Body Rides (70 page)

He considered taking a quick look around.

Don’t, he warned himself. Just grab it and go.

He left the pistol in his pocket, twisted sideways a bit, reached down through the hole and clutched the crumpled paper top.

He lifted the bag.

It felt nice and heavy.

My God, what if there IS money in here?

He wanted to take a look, but fought against the impulse.

Just get out of here. Get back to the gals
.

No. No. I’d better check. What if it’s something dangerous? Maybe Vince put a bomb inside. Or rattlesnakes
.

Neal suddenly wasn’t so sure that he wanted to open it.

Taking a step backward away from the garbage barrel, he jostled the bag. It seemed to have about the same feel as the bag of money he’d taken from Vince’s house.

He set it at his feet, crouched down, and unrolled the crumpled top. He leaned away so his face wouldn’t be directly above the opening. Then, with both hands, he spread the edges.

Nothing sprang out.

Easing forward, he gazed inside.

Slam the Big Door
.

By John D. MacDonald.

The Killer Inside Me
.

By Jim Thompson.

My Gun is Quick
.

Mickey Spillane.

He reached into the bag and pushed some of the top books aside to see more.

His Name was Death

Fredric Brown.

The Long Goodbye
.

Raymond Chandler.

And more. Many, many more old paperbacks. Rummaging through the bag, Neal figured that twenty or thirty of them had been thrown in.

To give it the proper heft. To trick Glitt. And maybe to give Vince a smirk by paying Glitt off with tales of treachery and murder.

Must’ve been Elise’s books, Neal thought.

Whoever had put together such a collection in the first place was not a person who would use the books this way.

I never knew she was into this stuff
.

Hell, I never knew much of anything about her
.

And now the bastard’s ripping off her library
. . .

A car honked. Not a loud, urgent blast, just a beep – like a stealthy warning. Neal knew that it must’ve come from the Jeep. He looked back, but couldn’t see it. A car was on the road, in the way, blocking the Jeep from his view.

It looked like it might be a white Subaru.

Can’t be Glitt, Neal thought.

Why not?

The car turned onto the parking lot and came forward.

Just somebody bringing back a video or two. Has to be. Because it CAN’T be Glitt showing up now while I’m right here squatting over his bag. CAN’T BE! Not even CLOSE to two o’clock yet. He wouldn’t come this early. He CAN’T be showing up while I’m right here. No way!

But a different part of Neal’s mind was certain that this was Glitt, indeed, showing up not only early but at almost the worst of all possible times. Blowing everything.

It figures, he thought.

Then he told himself that nothing was blown. Not yet.

As Neal stood up and turned to face the car, its headlights swung toward him.

They stayed on him, white and glaring, while the car rolled closer.

It stopped at an angle, several yards away, its lights still fixed on Neal.

The driver’s door opened and Glitt stepped out.

Rasputin.

Even with the top of his head wrapped in a white bandage, he looked like the mad monk. His eyes glared at Neal from the caverns of their sockets. His face was dead white, but little of it showed. Most was hidden under his wild growth of beard.

He wore his usual outfit: long-sleeved black shirt, black leather trousers and black boots. At his left hip was a large, stag-handled knife in a black leather sheath.

His gloves were missing. His hands were empty.

He showed his teeth through a hole in his beard.

‘Where’d you get the bag?’ he asked.

‘In the trash. Somebody threw it away.’

‘It’s mine.’

‘Finders keepers,’ Neal told him. And slipped his right hand casually into the pocket of his shorts. And wrapped his fingers around the grips of his .380 pistol.

Glitt shook his head. ‘It was left here for me.’

‘What makes you think so?’

‘I watched the man deliver it. He’s an associate of mine.’

Neal stomped on the bag, crushing down its top against the books piled inside. He kept his foot on it. ‘Tell me what’s inside.’

‘You know what.’

‘But do you? Identify your property, and I’ll let you have it.’

‘Sure you will.’

‘What are you expecting?’

‘Money,’ Glitt whispered. ‘Lots of money.’

‘Wrong. It’s full of books.’

‘Liar.’

‘Good ones, too.’ Neal tried to grin. ‘If you were expecting money, mister, you got cheated.’

Glitt lurched forward, stiff and grimacing.

‘See for yourself,’ Neal said, backing off.

Glitt dropped to his knees and tore open the bag. The brown paper split and gaped, exposing the paperbacks. Some of them spilled out. Glitt gazed down at them.

‘
FUCK!
’ he bellowed.

‘If you don’t want them, I’ll take them.’

As if he couldn’t believe the money wasn’t there, Glitt shoved the books with both hands, dug through them, spread them until he’d exposed the bottom of the bag.

Then he tilted back his head as if to howl at the full moon, and cried out, ‘
THAT FUCKING COCKSUCKER, I’LL KILLLL HIM!
’

‘That sounds a bit drastic,’ Neal said.

Incredible, he thought. It’s gonna work.

Groaning, Glitt struggled to stand up.

‘Can I have the books?’ Neal asked.

‘Fuck you,’ Glitt said.

And started to turn around.

Neal noticed the distant
boom boom buh-boom boom
of a loud car radio off in the distance, over on Venice Boulevard, probably . . . and suddenly a quick
bam-bam-bam-bam-bam
that sounded a lot like rapid gunfire.

Glitt dived to the pavement.

He thinks someone’s firing at us?

Neal looked out across the parking lot and saw, sure enough, a car rolling by on Venice Boulevard with the front and back windows down with guys leaning out. Guys with dark guns going
bam-bam-bam
, muzzles flashing.

What the hell they got there, Uzis? AK-47s?

Looks like a pack of fucking gang-bangers
.

Looks like a bad movie
.

He supposed that Vince must’ve sent them to gun down Glitt. Not a bad idea. Smart man.

I’m here, too! They’re shooting at ME!

Neal wished he’d been as quick as Glitt to dive for cover.

Something zipped past his face.

Shit!

He jerked the Sig out of his pocket. Sidestepping, he pointed at the car and started to pull his trigger. The pistol bucked, blasting out fire and slugs.

Screw this, he thought. I oughta hit the deck . . . dive behind the trash can . . .

Bullets whacked him in the chest, pounded across him, knocked him backward. He tried to stay on his feet. Then he was falling into the store through an avalanche of shattered glass.

They watched from the Jeep.

When the slugs smacked a line of dots across Neal’s bare chest, he looked as if he’d been struck by a burst of wind. His hair blew. His cheeks shook. He flung out his arms, threw his pistol away, and stumbled backward. Behind him, the plate-glass window was breaking apart and falling even before he stumbled through it.

Sue shrieked, ‘
NO!
’

She flung open her door, but Marta grabbed her hard by the upper arm. ‘Don’t!’

‘I’ve gotta . . .!’

But Sue’s voice stopped and they both gaped at the car of the gunmen. It was leaping the curb at the edge of Venice Boulevard.

‘Yes’ Marta cried out. ‘Go!’

She could see the vague shape of a man in the right rear window of the airborne car. But nobody at the window in front of him.

Nobody at all seemed to be in the front seats!

No passenger, no driver.

Neal got them?

The car smashed down, bounced and wobbled on its tires, then roared straight for Burger Boy.

‘Go!’ Sue yelled.

It crashed into the front wall. Burger Boy windows exploded. The wall crumpled. The car stopped with a shock. A body came up out of the passenger seat. Its head and shoulders punched through the windshield and stayed there.

‘He got ’em!’ Marta yelled, but could barely hear her own words through Sue’s wild, strange scream of agony and glee.

She wiped tears from her eyes. As she reached for the ignition key, the white Subaru suddenly lurched forward. Its driver – who
had
to be Glitt – must’ve survived the storm of gunfire.

Of course he made it through, Marta thought. Rasputin always makes it through.

Not always
.

The white car squealed through a tight turn and raced across the parking lot, heading for Venice Boulevard.

Marta started the Jeep.

Glitt’s car hopped off the curb, skidded for a moment, then sped west on Venice.

Marta steered across the road and entered the parking lot.

A
whump!
like a muffled explosion pulled her eyes to the Burger Boy.

The car of the gunmen was wrapped in fire. The body stuck in its windshield didn’t try to get out. Nobody did. But someone in the back seat seemed to turn very slowly, gaze out through the flames at Marta and Sue, and raise an arm as if asking for help – or waving goodbye.

‘
Adios
, fucker,’ Marta muttered.

Then she veered toward the shattered front window of Video City.

Saw Neal sprawled on his back inside the store.

And felt as if a thug was stomping on her heart.

‘
NEAL!
’ Sue cried out.

He lay motionless on a bed of shattered glass.

Don’t do this to us, Marta thought. Move. Get up. At least for godsake raise your head. Show us you’re okay.

But she knew that Neal was not okay. He didn’t move at all. He looked as if he’d been hosed with blood.

The Jeep was still rolling when Sue leaped out and ran for Neal. Marta had to wait. She had to stop the Jeep, make sure it wouldn’t get away . . .

She shut off the engine, jerked up on the emergency brake lever and climbed out. Sue was already squatting by Neal’s left side, pulling at one of his arms. ‘C’mon, honey,’ she gasped. ‘Ya gotta get up. Yer gonna be okay.’

His head wobbled, and Marta thought that he was responding.

But maybe the wobble was only because of Sue tugging his arm.

She hurried to his other side.

The glass clinked and clattered under her bare feet, and cut her.
She knew she was being cut. She didn’t care. Standing over Neal, she gazed down at the bullet holes.

Seven or eight of them.

Pulpy, raw-edged craters brimming with blood.