Cain decided.
'I don't think you're at liberty to do that,' Cain told him.
'If you'd just wait for my supervisor, he'll explain everything to you,' said the security man. His hand was as big and hot as a Sunday roast on Cain's shoulder.
'Hey!' Cain shrugged him off. Amiable enough. A lack of aggression ensured that he didn't encourage a tighter hold.
Yes, the big guy was new to the job, obviously unsure of his level of authority here. His hand wavered in the air as though plucking at floating threads of lint.
Cain exhaled.
'So where is your supervisor?' he demanded.
'Coming.'
Cain glanced around, saw that the man in candy stripes was about twenty feet away, attempting to skirt a group of kids on an outing. He couldn't see the one in taupe. Good, that gave him a few seconds to spare.
'I can't wait here all day.' Cain engaged the man by locking eyes with him. Simple but effective. It was all Cain required. His hand moved below their plane of vision. Motion that was barely a flicker. A quick jabbing action between the man's legs. Very little contact. Hardly noticeable. Then he was past the man and taking his first couple of steps down the stairs. The security man was motionless, looking down between his thighs at the lake of blood pooling between his feet.
Cain counted the steps, one, two, three, four; then the caterwauling began. A horror-movie scream as the truth became apparent. Cain's feet gave a backbeat to the howl, clattering down the remaining steps to the promenade. On the pier, heads were swiveling toward the commotion, but Cain simply ran. He needn't look back to witness the result of that one simple knife jab. A punctured femoral artery came with a guarantee; without immediate medical help, the security man would bleed to death in minutes. Confusion would erupt and allow him to escape. Also, attempting to staunch the flowing blood of their downed fellow meant the man's companions couldn't possibly pursue him, too.
Of course, Cain was also a firm believer in not trusting people to react the way you expected them to. A shout broke through the murmur of consternation rising behind him. He heard the slap of determined footsteps in pursuit down the stairs. He did glance back, a natural instinct that would not be denied. The man in taupe rushed after him. Cain swore and increased his speed.
As they had for the Hawaiian beauty, the crowds parted before him. Only the looks he received were anything but admiring. They were fearful. It was apparent to all that Cain was a fugitive. A dangerous fugitive, judging by the screaming overhead. There were no gung-ho heroes among the tourists, no one trying to snag his clothing or bring him down. But neither did they impede the man in taupe. Younger than Cain, and in reasonable shape, he was gaining fast. All the while, he shouted into a radio and—more worrying—clenched a revolver in his other hand.
Cain cut to the right, charged up some more steps and onto the ramp arching over the highway, then raced head down for the anonymity offered by the stores a couple of blocks over. The man in taupe didn't stop, matching him step for step all the way.
At the shopping strip, Cain ducked down a service alley and into the twilit underbelly of Santa Monica that was immeasurably different from the beachfront. The sights, the sounds, the smells, everything was tainted with neglect. He grabbed at a wheeled Dumpster crammed with the ghosts of pizzas past, tugged it out to block his pursuer's path. Didn't stop running. He heard the man heaving the Dumpster aside and realized that barely ten paces separated them. Sprightly son of a bitch, that one, not your usual run-of-the-mill rent-a-cop.
Fortunately, Cain gained the corner of the buildings first. He spun to his left into deeper shadows and rushed headlong through a narrow alley, trusting to luck that he didn't smash headlong into an obstruction. Thankfully, he saw the turn and ducked left again.
Cain hoped that the security man would act with caution. He'd witnessed what Cain was capable of with his knife. Only a fool would relish the possibility of bleeding out in a deserted alleyway with only the smell of garbage for the final journey to the afterlife. Fearing ambush, he would slow at the corner. Cain sprinted on, gaining precious distance on his pursuer.
On a main shopping strip parallel to the beach, Cain slowed down. It was surprising how much anonymity a single block's dash had given him. All around him the vacationers' lunacy continued unabated. Not as much as a glance or a 'How are you doing?' came his way.
A mini-mall enticed passersby with the promise of major discounts on all purchases. From within the entrance Cain watched the man in taupe rush by. Problem solved, almost.
Ducking through a service door, Cain took off his cap and jacket and dumped them in a waste bin. He freed his jeans from his socks. His shirt hung loose over his waistband, concealing the scaling knife tucked in the small of his back, as well as the large bulges his trophies now made in his jeans pockets.
Back out in the mall, he ambled in shopper mode. Shoplifting wasn't a skill he'd engaged in since his school days, but the appropriation of a pair of sunglasses was as dexterous as any swish he'd ever made with a blade. Suitably disguised, he backtracked toward the pier.
Back at the promenade by the beach again, he looked toward the pier. A swarm of buzzing hornets, the paramedics and police had arrived. The wounded security man was the sheeted-up load going into an ambulance. The man in candy stripes hung his head by the open doors. Two accounted for, one to go. Behind his newly acquired sunglasses, Cain squinted left and right. No more than ten yards away, the taupe security man walked toward him. Cain wasn't concerned; he stood looking out to sea, hands bunched around the trophies in his pockets. The man made the slow walk of dejection back toward the pier, totally oblivious that he was in stabbing range of the person he sought.
Cain turned away. He'd lost interest in this pointless game. Better he return to the VW to see if he still had the chore of getting rid of it.
Then the more pressing matter of finding the thief.
12
'so this is your hometown, rink? i have to take back what I said about pickup trucks, huh?' 'Damn right!' I
