The Monkey's Raincoat (27 page)

“You'll never find it.”

He was pressing hard for the mother. Maybe he wanted a family snapshot for his memory book. He spread his hands again and looked at me.

“All right,” I said. “Tomorrow noon. I send the mother. You send the kid. Back by the tunnel. You're alone. I'm alone.”

“Yes.”

I got out of the limo, watched them pull away into traffic, then went in and down to my car.

Pike and Ellen were standing on the east side of my house when I pulled up. I got out of the car with the foil brick and walked around the front of the house toward them. Pike was saying, “You're holding it too hard. Hold it firmly, but don't clutch it. It won't fly away from you.”

They were standing in the grass on the part of the hillside that tabled out and was flat before falling away. Ellen Lang was aiming a blued Ruger .25 automatic at one of the two young gum trees that I'd planted there last year. Pike was standing to her right, adjusting her form with a touch here, a touch there. Her right arm held the gun out straight, her left bent slightly at the elbow so she could use her left hand to cup and brace her right. “Okay,” Pike said.

She exhaled, steadied, then there was a loud
snap
! Dry firing. Pike looked at me. “She's pretty good. Her body's quiet.”

“What does that mean?” Ellen said. When she wasn't aiming the gun she cradled it in both hands against her stomach.

“It means your body damps your pulse and your muscles don't quiver when you try to hold still. That's natural. You can't learn it.” Pike nodded his head at the foil brick. “Who had the dope?' ”

Ellen's eyes went to the brick as if Pike had just said, “
Who's the Martian?
” She said, “Mort didn't steal that?”

“No. Kimberly Marsh and her boyfriend stole it.”

“That woman had a boyfriend?”

“Yeah.”

“Someone besides Mort?”

“Yes.”

“Behind Mort's back?”

I nodded.

Ellen pulled back the slide to cock the .25, then aimed at the gum tree again.
Snap
!

Pike said, “You set it up with Duran?”

“The Eskimo. Noon tomorrow back by the tunnel at Griffith Park. Ellen brings the dope to the tunnel, puts it on the ground, then they send out Perry. She brings Perry back to me, the Eskimo goes out for the dope. End of deal.”

Ellen looked at me. Pike was looking at me, too. His mouth twitched. “So. They're going to let you and Ellen and the kid walk away and expect everybody to keep their mouths shut.”

Ellen looked at him.

“No,” I said. “What happens is something like this: they set
up some soldiers early, and when we're all together they eliminate us, recover the dope, and an hour later the Eskimo and the soldiers are on Duran's private jet, heading for Acapulco and a long, expenses-paid vacation.”

“Ah,” Joe said, “reality raises its ugly head.”

Ellen said, “Shouldn't you call Sergeant Poitras?”

“Not if Duran owns somebody downtown. If all we can get is a couple of soldiers, you've still got a problem.”

“Then what are we going to do?”

“We get there earlier than they do. We watch them set up. we see if I'm right about their intentions. If I am, we figure a way to get Perry away from them. If I'm not, we go through with the trade and worry about Duran after you and the boy and the girls are away from here and safe.”

“What if they don't wait?” Ellen said. “If they want these drugs and they know you have them, won't they just come here instead?”

Pike's mouth twitched again. For Pike, that's a laughing fit. “It'll cost too much,” he said. “Here, we're dug in. Here, a cop car could roll by, there's neighbors, bad access. In Griffith, they're hoping we'll be exposed. They can set up a free fire zone, snipers, ambushes, roadblocks, you name it.” You could tell he was pleased.

I cleared my throat. Loudly. “They want the dope,” I said, rationally. “I told the Eskimo it was hidden somewhere and that I'd have to get it. That's why they won't come.” I glared hard at Pike. “
Right?
”

Pike said, “Gonna get a guitar. Back later.” He disappeared around the front of the house. Purring.

Ellen said, “Does he play?”

I just looked at her, then went into the house and opened two Evian water. Ellen had come in and had just thanked me for the water when the phone rang. She went as white as a sheet of clean new paper.

I answered. Janet Simon said, “Elvis? It's Janet Simon.”

I covered the mouthpiece and told Ellen it was Janet. She was relieved, but she wasn't thrilled. She made that funny mouth gesture where she keeps the front of her lips together and blows out the sides.

“I was beginning to think you never wanted to speak to me again,” I said into the phone. Mr. Charm.

“Yes. Well.” Janet's voice was low and measured and
sounded like she never wanted to speak to me again, only now she had to. It's a sound I've heard before.

“How is Ellen?” she said.

“Sitting on a rainbow.”

“Is it almost over?”

“Yep.”

“Is she keeping it together?”

“She's doing okay.”

“I could come over.”

“Not a great idea.”

“She might need me to do something.”

I didn't say anything. Ellen looked suspicious and uneasy and not anxious to talk. But that could have been my imagination.

Janet said, “Maybe there's something I could do. She might have dry cleaning. She might have a prescription. She forgets things.”

I held out the phone to Ellen Lang. “For you.”

Ellen made the blowing gesture again and took the phone. She cradled the receiver into her neck beneath her jaw and said, “Hello?” She listened a while, then said, “Actually, I'm fine. How're the girls?” Not thrilled. Definitely not thrilled.

She said, “I don't know that yet. I don't know if he's dead or alive or what.”

She did not look faded or uneasy or intimidated.

“I should go now.”

She looked angry and bored.

“No, I'll call you.”

She hung up. She did not do so lightly.

I took the two Evians out onto the deck. After a while, Ellen joined me. She said, “Janet,” as if she were going to follow it with a lot more, but then she fell silent.

An hour and forty minutes later Pike was back. Ellen and I were sitting on the edge of the deck, listening to a Lakers game and not talking about Janet Simon. The Lakers were out at Washington playing the Bullets. It sounded like a physical game. The Evian water was warm.

Pike unloaded a large green duffel bag and two olive-green guitar cases from his Jeep and carried them toward the house. Ellen went over to the side rail to watch him.

“Do you know Segovia?” she asked.

“Rock 'n roll,” he said.

He brought his things into the living room through the front
door. Ellen went in, then came out a few minutes later, looking distant.

“Those aren't guitars.”

“Nope.”

“He has guns.”

I nodded. The Lakers were down by four but Kareem had just scored six straight from inside.

She said, “You seem so calm.”

“I'm working at it.”

“I know this is what we have to do, but it seems so unreal.”

“Unh-hunh.” Fantasy in fantasyland. She said, “It's like a war, right here in Los Angeles.”

I nodded some more.

After a very long time, she said, “I hope we kick their asses.”

I looked at her. I drank the warm Evian water. Kareem made it eight in a row.

It began to rain again just after four the next morning, a slow leaking drizzle that fell out of silver clouds, lit from beneath by cityglow. Pike sat at the dining table in the dark, sipping at a finger of bourbon in a tall glass. He said, “It's about time you were up.”

I went into the little bathroom without saying anything and dressed. Levis, gray Beverly Hills Gun Club tee shirt, CJ Bass desert boots. A client had given me the Gun Club tee shirt, but I'd never worn it. When I went out to the kitchen Pike looked at the shirt and shook his head.

There was coffee in the pot and a plate of dry toast, and Pike's big Coleman thermos, also filled with coffee. I got out a loaf of white and a half loaf of whole wheat and laid out bread for nine sandwiches. There were two packs of pressed ham, most of a pack of processed chicken, and two ham hocks left in the refrigerator. Enough for nine. I wrapped sweet gherkins and jalapeño-stuffed olives in foil, put them in a Gelson's bag with napkins, then put the sandwiches on top. In another sack I put two six-packs of RC 100, a plastic bottle of water, cups, and some Handi Wipes.

When the food was ready, Pike took the bags out through the kitchen door and put them in his Jeep. Cold air came in through the open door. While he was out, Ellen Lang, dressed in her jeans and one of my sweatshirts, came down and sat quietly on the stairs, elbows on knees.

“How ya doing?” I said.

She nodded.

“Want some coffee?” I poured half a cup and brought that and a slice of the dry toast to her. “It's good to have something in your stomach.”

“I don't think I can.”

“Nibble.”

From the entry closet I took out a slicker for Ellen and a nylon rain shell for me. I put Pike's duffel bag and the two
guitar cases by the couch. The duffel bag weighed a ton. I shrugged into my shoulder holster, checked the load in the Dan Wesson, and snapped the catch. I went upstairs, found my clip-on holster, and took a 9mm Beretta automatic from the drawer beside my bed and two extra clips. Each clip held fourteen hollow-point hot loads. Pike had made them for me a long time ago. Illegal. But what's that to a tough guy like me? With the rain shell on, you couldn't see either gun. It wouldn't be easy to get to the Dan Wesson, but I didn't expect to have to quick-draw walking out to the Jeep.

When Pike came back, he was wearing the cammie field jacket. He opened the first guitar case and took out a Weatherby Mark V .30–06 deer buster with an 8-power Bushnell scope and a box of cartridges. He fed four into the gun, locked the bolt, then stood the gun against the arm of the couch. When he opened the second case, Ellen Lang leaned forward. She said, “What's that?”

“Heckler and Koch .308 assault rifle,” Pike said.

“Pike shows it to people to scare them,” I said. “It doesn't really shoot.”

Pike's mouth twitched. The HK was entirely black. With its Fiberglas stock, pistol grip, carry handle, and flash suppressor, it was an ugly, mean gun. Pike snapped the bolt, then took a sixty-shot banana clip from the duffel bag and seated it. He sprayed the external metal parts of each rifle with a mist of WD40, then wiped each lightly with a greasy cloth. His hands worked with a precise economy. Finished, he stood up, said, “Whenever,” and brought the big guns and the duffel out to the Cherokee.

I gave the slicker to Ellen. “Put this on.”

She put it on.

I put the foil brick into a third shopping bag and gave it to her. “Are you scared?” I said.

She nodded.

I said, “Try to be like me. I'm never scared.”

She carried the dope out to the Cherokee. I watched her climb into the backseat from the kitchen, then stood around, wondering if I'd forgotten anything.

The cat walked in and looked at me. I fed him, poured out a saucer of beer, then locked the door. We drove to Griffith Park in a rain so light it was very much like falling dew.

At ten minutes before six, the park was dark and empty and cold, with only light traffic passing the entrance off Los Feliz Boulevard. We turned in and cruised to the back of the park toward the tunnel, past the picnic tables and green lawns and public rest rooms that are habitat for bums, muggers, and homosexual mashers. An old Volkswagen microbus and a Norton motorcycle were parked in the spaces past the rest rooms, but there was no sign of life.