up his saxophone, and tested the mouthpiece. He nodded at the bass man and began to blow.
After the first tune, Carr and Kelly finished their drinks and slipped out the back door. Thick fog had rolled in. They climbed into the G-car. Kelly turned on the headlights and started the engine. He drove down an alley lined with trashcans and through a service-station lot. A pickup truck behind them took the same route. Kelly turned north on the Pacific Coast Highway and stepped on the gas. A few blocks later he made a right turn onto a residential street. The pickup truck did the same.
"Somebody's on our ass," Kelly said.
"I see him," Carr said. The truck pulled up within a few feet of their rear bumper. The headlights blinked on and off.
"This is as good a place as any," Carr said, as he dug around in the glove compartment. Having found a flashlight, he reached for his gun.
Kelly slowed down and pulled over to the curb. He yanked his revolver out. The pickup stopped a car-length or so behind them and the headlights went out. In the gray illumination of a lone streetlight, he saw the figure of a man with long black hair exit the truck. Slowly, the man headed for the passenger side of the sedan.
"Now!" Carr said. The Treasury men swung open the doors of the car and jumped out, pistols drawn.
The man raised his hands. "It's me, Frank Garcia!" he said, his hands reaching higher. "Easy does it."
Carr shone the flashlight in Garcia's face. The T-men put their guns away.
Garcia lowered his hands. "I saw you coming out the back door at Shorty's," he said as he walked closer. "We've had him under surveillance for a week."
"What's he in to?" Carr said.
"He's the Mr. Big in a five-pound white heroin deal," Garcia said. He had a barrio accent. "Delivery is expected any day."
"You must have the wrong guy," Carr said, smiling. "Shorty just told us he's finally cleaned up his act."
"He's cleaned up all right," Garcia said. "I've made two buys from him and three from his bitch within the last week. They're dealing China white out of the place like they had a license. The load he's waiting for is one he financed himself. He made a down payment on a fishing boat and hired a couple of stooges to make a round trip to Acapulco. They're on their way back right now. As soon as the heroin is delivered, we're going to take him and his old lady off. I figured you might want to know."
"Thanks for the tip," Carr said.
"See you down at Ling's," Garcia said. He trotted back to the pickup truck, climbed in, and used the microphone. As he drove off, he gave a wave.
"Maybe you should have requested Shorty to play 'Goodnight Irene,' " Kelly said. They both laughed.
Chapter 7
It was almost 2:00 A.M.
Charles Carr drove out of Chinatown onto the Santa Monica freeway heading toward his apartment. He was full of booze, chicken-roll hors d'oeuvres, and cop talk. Stopping off at Sally Malone's was something he hadn't consciously planned on doing; maybe it was the liquor or the empty morning streets or the tepid Santa Ana wind swirling in the open windows that brought him there.
Having parked the car, he shuffled up the steps to her apartment. He knocked gently on the door, waited awhile, and knocked again.
"Who is it?" Sally said.
Suddenly Carr wished he hadn't come. Could he just trot down the steps and drive off? Sally Malone opened the door a few inches. "Charlie!" She turned on the light in the apartment.
"I've had a few drinks," he said. "I didn't realize it was so late." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized how utterly lame they sounded.
Sally stepped back from the door. "Come on in before you wake up my gossipy neighbors," she whispered. She was wearing a terrycloth bathrobe that stopped way above her knees. Since he'd last seen her she had cut her chestnut hair into a stylish curly shag. The change made her look younger than her forty years.
He walked in and Sally closed the door behind him. "Well," she said, going to the stove and lighting a burner under a coffeepot.
He followed her into the kitchen. Like the rest of the well-furnished apartment, it was immaculate. "I'd just as soon have a beer if you don't mind," he said.
She shook the coffeepot and set it down. "Nice of you to find the time to stop by," she said.
He stared at the kitchen floor for a moment. Sally Malone didn't look up from the stove. Carr opened the refrigerator door and took out a beer. Avoiding eye contact, she grabbed a bottle opener off the counter and handed it to him. He popped the cap. "I've been busy since I got back … been meaning to give you a ring."
They both watched the fire under the coffeepot for a moment. "All moved in to your apartment?" she said.
"Right," he said. "Same building as before. I guess I'm a creature of habit."
She picked up the coffeepot and poured. "I'm not," she said without any hint of a smile. "My life has changed since you were transferred. I'm into lots of new and interesting things; lots of meetings. I'm active in a jogging club, a women's rights group, the steno association…nothing you'd be interested in, of course, but I'm busier than I ever have been in my life. It's satisfying. I've found that I thrive on activity."
"How's the activity at the FBI?" Carr said. He swigged his beer.
After a long silence, Sally spoke to the stove. "I went out with Tom Luegner a few times, if that's what you're referring to," she said. "He's a complete jerk. All he does is talk about his silver fifty-coats-of-lacquer Corvette, or his precious informants, whom he refers to mysteriously as 'Alpha one twenty-three' or 'Delta sixty-seven.' As if I really cared. He lives a big FBI-top-secret act to impress everyone."
Almost gently, Carr put the beer down on the sink. "I'd better go," he said, running his hands through his hair. "It's three in the morning and I've been drinking. I'm out of line sliding over here uninvited, and it's none of my business who you go out with. Let's just say I dropped over to say hello to an old pal." His hand touched her cheek softly. She threw her arms around him. They hugged, and Sally pressed her head to his chest.
"I'm going to go," Carr said.
"I've missed you so much," Sally said. "I waited for you to call me."
"Ah, I don't I Ike to talk on the phone," Carr said. Another lame remark.
Sally spoke with her head still buried in his chest. "You're going to stay here tonight and we're going to make love until we"-she giggled-"break into a sweat, as you used to call it." She threw her head back and looked him in the eye. "Do you remember the time you said that to me?" She put her head back on his chest before he had to answer. "It was our first weekend together. I still remember. It was almost nine years ago."
In the bedroom they helped each other undress. "If we use each other, then so be it," she said. They took turns making love to one another. Their bodies meshed and twisted, and Carr felt her familiar smooth thighs under, on top, and around him. Their kisses became bites. Finally they rested.
At daybreak Carr woke up and crawled out of bed. In the semidarkness he found his clothes and dressed. Sally stirred.
Carrying his shoes, Carr tiptoed out the bedroom door. As he closed it, he thought he heard Sally say "Bastard!"
Paul LaMonica tapped the accelerator and inched forward in a snake of cars. To his right was a large green sign: YOU ARE LEAVING THE UNITED STATES. He rolled down the window of the rented sedan and let in a swirling breeze that Mexicans would recognize as a portent of a Baja rainstorm. A San Diego police van sat parked next to the sign, rear doors open and waiting. The crew-cut prisoners huddled inside looked like sailors on leave.