Orange County Noir (Akashic Noir) (25 page)

"Where do you get the product?"

"John has a friend who's an army sergeant in-"

She stopped talking because I was shaking my head. "God-
damnit. You just can't help yourself, can you?"

"What?" She pretended to be sincerely confused.

"Who'll Stop the Rain? Michael Moriarty and Tuesday
Weld, with Nick Nolte as the soldier. Not as good as the book.
Get out of my cab. I'm finished."

"No, baby," she replied. "I'll say when you're finished." I
didn't need much moonlight to see the huge gun she pulled
from her bag. "I wouldn't put too much faith in this cheap
bandit shield." She tapped the barrel of the gun against the
plastic that separated us. "I mean, maybe it might stop a bullet, but . . . being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful
handgun in the world and would blow your head clean off, you've
got to ask yourself one question: do I feel lucky?"

"Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry," I said, my mouth suddenly as dry as Clint's delivery. What Nora was holding was a
Smith & Wesson Magnum, all right. But it was a 500, bigger
and badder than the one in the movie. Enough to take out the
bandit shield, me, and the front of the cab.

"Relax, J.D.," she said. "I got no reason to shoot you,
long as you behave. In fact, I'm doing you a favor. If you drove out of here right now, with or without me, you'd be
a dead man. The difference is: if we're together when they
find us, they'll probably just shoot us both. But if I'm not
with you, they'll beat you to death trying to find out where
you left me."

"Why do they want you? Be straight with me, Nora. No
more Yucatan pottery or drugs, huh?"

"My partner Jed and I . . . got into a situation back
there."

"What kind of situation?"

"That doesn't matter now," she said. "It happened. We
pissed off the wrong guys, the kind who get real biblical when
it comes to payback."

"What happened to your partner?"

"He's dead. That call I got was from some zombie, telling
me he'd just shot Jed in the face. Like that's supposed to freak
me out. Fuck them."

If she wasn't freaked, she was either delusional or suicidal.

Two Escalades full of homicidal assholes out for revenge.
Not exactly an everyday occurrence in Orange County. I knew
of only one local who might have that kind of entourage, a
former Vegas "businessman" who'd retired to the peace and
quiet of Laguna Niguel.

"What did you and Jed do to get on the bad side of Caesar
Berlucci?" I asked.

"Bad side?" She gave me a nasty smile. "Jed blew that fat
wop right out of his Guccis."

"He killed Berlucci? Why would anybody do something
that stupid?"

She stopped smiling and tensed. For a second, I thought
she was going to use that giant gun. Then she slumped again
and I let out the breath I'd been holding.

"It's what we were paid to do," she said.

"Paid by whom?"

"Who the fuck knows? Or cares? The contract comes in.
You do the job. Money is money."

"It couldn't have been easy, getting that close to the old
man," I said.

"Jed had a golden tongue. Talked its into the compound,
won the old bastard over. We would've made it away clean,
but Jed got greedy." For a second her eyes sifted toward her
big bag, then back at me.

"What went wrong?" I asked.

"Shit happens," she said. "And now we got goombas on
our ass.

Yes we did. Two Escalades full, prowling around out there
looking for a cab. They'd find out she hadn't made it to the
hotel. They would double back and go over the route again.
Eventually they'd check out the park and find its.

When they did, Nora, with her ridiculous gigantic gun,
which held only five rounds, assuming she hadn't used one or
two on Berlucci, would be of no real help. On the other hand,
that ridiculous gigantic gun with its five or four or three bullets was more than enough to keep me trapped.

"Okay, what now?" I asked her, while trying to come up
with my own answer.

"We wait until morning and people are going to work and
there'll be traffic and other cabs on the street. Then we head
to L.A. And I pay you for your trouble. And we say goodbye,
or...

"Or what?"

"Or we keep going to Mexico and see how much fun we
can get into. I've got ... some money set aside back at the
apartment."

"We have a long night before we start thinking about
fun," I said.

"We could think about it a little."

"Not with me up here and you back there."

"Come on back. It's nice and comfy."

"What if we have to leave in a hurry?" I asked. "Be less
dangerous to do our thinking up here."

"Sometimes danger adds a little something, but I suppose
you're right."

Nora had been so sloppy at her chosen profession that I
hoped she might change her mind about the gun and put it
away. But she kept it pointed in my direction while she got out
of the car and joined me on the front seat.

She sat facing me, her back against the door.

She kicked off her sandals, drew her left leg up, and slid
it forward until her toes found wiggle room between my back
and the car seat. She rested her right leg across my thighs.

"Is the gun necessary?"

"For some reason, I think so," she said. "But we can still
fool around."

"Not with a gun in my face. It's much too distracting."

"Then I guess we'll just have to play the movie game instead," Nora said.

"Fun's better than games."

"The gun stays."

I shrugged. "Okay. Games. It's a nice day for murder."

"Cute," Nora said. "But easy. James Cagney. Angels with
Dirty Faces. Here's one for you: I guess I've done murder. I won't
think about that now."

"It's the next line that's the giveaway," I replied. "I'll think
about it tomorrow. Vivien Leigh in Gone with the Wind." I lowered my hand to her left leg and began rubbing it slowly. "Try this one. If you're going to murder me ... don't make it look like
something else."

Nora frowned. Concentrating. I moved my hand another
inch or so up her leg. She said, "I don't know the quote."

"The Naked Spur. Robert Ryan."

"A Western? Shit, that's not fair. I don't know Westerns."
She was furious, aiming the weapon at my stomach with both
hands. She was crazy enough to use it and, I had no doubt, she
would eventually. Here. In L.A. or Mexico.

"I didn't complain about Gone with the Wind," I said
softly.

"That's cause you knew it," she said, pouting. "Give me
another and keep it on topic."

I decided to ease the tension with something she was sure
to recognize. "Have you ever done it in an elevator?"

She grinned. "Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction." Happy
again, maybe picking up the sexy-psychotic vibe of that movie,
she wiggled a little closer. She said, "Here's one from the heart:
It's the first time I've tasted women. They're rather good."

I pretended to be puzzled, but in my mind I saw 007 after
having just sucked a poisonous spine fish from the flesh of the
beautiful Domino. "I give."

She was as gleeful as a little girl. "Sean Connery in Thun-
derball. I can't believe you didn't know that one."

I was leaning forward, my fingers brushing the inside of
her thigh. "I didn't see the movie. Where did he ... taste her?"
I asked.

Nora gave me a long look. But she didn't lower the gun.
"Your turn," she said. "And this time, make it hard."

"That sounds like a James Bond quote too."

She laughed. "Silly. I meant the movie reference."

"Okay," I said, sliding a little closer. "But instead of a quote, I'll give you a story. Our hero grows up in the country,
leading a good, clean, healthy life, until it's time for him to
go to a state college. There, on a Marine ROTC firing range,
he discovers that the hunting skills he took for granted back
home are pretty damned remarkable. Enough for him to attract the attention of a government agency that dearly needs
people who know how to use guns."

"I think I know the movie," she said, "but go on. And
don't stop this." She lowered one hand to move mine further
up her thigh.

"The agency frees him from his ROTC obligation and
agrees to pay his tuition and give him spending money and a
car and, in return, he agrees to work for them for four years
after he graduates."

"And he becomes a sniper in Vietnam?" Nora asked.

"Not exactly. Not in Vietnam. But his work is governmentsanctioned."

"Like James Bond."

"Yes. But not James Bond," I said.

"Got it. Charles Bronson in The Mechanic."

"No. The hero of my story is younger than Bronson. And
he's based in Los Angeles, pretending to be an accountant
for an independent film studio that the government actually
owns. And the four years turn into eight. And, about then, he
meets this beautiful, wonderful woman and-"

"The Specialist, with Sly Stallone and Sharon Stone."

"Let me finish," I said. "I'll make it short. He falls in love.
They move in together. He decides to quit the agency, but
before he can, she discovers ... that he's been lying to her,
that he's a worthless, self-loathing, piece-of-shit, governmentsanctioned, homicidal sociopath."

"I'm still not sure what movie you're talking about." Star ing at me, she asked. "Are you crying? Why the hell are you
crying?"

"Because life is not a movie, you stupid bitch," I said,
bringing my palm up fast off her thigh and shoving her hands
and the big heavy Magnum into her face before she could
even consider pulling the trigger. Blood flowed from her broken nose. I had the gun by then and banged it against her
head twice before she went to sleep.

"I'm in a situation, Henry."

"Who's ... Jimmy D? Zat you?"

"It's me," I said into my cellular. "Sorry to wake you, but I
wasn't sure who else to call."

"No. It's okay." He started hacking and coughing. I heard
his wife mumbling something in the background, then him
telling her to go back to sleep, that it was business. "Long time
between calls, Jimmy. What's the hap?"

I filled him in on everything that had taken place in the
last hour or so. He replied by laughing.

"It's not funny, Henry."

"Depends on where you're sitting. The image of you, out
in your peaceful, laid-back little town, stuck in the middle of
a park with an unconscious hit woman, waiting for morning or
a bunch of spaghetti-head yo-yos with guns, whichever comes
first ... it is to laugh, amigo."

"Can you do anything?" I asked. "If not, I'm going to try
my luck driving out of here. I'll unload the blonde somewhere
along the road."

"If they saw her get into your cab, Jimmy, they got the
name and the plate and there's nowhere you can run. Gimme
your number and sit tight."

Henry had been my handler. In his fifties, five-seven, balding, vaguely pear-shaped, totally without conscience, but
a straight-shooter and a father figure for all of that. He called
back in twenty minutes. "I just spoke with a cretin named
Morelli. He says he knows all about you, but he's the kind of
braying asshole who, if he knew your name or even the cab
company, would have told me just to prove how bright he is.
In any case, he says he's willing to forget about you as long as
he gets the eighty grand taken from Berlucci's safe. And he
wants the woman, of course. You got the money, right?"

"Yeah." I had already investigated Nora's bag. It was loaded
with banded fifties. "I imagine it's the full eighty. I'm not going
to count it."

"Okay, here's the play. As soon as we hang up, I call Morelli with your exact location. He wants you to leave the broad
and the loot right where you are and drive away. Do not look
back."

"You sure they'll let me just drive away?"

"You can never be sure, Jimmy. Not when you're dealing
with rabid dogs. My guess is they don't want Uncle Sam on
their ass. That's the most assurance I can give you."

"Thank you, Henry."

"My pleasure."

The blood from Nora's broken nose had dried on her
mouth and chin. She looked like she might be waking up
soon. I'd have to hit her again.

"Henry, I'm ready to come back."

"Miss the La Dolce Vita, huh?"

"Something like that," I said.

"I'll be waiting with open arms, kid."

I lifted the blonde out of the cab and placed her on the
asphalt behind the clubhouse. I put the bag and the money
right next to her.

Then I got back into the cab. With the blonde's Magnum on the passenger seat, I left the park and turned right on
La Paz. The only vehicle I saw in either direction was an old
Chevy truck heading north. I passed it heading south.

But not too far south, maybe half a mile down La Paz to
the first cross-street, Kings Road, where I turned right into a
block full of middle-class homes. I maneuvered the cab between two sedans parked for the night.

The blonde's Magnum didn't smell as if it had been used,
but it held only four shells. Better than bare hands. With the
weapon dragging down my Levi's under my shirt, I worked my
way back through the park.

They were a noisy bunch. Slamming car doors. Cursing. I was
careful moving up behind a tree, Magnum drawn, for a view
of the scene at the rear of the golf club building. Six men had
come in three cars. The Escalades and a sweet yellow Jaguar
convertible with the top down.

I wanted a look at Morelli and his buddies. I figured it was
worth the risk to be able to recognize the bozos if they really
did have a line on me and decided to do something about it.
I had my night vision by then and I studied them as well as I
could while they dragged Nora's dead partner, Jed, from the
black Escalade.

The guy I picked as Morelli was poking through Nora's
bag. Apparently satisfied with its contents, he tossed it into
the white Escalade. He was big, bald, almost Mongolianlooking, with a droopy mustache, wearing a black, longsleeve shirt and pants, with some kind of jewelry around his
neck that caught the moonlight. The others were in suits. I
noted their hairstyles, facial structures, body movement, as
they did the heavy lifting-the departed Jed went behind the wheel of the Jaguar, the unconscious Nora onto the passenger seat.