“Oh,” Robert inquired.
“Yeah, we’ve had a few breakins over the last year or so. You know, kids, vandals, homeless looking for shelter.”
“Homeless?”
“Yes sir, I’ve chased a few out myself. They don’t mean no harm though, just looking for a warm place to sleep.”
“Ever catch up to one of them?” Thorne asked, her charm and sex appeal radiating. “Ever see what they look like?” Tim’s back straightened up. “Can’t say that I have,” he said, chest out. “Not worth it to run them down, the police just let’em go. So I just chase’em away.”
Thorne stepped a little closer to Tim. “Now you be careful,” she told him, adjusting his tie. “It can get mighty dangerous out here.” Tim beamed and slapped his cap like a chivalrous cowpoke donning a Stetson. “I’ll check on the name of that fella for ya. What’d you say it was again?”
“Charlie Ivory,” said Robert.
“Got it,” said Tim, his eyes never leaving Thorne.
“Thanks sugga,” she said, with pouty lips just short of blowing a kiss.
Robert watched Tim mount a shiny blue moped, and putter off toward the cemetery office.
“You don’t play fair,” he said, grinning, shaking his finger at Thorne.
“Just thought I’d make the old fart’s day,” she said. “Maybe get him to look a little harder and save us some time.”
“You’re a tease.”
“Too bad I don’t grind white boys anymore, or you might find out how real I can be.”
“You’ve been talking that shit since elementary school,” he said, remembering their feeble attempt at a schoolyard kiss. Thorne laughed and they went back to the search.
Robert heard the mausoleum door open again. This time, multiple footsteps clopped the tiled floor. Five men, guns drawn, stopped a few feet from them. One, lean and somewhat effeminate, wearing a well-tailored seersucker suit and bow tie, seemed vaguely familiar. The others, clean cut and mean, wore all the markings of mercenaries.
Thorne stationed herself a foot behind him.
“Well, you’re obviously not here to pay respects to a loved one,” said Robert, his guns budging under his arms.
“Hello Mr. Veil,” said Simon. “Nice day to visit the dead.”
“Yes it is,” said Robert, his mind racing. He’d seen this man before.
“So what of it?”
“I was just curious, that’s all,” Simon continued. “Curious why anyone would come to a cemetery when there are so many more important things to do. You two have been in here for some time. We were getting worried.”
“You’re pretty concerned for a rat-looking asshole I don’t even know.”
“Now, now, Mr. Veil, no need for insults, or such language. I’m here on behalf of a mutual friend.”
“Oh,” said Robert.
“Yes. My name is…well, my name isn’t important…you don’t know me, well, there was that time we danced.” Robert remembered. Thorne moved closer.
“Sorry I had to leave so quickly that day. I didn’t get a chance to kill you then, but I’ll try not to disappointment you today. But before all that unpleasantness, why don’t you tell me where the Kennedy evidence is hidden. And please, while you’re talking, you and Ms. Thorne slide your weapons across the floor.”
Two of the men circled around behind them. Thorne stepped backward to keep them in sight. Robert locked in on Simon. They both removed their guns, and slid them across the floor.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Robert. “Even if I did, why the hell would I tell you?”
Simon clapped his hands sarcastically. “Very good, Mr. Veil, very good indeed. Tough and testosterone filled, but I’m afraid it won’t be enough. You see, normally I wouldn’t care about you, Kennedy, or anybody else, well, there is that little blond-haired surfer in Newport Beach, but I digress. It’s just that, well, I’m being paid a king’s treasury to find those items our dear departed Mr. Ivory gave to you, and for that I’d screw and kill my mother.” He smiled. “I did by the way.” Robert raised an eyebrow.
“Screw and kill my mother. Now please, tell me where I can find Charlie Ivory’s collectibles.” He waved towards his men. “Put your guns away, we need them alive. At the moment.”
“I told you, I have no idea what you’re talking about, and who is Charlie Ivory?”
Simon stepped toward Robert. “Mr. Veil…” Robert spun his body in a whirlwind, smashed a roundhouse kick into Simon’s chest and sent him crashing to the floor. The two men closest to Thorne rushed her. A hard, fast blow to the nose, and she sent the biggest to the floor, blinded by blood and watery eyes.
A hard tackle jarred Robert to the floor, fists pounding his face and body. He punched and kicked upward, desperate to get back on his feet.
A pile-driving kick to the groin, and one of the men shirked like a haunting spirit.
Robert heard bones break and men cry out. Thorne’s taking care of business.
He wiggled free and scrambled to his feet. He glanced back at his partner. One man lay on the floor, his kneecap several inches from where God intended, his right arm mangled and twisted like an old, bent coat hanger. Thorne, pinned down on her back, a large guerilla on top, struggled to break free, punching his face like a middleweight. Smiling, the giant grabbed her throat and choked. Robert took a step toward them. A hockey check dropped him to the floor.
Robert hit the ground hard and kicked upward, landing back on his feet.
“My eyes! My eyes! You bitch! My eyes!” Two gunshots ricocheted off the marble, sending everyone, except Simon, to the floor.
Tim, the security guard, stood just inside the front door, the barrel of his thirty-eight revolver pointing at Simon.
Everybody raised their hands, except the large guerilla. He sat against the wall bawling like a newborn, both eye sockets mushy and covered in blood. Thorne’s chest heaved deep and heavy, both thumbs soaked in blood.
“Good job Tim,” said Robert, breathing hard, his hands now on his knees.
“Good job my ass,” said Tim, quivering. “ Stay where you are. I’ve already called the police. They’re on their way.”
“But sugga,” said Thorne, “Let us explain.”
“That ain’t gonna fly hot stuff. Both you and your boyfriend just stay where you are.” In the distance, Robert heard the faint whine of sirens. “Tim, listen to me,” said Robert.
“Yes, Tim,” said Simon. “Listen.”
A mosquito whisper cut through the air, splattering blood and brain on the crypts. Tim’s lifeless body hit the floor like a sack, his nose bubbling foamy red.
Robert looked back, and saw the silencer pointed at him.
“Stop, you idiot,” shouted Simon. “I told you we need them alive!
Let’s go! Now!”
Mangled and twisted, Simon’s men hustled to their feet. The giant, blind and whimpering, assisted by two of the others. Thorne took a step forward, her face sculpted in anger. She picked up her gun.
“Thorne,” shouted Robert, pulling her back. “We can’t get caught in here! Let’s go!”
Thorne snatched away and looked down at Tim. His mouth was open, his eyes wide with shock.
Robert put a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go, Thorne. He’s gone.
Let’s go.”
They hit the back door and jumped a fence fifty feet from the mausoleum as tires screeched to a halt, and police rushed inside. More sirens cried in the distance. Thorne’s Rover hit Interstate 270 and sped back towards Fiona’s estate. Thirty minutes later, a red pond surrounded Tim Billingsley like a putrid moat.
“What a mess,” said one of the paramedics, to detectives organizing the scene. “I knew he was gone as soon as we hit the door, and I saw the back of his head.”
“Must’ve been quite a fight. There’s splatters of blood all over the place,” said the detective. “Who the hell
