direction. To my left, the Pacific yawned at the drama, spitting surf at ancient rock.
Duckwalking across the roof, I moved silently toward the hubbub emanating from my shot-up cabin.
I was at the edge when the two guys who’d laughed at Pop stepped onto my deck, side by side. The one on the left had a shock of red hair with a lot of goop in it. He gripped an Uzi with both hands, poised to fire.
The guy on the right wore wraparound sunglasses and a porkpie hat. He was packing a silver automatic with a black rubber handle. Though I had the edge on them, I didn’t want to shoot them. Not yet. I needed to talk to them first.
Just then, someone near the main house shouted, “There, on the roof!”
The two guys looked off toward the source of the sound, then started to turn toward me. I jumped, and the three of us tumbled to the deck floor, amid the remnants of chairs and broken glass.
I scrambled to my feet. Red stayed down, but Porkpie was made of strong stuff. He’d lost his gun, but took a swing at me that landed square on my jaw. I fell back and tripped over Mr. Muscles’s legs sticking out from the living room. My shoulder blade hit the jagged glass of the broken sliding door.
I lurched forward and threw a straight jab at Porkpie’s grim face. Blocking it with a forearm, he spun to back- kick me in the stomach; I saw it coming and lunged at him to close the distance.
His kick was still partially in the chamber, but the force of it, combined with my forward motion, sent us through the railing onto the grass.
I leapt to my feet and reached for the Sig, but it had fallen onto the ground next to Porkpie. Behind me on the porch, Red was on his knees pointing his gun at me. I saw his finger squeezing the trigger, knew I’d had it.
Then I heard the sound of a gunshot from off in the woods and Red collapsed. Three more rounds kicked up the grass and dirt around Porkpie as he rolled over and out of the line of fire.
He picked up my Sig and pointed it at me, grinning.
A millisecond later, a yellow streak smashed him in the back of the head with a fireplace poker. Porkpie crumbled like dry cake, his hat flopping off when he hit the turf.
Pop flashed me his pearly white dentures. “Better’n Mickey Mantle,” he chuckled.“Huh, Holmes?”
I looked back to the woods where the shot had come from. Nothing but the diminishing rustle of retreating feet on leaves and branches.
“Did I crack his melon?” Pop asked.
I checked and shook my head.
“Aw shucks. You know that bastard punched me right in the pancreas? And look at my place. Jeepers! What the hell did these fellas want, Holmes?”
“Pop, Ginny’s gone and the cops are going to be here any minute.”
“Damn tootin’, if they don’t get lost on the way over. Now what the Sam Hill . . . ?”
“I’ve got to get out of here,” I said, heading for the Jag, forgetting my boots and guns.
Pop grabbed my sleeve, stopping me cold. “Holmes,” he said gravely. “You look me in the eye.” He gave me the discerning gaze of a wise old man—a good man who’d carved maybe sixty Thanksgiving turkeys, seen wars, buried friends. He said sternly, “Tell me something good. Right now.”
“There’s almost two million dollars in the trunk of my car,” I said.
Pop raised his wiry silver brows, held my stare and my arm.
“No,” I told him. “I’m not a thief.”
He let go of me. “Well, then I’m stumped,” he said, smoothing my sleeve.
“Here it is fast, Pop. I’m trying to do the right thing for Leonardo da Vinci.”
“Leonardo da Vinci! Why, he’s older than me! You joshing me?”
“I’m telling you the truth, and I’ll tell you the rest later if you help me get out of here.”
He peered at me a half-second, then grinned. “Well, that’s gotta be a hell of a story. Hot damn! I guess you’ll be needing the Baby Face Nelson Suite now. Get your stuff—what’s left of it.” He looked down at my stockinged feet. “Starting with your hoofs.”
My boots were waiting for me by the deck steps. I slipped them on and searched the yard for my guns. I located them in the freshly mown grass.
I raced into Same Time and Next Year and grabbed our belongings, while Pop stayed outside to guard Porkpie. I had everything in the trunk in less than a minute.
“What about this pecker?” Pop asked, kicking him.
“He’s coming with me,” I answered. I picked up his brown hat and stuck it on his head. “We’re going to have a little chat.”
Pop helped me drag my still-unconscious prisoner over to the Jag. Together we hefted him into the passenger seat.
Pop gave me the combination to a lock that barred a road leading to a cabin at the far end of the property. He said he’d keep an eye out for Ginny and point her in my direction, and he’d come by later after ironing things out with the police.
