Kill Me Tomorrow (27 page)

I was able actually to
feel
—or at least remember feeling—the hands on me; being lifted, flung like a sack of cement over a big shoulder; movement, to the car, thud and clunk as I was tossed—not gently and reverently placed—onto the carpeted floorboards.

Soft purr of the engine, idling. Sounds of others getting into the car. A minute passed, another. Feet on pavement, a man climbing into the front of the car, door slamming.

The new voice, Fleepo: “Well?”

And Ace saying, “Yeah.”

Fleepo, “Well?”

Ace, “Yeah.”

“Do we sit here sayin' well-yeah, well-yeah all night? What's this well-yeah crap anyways, some kind of code?”

Ace, up front, “Drag ass, Lucky. I had to make a phone call.”

Louder sound of the engine, surge of movement. “What the hell for, at a time like—”

“Chop it. I had to tell Letch and the rest no sweat, we got him and all the … We didn't have no trouble.”

Screech of tires, the car swaying and straightening out. After a few seconds, close by, in the back seat near me, Fleepo, “Hey, Bludgett, they tell me on the phone you say Scott knows where Reyes and Jenkins are planted? There on the golf course?”

“Yah.”

“How'd he find out that?”

“Beats the beans outa me.”

Silence. Fleepo again. “Be goddamn funny as hell if he found it out out of you. Goddamn, Ace and me wouldn't never—”

“You wanna tap, too, Fleepo? I'm the one phoned you bums and tole you where he was at, ain't I? I'm the one hangs around and sees him go in his room, ain't I? You wouldn't even
have
him if it wasn't for me—”

“Don't get riled up.
Haysoos Creesto
, all I do is ask a plain question. All I wonder, how in hell he finds out all these things.”

“He's got ways,” Bludgett said.

Silence for a while, then Bludgett again, “What do you think, Ace, that tape you got outa Scott's pocket—it the one he played there in front of The Letch plus all them square dudes?”

“Don't worry about it, for crissakes. Let them worry about it.”

Lucky, at the wheel, “What tape's this? Scott played a tape somewheres?”

“Forget it. It's not important.”

“Well, where was that at? How come I didn't hear nothing about it?”

“Chop it, Lucky, it's not important. And easy on the gas. Real easy. We get a ticket with Scott laying on the floor, we'll have to do more'n tear up a ticket. We'd have to shoot us a cop.”

“So why don't we just blast the sonofabitch now and roll him outa the car?”

“No, we're gonna leave him laying closer to the Villas.”

“What for? That don't make sense.”

“Because Letch
says
do it there, that's what for. They got it all figured. Weeton's the one planned it out. You got to admit he's pretty sharp, right, Lucky?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Reason it's gonna be at the Villas, it'll be fixed so nobody finds Scott for a coupla days, won't be no way to tell exactly when he got killed. It'll look like he could've got it last night, when he was banging away at Frankenstein and Bludgett here.”

“I tole you, call him Frankie.”

“Yeah, I meant Frankie. Sorry, Bludgett. Didn't mean no harm, just slipped my mind.”

“Seems like you don't mean no harm all the time.”

“C'mon, Ace, you were saying what about leavin' Scott around the Villas someplace?”

“Well, you know Weeton's getting a warrant ready on Scott, for killing Frankenst—Frankie. Bullet he took out of Frankie's noodle come all to hell apart when it went in there, but Weeton says he can manage it so it'll look like it's the same as the four he took outa The Nailer. It'll look like Scott was shootin' everybody in range. Hell, that's for the science bugs to figure. There ain't no doubt Scott killed Nailer, and we know he knocked over Frankie. So all we're doin' is plugging a guy already wanted for murder—who in fact is already dead when we plug him. What could be more perfect?”

“Slow down on that. He's already dead? He's layin' there right behind us still breathin'—”

“Lucky, it's a goddamn good thing there is guys like Weeton and Letch and Holyjoe to do the thinking. You—you and me, we'd leave it with lost ends. We kill him tonight. But it's arranged so everybody thinks he got chilled
last
night. By
Frankenstein
—”

“I
tole—
”

“Frankie. It looks like
Frankie
killed him
last
night. That's all I meant by he's already dead when we plug him—forget it. Everything's set. You been itching to plug Scott. So, OK, plug him good. Only you don't use your heat.”

“I don't? What the hell do I use? I grab his neck—”

“You use this, buddy. Here. And
don't
bang Scott in the head. Put three-four in his
guts
, so it looks like he could've lived long enough at least to hit Frankie.”

“Hell, this is a .45, same as mine. I'd rather use one I'm friends with—”

“Will you use your head, Lucky? You want the fuzz to figure out the slugs come from your gun—like they figured it was Scott's gun put the pills in Nailer and Frankie—and send you up to the slammer again?”

“No …”

“OK. So you use this one. It's Frankie's. You know he carried a .45, don't you?”

“Yeah. But it don't quite figure …”

“Will you listen? I told you this was all planned out by Lecci and Weeton. Using Frankie's gun you poop Scott. Already in Frankie—and The Nailer—is pills from Scott's gun, which Weeton by now took from out of them. We leave Scott pretty near where we dumped Frankie last night. By the time they find Scott he'll be startin' to get mold on him, and it'll look like Frankie drilled him and Scott lived long enough to bang him with a lucky one in the noodle. They kill
each other
. Christ, don't you get it yet?”

“I guess … They sure make killin' a guy complicated, don't they?”

“That's so there ain't no stink. It's open-and-close-it, like they say, no lost ends. You get the kick of doing it, but there's no way to tie you in.
No way
. See?”

“Yeah. Yeah, now I get it. Goddamn smart, now it makes sense.”

Tires hummed on pavement, the car swayed as it went around a curve. After a short silence the rumbling voice of Bludgett, “I been thinkin'. Supposin' the fuzz don't buy it, about Frankie done it to Scott. And it's like … like we heard, if they figure it's a bang-job, them L.A. fuzz could heat it up
plenty
—”

“Bludgett, will you for crissakes quit your worrying? Few minutes it'll be all over.”

“Yeah. You're right enough on that. Maybe—well, it don't seem natural, I know it don't but I almost wisht we didn't have to bump the sonofabitch.”

“You outa your
mind
—”

“I mean, he ain‘t such a bad guy, once you get to know him a little, considering he's the kind of bastard he is. I'd like to
bounce
him again, I'd like to beat the crud outa him. But—well, I won't make no bones on it, I'm glad it ain't me gonna drill him. I mean, him just layin' there, and all.”

“You
are
outa your conk. And don't worry about no heat, either. So what if there is some for a few days? There's enough grub and booze we could hole up six months and never stick our heads from out of the place. Grub and booze—and
babe
. How about that, boys? Think on
that
for the minute. Once Scott's chilled for good, we knock off the babe—Christ, seems a waste killing such a sweet looker, don't it?”

“I been thinkin' on that myself.” It was Lucky Ryan, but his voice was different. “I been thinkin' a lot on that. Long as Letch says kill her, he can't hardly give much mind to how we do it. Or what we do
before
we do it.”

Ace, laughing, “I had the same exact thing in mind, Lucky. But you can take what they call the first honors, buddy. One thing, even if she yells a little, nobody'll hear her. And we sure don't have no worries of being interrupted, not where she's at.”

“Sometimes, is better when they do yell some.” That was Fleepo's voice again. “Some at first, I mean.”

Lucky again, “Would you of believed it a couple days ago? A hot-looking movie star like her? A real movie star? Man, talk about gettin'
lucky
.”

“I don't think you ought to do nothin' like that.” That was the rumbling voice of Bludgett.

“Come off it. What difference if she's gonna be hit in the head right after?”

“It just don't seem right. I don't like it. I can understand she's got to be kilt. But, that other—well, you shouldn't do it.”

The hard, flat voice, the voice with muscles. “Quit worrying about every goddamn thing, Bludgett. You can stay outside in the yard. Play pattycake with Davey, take Lecci's pulse—yeah, bring Letch his medicine. You can skip the party. Do anything you want, pray with Holyjoe if you feel like it. Just leave
us
have a little fun, OK?”

No more conversation for a few seconds, then, “Don't go back on them first honors, Ace. I'd give you a little trouble, come to that. Now I been thinkin' more about it.”

“She's all yours, Lucky, buddy. Relax. She's not going anywheres.”

“Yeah, OK. Man, more I think about it, more I'm ready to go! Yeah, I
mean!
Only thing would keep me from that sweet-built babe now is if I was dead.”

Silence.

Silence until Fleepo said, “About here, Ace? What you think?”

“Yeah.”

Right then, a strange, never-before-experienced moment or series of moments for me. For me, sitting in Paul's room listening, and remembering. Because it was at that point—two hours ago in time—that I had begun regaining consciousness.

In a crazy way it was almost as if I were three people, or there were three compartments in me, each a little different from the others. I was the man sitting here now who knew the before and the then and the after-then; and the man to whom it had happened then and who had forgotten it; and the man
then
, coming out of nothingness without memory of the before, without memory of anything at that moment, merely a man becoming aware of sensations returning, the beginning of pain, of hearing, of consciousness, almost like a man being born out of a void into life, the beginning of life again.

Yes, a man being born again into life—just when those dandies decided they'd reached a fine place for killing me.

“OK, Lucky, pull over here. What are we, six, seven miles outa town? Good enough. Haul him out, Bludgett.”

Lucky said, “Why here? Why don't we wait till we're where we're gonna leave him?”

“Too close to houses and that. Nobody'll hear it where we're at now. Get it done, then we lug him there and dump him.”

Bludgett's hands on me, lifting, movement. Other movement around me. And Lucky saying in an odd voice, “What's that little popgun you got, Ace? Little snub—funny. Looks a helluva lot like Scott's heater.”

“Are you outa your conk? Come on, for crissakes, get the job done. You keep messing around we'll have to tap Scott on the nut again.”

I was dumped on the ground—plenty of feeling in me by then. I lay still, getting ready. Maybe there wouldn't be a chance to run, maybe when and if I tried I wouldn't be able to run. But I lay still, waiting.

And Lucky was saying, “Sure a bunch of funny crap about guns tonight. Me with Frankenstein's—”

“Frankie
, goddammit, I tole you guys a hunderd times—”

“Lemme see that little heat, Ace. Scott carries a two-inch Special, and I'm goddamned if that don't look—”

“You miserable fleeper, you want some hick to come along and pop his goddamn glims at us while we're all standing around—”

“I said
lemme see
it. It's funny, me with
Frankenstein's—”

“
Frankie
. Goddammit,
Frankie
. Do I got to—”

And then I was moving, trying to get up, scrambling, making it, starting to run. Slipping—aware finally of rain, of mud beneath my feet. Behind me, close behind me, shouts, swearing, a lot of four-letter words—and one gunshot. One, then what sounded like half a dozen all at once.

There were two or three more shots—but I just kept running. A long way, it seemed. Running, slipping and stumbling, falling. Finally falling and staying down. Then that confused sense of the flood falling in sheets of thunder … and the blackness like cold napalm.…

I sat and thought for a while.

There were a couple of minutes when, adding together all I knew—knew for sure—plus what I'd guessed, I thought I had enough fact and solid evidence, not to mention sensible deduction, to clap half the hoods in Arizona into the pokey. I should have known better than to feel like that, even for a couple of minutes.

“Do you have a pain somewhere?” Paul asked me.

“Sort of. I was just thinking of what I
know
about those bums, and I was preparing to cast them all into dungeons.”

“So?”

“So consider my evidence.” I pointed to Paul's tape recorder. “Plenty of good stuff there. Shell Scott spilling the real inside dope about local—maybe national—crime, right? Wrong. I could be reading
Alice in Wonderland
—it's nothing but
my
voice. The keen stuff I got from Bludgett? Coercion, torture, false confession extracted from quailing victim—besides which, it is merely in my
head
, which Bludgett failed to sign, thus it would be my word against his. Not to mention the fact that I failed to advise him of his rights and have an attorney in attendance. DiGiorno is Lecci? So? Can't do anything until I can
prove
he's committed a specific crime, and he's merely a
mafiosi
multiple murderer. Add all of it up, Paul, and what have I got?”