Fast Lane (25 page)

Using his thumb and forefinger on one hand and the middle finger of his other, he made an obscene gesture and then broke out laughing.

“
Why don’t you go bring her in?” he asked. “You can leave the two of us alone. Maybe she can satisfy my sweet tooth.”

I could still see him through the red haze. His dull fleshy face leering at me. Egging me on. Begging me for it. I took my gun out and showed it to him.

“
What’s going on?” he asked uneasily. He took a step away.

“
Shut up.” This time the words came out.

“
This isn’t funny.”

“
No?” I laughed. “I think it’s a gut buster. At least it’s going to be.”

“
You’re crazy—what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“
Me?” I shrugged. “Nothing. I’m not even here. What Mary’s going to do is another story. You two got into a little lover’s spat—over something stupid like what flavor horse manure you are. In a fit of disgust, she shot you dead.”

“
Are you nuts? You won’t get away with this.”

“
Why not?” I asked. “One of your neighbors will probably remember seeing Mary sitting in a car outside your house. And if she commits suicide later—over remorse for killing her lover—why would anyone argue with it? And hell, what else are the police going to think?”

“
My w-wife won’t believe—”

“
No? After sending her out of the house? Come on, she’ll know damn well you sent her out so you could screw Mary behind her back.”

I laughed—a long hard one—and it triggered something inside him. His mouth twisted and there it was, his soft whining look.

“
You dirty bastard.” The words exploded from him. “Stinking filthy motherscrew—”

I fired, hitting him below the hip. It spun him around like a top and he collapsed on all fours.

For a second, he seemed paralyzed. Then, still on his hands and knees, he tried crawling away. I took aim and fired again, clearing away any hemorrhoids he might’ve had. His knees gave way under him and he fell flat on his stomach.

He tilted his head to me. “Because,” I said. “Because the world’s just not fair. Because after all I’ve done for you, you had to thumb your nose at me—and think you were better than me. Because it was meant to be. It’s payback, and hell, who’s going to complain?”

My second shot must’ve caused some internal damage. His head rolled to the side and he lay limp on the carpeted floor. I stood frozen over him, my hands squeezed into fists. I wanted to tear him apart. I wanted to pull him up and slap him until he was raw and bloody. I wanted to rip his guts out and stomp them down his throat. I wanted to . . . .

I couldn’t do any of it. It had to look like a lover’s quarrel that turned tragic. A tiny thing like Mary couldn’t do the damage I wanted to do, and I knew if I started I wouldn’t be able to stop. I started sobbing because of the unfairness of it all.

I remembered my promise. The one about his neck. I wiped the tears away, and took a step back. I aimed the gun and fired, and his head swung sideways, resting at a funny angle—the type only a broken neck could explain. I turned out the lights before I left.

Mary was looking as if she’d seen a ghost. Her face was whiter than the half moon shining overhead and her eyes were blazing. I climbed in next to her.

“
It’s all taken care of,” I said. “I’m a hundred percent sure now.”

“
Johnny, what happened in there?”

“
What do you mean?”

“
I thought I heard noises. Like gun shots.”

I laughed. “The damn dope wouldn’t turn his television set off. He had some cop show on. But he gave me what I needed.”

“
Your eyes look red, as if you’ve been crying.”

I laughed again. “Allergies. I got a bad reaction to something in there.”

She took a deep breath and let it out through her nose. “I want to talk to him.”

I was speechless. All I could do was stare at her.

“
While I was waiting for you, I did a lot of thinking. I want to know why he tried to—did that to me. Could you go in with me?”

I couldn’t tell if she suspected something or if she genuinely wanted to talk to him. I shook my head. “No, baby. It’s a waste of time. Forget it.”

“
Well, anyway,” she mumbled. “I’ll be just a minute.” She started to get out of the car, and I reached for her and held her back.

“
You already know the answer, Mary. He’s a sick person. A cold, stinking son of a bitch. You won’t get anything out of talking to him. Let’s go do something positive. Let’s go see your daddy.”

She hesitated, studying me out of the corner of her eye.

I turned my smile up a notch. “He’s not worth the effort. Trust me.” She wavered a little, but sat back and turned the key in the ignition.

I held my breath, waiting to see if it would start. Praying it wouldn’t. Because if it didn’t, I would have to walk away. I would have no choice.

The engine revved right up.

She gave me a weak smile. “I trust you, Johnny.”

We drove for about an hour, with me giving directions. Along the way I told her about her parents. At least for the most part. I left out things she wouldn’t have understood, things that would’ve upset her. I didn’t tell her about Walt Murphy, or about my last visit with Rose. Or that I was her daddy.

After a while I saw what I was looking for. I asked her to pull over. She gave me a puzzled look but didn’t argue. As she was parking the car, I slipped my hand into my overcoat. “Darling,” I said softly, “I wish it didn’t have to be this way.” In the blink of an eye, the gun barrel was up against her temple, and then there was a dull pop—like a champagne cork being released. It all happened so fast, I almost didn’t realize it myself. I’m sure she never knew what hit her.

She was slumped over, her head resting against the door. I took out a handkerchief and wiped off the gun. Still holding the gun with the handkerchief, I pressed it into her right hand, and let it dangle from her fingertips. I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, and then got out of the car, wiping off any fingerprints I might’ve left.

When the cops found her, they’d have to rule it as a suicide, and when they matched up the gun with the one that killed Jerry Bry, it would all be explained.

I left the road, and walked behind the rock I had her pull up next to. I stood dazed for a second. There was no car behind it.

* * * * *

As I’d mentioned before, my night vision’s poor. I had her stop at the wrong place on the road. Once I realized that, I was okay. I walked— ran—up the road, and after about a mile, found the rock my car was behind.

When I drove down the mountain, my car’s headlights caught Mary’s Chevy, and for an instant, framed her slumped over on her side. She looked so peaceful, like an angel sleeping. It choked me up.

Chapter 28

The next night I had the same sort of dream as before, well similar anyway. I’m studying myself in the mirror again, and my poppa appears. He’s smiling, but it’s not any type of smile I’ve ever seen on him before. It’s filled with warmth.

“
I’m proud of you, son,” he says.

“
Thanks, Poppa.”

“
You did what you had to. You showed courage. I do love you, son. What I said the other day was to help give you strength fer what you needed to do. You understand that, don’t you?”

“
Yes, Poppa.”

“
But son,” and there was worry in his voice, “there’s still something that needs to be done. You know that, don’t you?”

“
I know, Poppa.”

“
You can’t afford any unfinished business. You’ve come too far fer that. Just one more thing to do and you’ll be safe.”

“
Don’t worry, Poppa. I’ll take care of it.”

“
I know you will, son. I am awfully proud of you, boy.”

* * * * *

I woke up wondering about my dream, wondering what it meant. I decided it didn’t mean anything. It was only my subconscious pointing out something I’d overlooked. And it was a good thing it did, because there was no reason to take chances. Not after all I’d done.

* * * * *

That morning I boarded a flight to Oklahoma City. It took time to rent a car and do all the driving I needed to do, but what I came for took less than a half hour. I was back at the airport within three hours, and back home by dinnertime.

Chapter 29

I woke up bright and early the next morning and headed to the Denver Bus Terminal. I found the locker that matched the key I got off Bert Debbles. Inside were newspaper clippings, a copy of a twenty-five-year-old warrant for my arrest and a handwritten letter from Debbles.

I was surprised at how well Debbles had done his homework. Most of the clippings were about my poppa’s death, but he also included one of my Denver Examiner columns. A couple of the clippings had a school photo taken of me when I was seventeen, looking all solemn and gloomy. Looking like someone who was going to be losing his poppa.

Debbles’ letter was scrawled in pencil and detailed his suspicions. I took all of it to the men’s room, set a match to it, and flushed the ashes down the toilet. After washing my hands, I headed back home.

Eddie Braggs was standing in front of my door scowling at the doorbell as he rang it. I parked my car across the street, and walking up behind him, clasped his shoulder.

“
They let you out of your cage?” I asked with a grin.

Without turning his head, he peered at me from the corners of his eyes. “You wouldn’t answer your phone,” he complained. “We need to talk.”

“
Yeah?” I asked. “What about?”

“
Why don’t we go inside?”

“
Sure,” I said. “Anything for an old buddy.”

I opened the door and followed him in. After sitting ourselves down his eyes compressed into narrow slits, sizing me up—weighing me on the Eddie Braggs’ scale of guilt. I leaned back in my chair and stretched lazily—the way anyone in my position would—a man without a worry in the world.

I said, “This is a first, having you weight-test my furniture. What’s the special occasion?”

“
You knew a Margo Halloran?”

I nodded. “I heard about it on the radio. It’s a shame.”

“
How well did you know her?”

“
To be honest,” I said, “only in the biblical sense. She picked me up at a bar a few weeks ago and we ended up going off to Mexico together. What a disaster!” I whistled, shaking my head. “I don’t want to talk ill of the dead, but we didn’t have the relaxing trip I’d hoped for. I ended up having to ditch her.”

That took him by surprise. His head jerked up and his eyes opened to their normal shape. “I know,” he admitted, “her mother called the paper and gave us the story.”

“
After what happened to her, I feel bad about ditching her.” I let my face fall into a somber frown. “But I just didn’t have any choice. I like a stiff drink as much as the next guy, but I guess she liked it more than the next guy and the guy after him. When we got to Mexico she started going through a bottle a day.”

“
That’s why you ditched her?”

“
No sir.” I shook my head. “I would’ve put up with that, but when she started bed hopping I had to leave.”

With a snort, Eddie’s scowl disappeared. “When her mother called and told us about how you stranded her daughter in Mexico it gave me a hunch you were involved with her murder.”

“
Is that so?”

“
Yeah. I don’t know, none of it makes any sense. What the hell was she doing in that room?”

I shrugged.

“
And how the hell did you get those scratches?”

“
You like them? Almost healed now. I got them working on a missing persons case, and that was before I left for Mexico—you can check over at the Denver airport if you want. The ticket agent recognized me and asked questions about them—I’m sure she’d remember.”

“
Never mind.” He waved it away. “I can see they’re a few weeks old. This murder is bugging the hell out of me. There’s something awful damn funny about it. Johnny, I’ve been in this business over twenty-five years and I’ve never seen anything so vicious.”

“
Yeah,” I said. “Your paper reported she was beaten pretty bad.”

“
That’s not even the half of it. If we printed what really happened, no one would believe it. And if we printed pictures, half this city would be retching their stomachs out. Here, take a look at these.”

He took an envelope from his overcoat, slid from it a stack of photographs and handed them to me. As I looked at them my knees went weak. “Oh God,” I murmured.

“
That’s right,” he said sourly. “Whoever did that enjoyed it. I want to get the bastard. I want to get him more than I ever wanted to do anything.”

“
You thought I could’ve done this?”

“
I don’t know what I thought. I guess I got a little concerned after hearing about your trip to Mexico. And”—he waggled a finger at me— “I don’t think you can blame me. What the hell was she doing in that room?”

One of the pictures was of her while she was still among the living. In it, she’s giving her easy relaxed smile. She’s standing with her shoulders thrown back, and with the sweater she was wearing, she looked like she was about to bust right out of it. It did something to me seeing that picture. Stirred something deep inside. “She was sure something,” I said. “Mind if I keep this one?”