The Comedy is Finished

middle of it! Peter and his pals, to be absolutely safe, have been taking back roads toward where their destination is, and that’s why there’s been so much jouncing. And here they come, boiling out of the car, all four doors flaring open. They have seen the trunk lid in the rearview mirror.

Terrified, Koo looks around in all directions. The road they’ve just come up angles away steeply downhill through pines and shrubbery back toward the Valley. To left and right Mulholland Drive meanders along the ridge- line; way to hell and gone that way, east, he can see a couple of houses, but he’d never get that far. He can’t outrun these people.

Hide; it’s the only chance. While the gang is still clambering out of the car, Koo makes his dash, across the road and out over dusty tan earth, low shrubbery, stunted low trees, then a steep stony slope, his feet scrabbling for purchase, dust rising, half the goddamn San Fernando Valley visible out there far below, and nobody to help. Voices shout behind him, he clutches at the rough trunks and branches of stunted pine trees, not quite falling, tottering, careening and blundering down the hill, directly into a tangled mass of prickly shrubs, knee-high, waist- high, covered with thorns, all too thick to force his way through, so that he wades at an angle to the left, stumbles into a tiny rain-formed gully making a deep narrow wedge-shaped cut into the shrubbery, drops to hands and knees, crawls down the gully under the thorny branches, deeper into the brush, finally turning, gasping, staring, peering out past branches and leaves and thorns, his mouth dry with dust and fear, the dust-stained sweat pouring down his face as he stops, and waits, and listens:

“He came this way!”

“He’s hiding someplace! In the bushes!”

“He can’t get far! He can’t get away!”

“Circle to the left!”

“Koo! Koo!” That’s Peter’s voice, uncomfortably close. “Don’t make it tougher on yourself, Koo, we’re going to find you anyway! Don’t waste our time, Koo!”

Screw you, Mac. Koo knows it’s no good, his luck is rotten, he isn’t going to get away, but he’s damned if he’ll make it easy for them. “Do your own work,” he mutters, and closes his eyes, and waits with his face turned away.

“Here he is!” Larry’s voice, the son of a bitch. “I see his legs.”

“Come out of there, you old bastard!” That’s Peter, sounding shrill and angry. “Larry, Mark, drag him out of there!”

Hands grab at his ankles, tugging at him, and he says, “All right, all right, I’ll come out.” But they won’t let him do it himself; they insist on dragging him out, back bumping on the stones, branches and thorns picking at the arms he holds protectively over his face.

They’re all clustered there, panting, on the steep slope. Larry and Mark pick Koo up, get him on his feet, and angry-faced Peter comes over, glares briefly, then deliberately punches Koo hard on the left cheek. Koo staggers, and would fall backward into the bushes if Larry weren’t still holding his arm. “Peter!” Larry cries, reproach in his voice. “You don’t have to do that!”

“I’m sick of this old man,” Peter says, and comes close to Koo again, glowering into Koo’s eyes, saying, “Don’t try anything else. I’m not feeling patient today.”

“You’re a nasty son of a bitch,” Koo tells him. His mouth is too dry with dust and fear, or he’d spit in the bastard’s lousy face.

And Peter knows it; look at him withdraw a pace, a fake superior smile on his lips. “That’s right, Koo,” he says. “I am a nasty son of a bitch. You remember that, and watch your step.” To the others he says, “Bring him back to the car,” and turns away.

20

Mike walked into the underground room where Jock Cayzer stood with hands on hips, cowboy hat pushed back from his forehead, disgusted expression on his large face. “Flown,” he said. “But he was here, all right.”

“That’s what they said upstairs.”

Jock sniffed. “You can smell how sick he was.”

Mike could, but he’d rather not. “Who ran the check on this place?”

“One of your boys, I’m happy to say. Dave Kerman.” Jock’s smile was sympathetic, not malicious. “According to him, he did enter that utility room out there, and this door was hidden behind a stack of wine cartons. You can see them in that corner there, all tossed behind the water heater.”

“We haven’t been running in luck.”

“The worst of it is, I should think our man’s visit is what spooked them. But there is one hopeful item.”

“Tell me quick.”

“They didn’t plan to move. This was their base, but now they’re scrambling, improvising, it’ll be easier for them to make mistakes and attract attention.”

“And harder to keep Koo Davis alive.”

“Ah, Mike, take comfort where you can.”

“There’s no comfort until we’ve got him back,” Mike said. “Do you realize he was in this room less than an hour ago?”

“I do.”

“And he told us!” Moving toward the window, gesturing at it, he quoted, “Inside the whale.”

“I’ve been remembering that statement myself,” Jock said.

Mike stood at the window, gazing through his own faint reflection at the heavy wobbling oily translucent water; it seemed a less friendly element from this vantage. He wished he’d had time for another drink at the club, or that he’d taken a snort from the pint in the glove compartment. He would when he left here.

This thing was taking too long. It would be better if the bastards killed him. Let Davis be found murdered and the heat wouldn’t be so heavy on Mike Wiskiel anymore. Everybody would agree he’d done his best, and the incident with the transmitter would merely have been an example of over-eagerness. He could still come out of it clean, he could still have that shot at getting back to D.C.

Or, if the sons of bitches weren’t going to kill Davis, then Mike and Jock and everybody else better get on their horses and find the guy, while there was still some glory left to reap.

Turning away from the window, Mike said, “Do we know whose house this is?”

“Some musician named Ginger Merville. He’s away in Europe, we’re trying now to get in touch with him. The house is for rent.”

“Something wrong there,” Mike said.

“Yes, there is,” Jock said gravely. “It’s been sticking in my own craw, I must admit. But I don’t quite see what it is.”

“Was this house supposed to be empty? Would they all hide in here if the realtor brought around a prospective tenant? And wouldn’t the realtor know about this room, even make a point of showing it?”

“Those are all good questions,” Jock said.

“I’ll talk to the realtor,” Mike decided. “Do you have the name?”

“Calvin Freiberg. He’s got an office on Ventura Boulevard in Tarzana.”

“I’ll go see him now, on my way to the TV studio. You’ll run things here?”

“Your people and mine are upstairs now,” Jock said, “poking and prying.”

“Good luck to them. Where’s Dave Kerman?”

“He went back to the office, he said to beat his head against the wall.” Jock’s ruefully sympathetic smile appeared again. “He says he now believes the woman who showed him through the house is the one we have in the sketch.”

“No shit.” Mike shook his head. “When Dave gets done beating his head against the wall, I’ll beat his head against the wall. See you later.”

“Happy hunting,” Jock said.

“Calvin Freiberg?”