The Next to Die

“What the fuck?” Hal’s buddy said loudly. Tom could hear through the glass. “Goddamn faggot! Are you supposed to be a man or a woman?”

Catalina patted his big hair. “Honey, I’m a goddess. And if I weren’t in makeup, I’d beat the ever-lovin’ shit out of you, and you know I can.”

Hal’s friend stood there with his mouth open, looking stupid.

Tom watched Catalina move on, undaunted. He dropped the letter in the mailbox, then sauntered to the bus stop—half a block away. Catalina waved down the bus, then climbed aboard.

The letter had been mailed.

Tom opened the first of the two miniatures. He sat in the dark living room and drank. After a while, he turned on the lamp by the sofa and paged through his photo album. He pried certain photos from the four-corner holders, his favorites: Maggie and him talking with Janet Leigh and Robert Mitchum;. Maggie alone; him visiting Lana Turner on a movie set, and a few others. To the pile, he added five movie lobby cards, his best shots from his best movies. Finally, he chose his favorite publicity shot, from 1950: him in a tux, smoking a cigarette, his black hair tousled, pretty damn glamorous. He set the glossy on top of the pile, then pulled out a pen and autographed it: To Catalina, Thank you for being a good neighbor. Tom Lance.

He carried these things he’d held so dear down the hallway to his neighbor’s door. One by one, he slid the photos and lobby cards under the crack. He knew the drag queen down the hall would take good care of these mementos for him, because like him, he too loved the movies and Maggie.

Dayle sat at her kitchen table with the Waiting for the Fall script, and Fred curled up in her lap. She had her big AA meeting speech tomorrow, and was reviewing her notes. But she couldn’t concentrate.

She kept replaying in her head what Jonathan Brooks had told her about Ted’s expertise. Ted knew how to break into secured penthouses undetected, where to plant bugging devices, how to tap a phone line. I tell you, if the guy was working on the other side, Gil would have been a goner.

She imagined Ted organizing the surveillance on her. She could see him slipping past the guards downstairs and breaking into her apartment while she showered. Was it Ted who had left that note about Cindy on her bed? Was he one of the men up on the roof at twilight a couple of weeks ago?

Dayle told herself not to get carried away. She was basing her fears on the mere fact that Ted didn’t like being teased by Gil Palarmo and his gay friends. Besides, even if he was working with this hate group, he wasn’t about to try anything tonight. Too many people knew he was supposed to be protecting her.

“Oh, there you are.”

Startled, Dayle glanced up at Ted Kovak, standing in the kitchen doorway. “You scared me for a second,” she said, straightening in her chair.

“What time do you want the limo tomorrow?” he asked.

“Six-thirty.”

“I’ll try to stay out of your hair until morning.”

She hugged Fred to her chest. “I might take a shower tonight, so if you hear the phone, just let the machine pick it up.”

He nodded. “Well, everything’s secure here.”

“It’s comforting to know that—especially while I’m in the shower.”

Grinning, he leaned against the door frame. “Psycho backlash?”

“No, more like the other day I told you about—when someone broke into the apartment.”

“Well, don’t worry,” he replied with a confident wink. “You have some good guys protecting you tonight, and I’m just down the hall. You won’t come out of the shower and find any weird notes pinned to your favorite party dress—not while I’m here.”

Nodding, Dayle managed to smile back at him. “Thanks, Ted. Um, did the other guys get something to eat?”

“Yes, ma’am. They’re taken care of. I’ll be in my room if you need anything. Good night.”

“G’night, Ted. Thanks again.” She watched him retreat down the hall; then her smile waned. He shut the guest room door.

Ted Kovak had slipped. He knew about the break-in; but she’d never told him about finding the message pinned to her dress on the bed. Besides Sean and herself, the only other person who knew about that note was the one who had left it for her.

Twenty-four

Sean approached the Honda Accord. Inside, the blond-haired man stiffly sat at the wheel—with Nick in back. She opened the front passenger door and climbed inside. Larry turned and glared at her. The handsome, strawberry-blond man seemed tense, but not particularly scared.

Sean now remembered where she’d seen him before, The My-T-Comfort Inn. He was The Boy Next Door—or The Asshole Next Door: If I knew you were stocking this place with whores, I never would have booked us here.

“Honey, meet Larry Chadwick,” Nick announced from the backseat. “Larry says he doesn’t know Charlie Stample or Lyle Bender.” Nick poked the man’s shoulder with his gun. “Larry, do you recognize my honey bun here? Here’s a hint. She’s a real smart lawyer.”

Sean frowned. She wanted to slug Nick for involving her in this awful abduction business. Nick handed her Larry’s wallet and keys. “Have a look through his wallet,” he said. “Lare, take the keys and start the car. We’re hitting the road. You still haven’t answered my question about our gal here.”

Sean gave Larry Chadwick the car keys. He shook his head at her. “I don’t know you,” he said. “But you look like an intelligent woman. Perhaps you can convince your friend here to let me go. You have my wallet. You can take the car. I don’t want any trouble.”

Sean glanced at his driver’s license. “We’re not here to rob you, Mr. Chadwick. And I don’t want any trouble either. So please, start the car.”

He took a long look back at the bowling alley, then turned the key in the ignition. Nick told him to make a left at the lot exit.

As they started down Main Street, Sean flipped through the photos in Larry’s wallet: pictures of his wife, two children, a collie, and Larry with a rifle, posed beside a deer carcass. As much as she hated this scheme, she had to go along with it now. “My colleague’s telling the truth, Mr. Chadwick,” she said, still browsing through the wallet. “I’m an attorney. I see here you’re a hunter—like Charlie Stample and Lyle Bender.”

“I told your friend already, I don’t know them.”

“Nevertheless, perhaps I can swing a deal for you.” Sean looked at the wallet again. “You have a wife and two very nice-looking children. I can’t guarantee anything, but if you cooperate with us, maybe you won’t be separated from your loved ones too long. We might work out a reduced sentence for you, maybe even immunity.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Larry said. “Besides, I’m not the one breaking the law here.”

“Take a left at the light,” Nick piped up from the backseat.

Sean studied Larry Chadwick for a moment. Something was awry. He didn’t seem very scared or intimidated—just miffed at what might be a temporary inconvenience for him. As they turned left, he checked the rearview mirror. Sean glanced back to see a Corsica a short distance behind them.

“A paper trail led us to you,” she continued. “This is your chance to cut a deal before—if you’ll excuse the expression—the shit hits the fan. We know your group is responsible for several celebrity murders and smears— along with an attempt to frame Avery Cooper for murder. Why not save your family and yourself a lot of grief? Tell us about this local men’s club, and your ‘hunting’ expeditions.”

“C’mon, Lare,” Nick added. “We’ll say you cooperated….”

Silent, he stared at the dark, lonely highway ahead.