Lalla Bains 02 - A Dead Red Heart (13 page)

I slanted him a doubtful look.

He returned it with a hopeful grin.

"Why do you keep hitting on women who are totally uninterested?"

He shrugged. "It's just a game. You know, one out of twenty?"

"One out of twenty what—dates?"

He smirked. "Who said anything about dating?"

"Not even dinner or flowers?"

"Why go to all that expense? Dinner, flowers, a long night of shoving some skank around the dance floor, and for what—they either go to bed with you at the end of the night, or they don't."

"I knew I could depend on you to gross me out."

He chuckled. "Glad to see I didn't let you down. Now that you know all my secrets, you think we can be friends?"

I glared at his offer of a friendly handshake, suspicious that he might have one of those joke buzzers hiding in his palm.

But out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone shuffling towards us. The shabby hooded sweatshirt hid his face, but as he came closer to the car I got the distinct feeling that I should know him.

That walk—high school? Not everyone who was in my class made it in the real world.

Del put his cardboard coffee cup on the dashboard and hopped out of the car.

I got out, but a little slower, pulling my legs up to my chest, then angling them over the doorframe, and finally out onto the pavement. I vowed to take a taxi back to the AM/PM where I'd left the Caddy.

I followed Del to where the man had backed into the shadows, waiting.

When he asked Del for cigarettes, Del turned to me. "You got any smokes on you, Lalla?"

"I quit, remember?"

The man mumbled something, and hunched further into his dirty hooded sweatshirt.

That voice. Where had I heard it? "Do I know you?"

He pulled off the hood, and a rank body odor came with it. Under the harsh light of the street lamp, the planes of his face were bony, his eyes shadowed into deep sockets.

"I guess you do, Lalla Bains, and don't you look sweet. Smell sweet, too. Bet you've had a nice bed to sleep in and a nice shower anytime you want it."

It was Brad, the pilot I'd fired last year for doing drugs. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. I wouldn't feel sorry for him. I'd paid for two stays at rehab, and it wasn't my fault he couldn't make it stick.

"What do you want, Brad?"

"It's what you want, isn't it? Rich bitch like you wouldn't understand about giving a guy a second chance, would you? I'm blacklisted, lost my ticket as a journeyman ag-pilot, and now I can't get a seat anywhere, thanks to you. Way I see it, you owe me, but to prove I'm such a nice guy, I'm here to give you what you need to clear your lily-white name."

I bristled at Brad's remarks, though I shouldn't have expected him to be anything else except the self-centered drug addicted bum he'd become. His hard won career as a crop-duster was finished for good, and he had no one to blame but himself.

Del stood slightly apart, aloof and observant, the quintessential newsman waiting for the drama to unfold. Gone was the silly jokester, the gnome-sized Elvis. If this guy decided to pull out a knife and gut me, Del would probably report on the way my blood ran down to the pavement, then snap the whole scene as I dropped dead on the ground.

I looked back at Brad nervously bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.

"And you expect me to pay for the information, I suppose."

"Like I told you, you owe me. I need—" he licked at his dry, cracked lips then sneered at the spark of pity in my eyes. "I need enough to get out of this crap-hole town. A lot of money, and you're going to give it to me."

Brad was like every other junkie, only as good as the head rush of dope as it hit the system. About now, he was two hours into the jimmies, and his bag of wet nerves was already beginning to show.

He snapped dirty fingers to get my attention. "I could use a smoke. You got some on you, I know you do."

"Gimme a minute," I said, digging into the bottom of my purse.

I passed the wrinkled pack over to Brad and answered Del's smirk. "They're old, stale, and only to be opened in case of an emergency."

Brad took a deep drag, gave it a disappointed look and huffed out the smoke, his jerky motions temporarily exchanged for the weak drug of the cigarette. He took one more drag and glared at me. "Now, about that money…."

Del and I looked at each other. Where I might question Del's interest in anything other than a story, we both agreed Brad's swagger was going to last for only another couple of minutes, then the dope monster would reach up and grab him by the throat. We needed him to tell us what he knew, and now, before he disappeared again. I opened my purse, took out my wallet, and held up four twenties.

He took another deep drag then flicked a disdainful glance at the bills in my hand. "For what I got to tell, you're gonna have to come up with a lot more than eighty bucks."

"It's all you're getting from me, Brad." I held up the twenties and fanned them out so he could see the bills. "So, tell us what you know, or get lost. Your call."

He swallowed, took another shaky tug on the cigarette, bit at his lip,and then nodded at the money. "I'll tell you one thing for the twenties in your hand. But after you hear what I got to say, you're gonna be happy to give me what I want."

I was beginning to lose patience. "Why don't you just tell it to the cops?"

His hateful grin was wide enough for me to see brown stumps for teeth, and his breath was as foul as his next words.

"They're working their way through the whole damn bunch of us. Cops stick together. You oughta know that, Lalla Bains, you're sleeping with one. If one of those bums can think long enough to remember where I was that night, they'll turn me in for a dime bag of coke the cops use to keep us in line, and that'll be the end of me. So, tomorrow night, bring me ten, no, make it a hundred grand, and I'll tell you the name of the cop who killed Billy Wayne. It's a cop that did it, Lalla, and when I tell who it is, you're going to beg to pay up so I'll leave town."

Then he reached out and snapped the bills from my limp hand.

Brad turned to run, but Del grabbed him by the back of his grimy sweatshirt.

"Who? Tell me, you slug!"

Though Del was a good foot shorter, he still had Brad by thirty pounds.

Brad wobbled, then executing a quick pirouette, he let the sweatshirt peel off with a twirl. With the sweatshirt off, I could see rail-thin ribs that were bruised, and scabbed.

Brad saw the shock on my face, and his laugh was high and mean. Then he took off, jogging down the street, looking over his back to grin at us. I stood transfixed to the spot, shocked at the blow. He was suggesting that Caleb was involved.

I looked at Del and sputtered, "The bastard! He's lying."

"He's pulling your chain, 'cause that's what addicts do. But, we aren't waiting until tomorrow to get a name out of him because by tomorrow the wrong cop could have him."

"Then let's go get him," I said, and we both took off running.

At the end of the block, Brad skidded, fell, then scrambled up and rounded the corner. We were gaining on him, but I could see that Del was running out of steam.

I picked up my speed and yelled over my shoulder, "Wait here! I'll get him!"

Del waved me on and slowed to a walk.

I was gaining on Brad, but then he glanced back and saw me closing in on him. His eyes widened and he took off across the street and into oncoming traffic.

J Street is a major thoroughfare to most of Modesto, and even at this time night traffic was brisk.

Dancing between cars, he zigged through traffic, gleefully hammered the trunk of car, snapping his fingers at me to show me he still had the old hand-eye coordination, drugs or not.

Then he stepped into the high beams of a semi.

Forty tons of steel bearing down on him, and this time he wasn't able to dodge the bullet.

Del jogged up, grabbed my arm, and pulled me away from the streetlights. "Come on, Lalla. Let's get out of here."

"Oh my God! Did you see that? He just... he got hit by that truck! We have to do something. He... he might, he could still be….." I was shaking and babbling, but I let Del drag me away and into the shadows of a nearby building where we watched drivers stop and flip open their cells to call 9-1-1.

Del nodded at the growing crowd around the body. "Do you really want to be here when the cops arrive on the scene? Not a good idea for either of us. Look, if it'll make you feel any better, I'll check with Modesto General Hospital, make sure. If he's alive, he's not going to be talking to anyone for a while. If he's dead, we've got our first real confirmation. I knew it was a cop, but we're going to have to work hard to narrow it down."

"What ... what if it was all for nothing?" I asked, the shock draining me down till I could hardly put one foot in front of the other. "What if this was simply a way to get back at me for firing him? Get more money with blackmail?"

Ignoring my questions, Del held onto my elbow to keep me upright and hurried me back to his car. "No, Lalla. I believe he saw the killer. Maybe one of the cops who'd already arrested him."

I collapsed into the passenger seat, shaken and weepy. "It was all for nothing."

Del patted my hand. "Not for nothing, we got some leverage to use, and I know just the place to put it." He put the car in gear, and because he'd forgotten the coffee sitting on the dash, it fell into his lap. "Damn!" he said, reaching around the back to pull out a roll of paper towels.

"I got to mop this up before it makes a stain," he said, and backed out of the car and bent over to blot the coffee off his pants, then leaned in to mop up the driver's seat.

That's when I saw the blue lights of a city police car circling us in an incandescent halo. "Oh no, that's all we need."

I cringed down in my seat. We were next to an alley, a notorious pick up spot for streetwalkers, and the policeman was here to direct traffic away from the scene of the accident. He got out of his cruiser, unhooking the strap on his gun-holster as he cautiously approached.

The minute he came close enough to see who it was backing out of the open car door, the wet front of Del's pants, and me, stony and silent in the passenger's seat, he relaxed the grip on his holster.

I groaned. He knew us, and I knew him. I muttered, "Oh God, why?"

Byron Bettencourt worked his mouth around his best to better opening lines. "Lalla Bains has taken on some night work on the side? No, can't be the money. How 'bout this, since he's half the man that Caleb Stone is, Lalla Bains has given him up for Delmar Potts. Or maybe …, no, I liked the first one best."

Unable to hold it back any longer, he snickered. "And me without a video camera."

It couldn't have looked any worse if we were caught doing a naked mambo on McHenry Avenue. And Byron was going to have his fun after his personal humiliation at the hands of his former baby-sitter.

Unfortunately, Del made his second mistake of the night. "As you can see officer, this is spilled coffee on the front of my pants. You got us dead to rights—parked here in a loading zone as we are. What's the fine then?" He held out a hundred-dollar bill. "Here, I'll bet you can take care of this for us, right?"

Byron's fun house expression went south, and his posture went rigid. The young man may have been willing to work a sideways deal with Rodney, but taking a bribe from a civilian wasn't in the cards. He answered Del with a hard shove against the Mini. The little car and I shuddered with the impact. He cuffed Del, and then growled at me to stay where I was, and he marched his catch of the night to his police car.

My heart sank at the image of my dad picking up his morning paper to see my mug spread across the front page again.

Think, Lalla, think
! Let's see, should I remain in the Mini for Byron to come and arrest me on suspicion of prostitution so that he could finally get it right?

If I ran, it would be Byron's word against mine; that is, if he was dumb enough to insist that I'd been here at all. And if Del was as bright as I thought he was, he'd deny ever seeing me. Arrest him for what, loitering? Parking at a loading zone? Del would scream for the newspaper's lawyer and be out of the police station in five seconds flat and Byron would have jam on his face again. Any latent obligation to a dirty-faced little ten-year old had died a few hours ago when he cuffed me and read me my rights.