knife, cut the clothes off the bitch, tossed them aside.
Next, he took off the shoes. Paused. Had to breathe. Sucked in a short one. Retched all over the bullet holes in the bitch’s breasts. On his knees, he fought for oxygen, a drowning man with no choice, he sucked in more of the stench. Heaved again. Stomach clenching. Nothing left but spittle. Dry heaves.
He pressed his back against the door, as far from the dead as he could get. His mind screamed, Get out. Run. But he squashed the urge. He had a job to do. He stood, slipped in blood, landed with his ass on her stomach. A whoosh erupted from her throat, a cattle prod up Horace’s ass.
He yelped, scrambled to the door, yanked it open, bailed out of the van. Clean air. He sucked deep. A quick look around. The alley was empty. In a hurry now. Knife still in hand. Reach back in the van. Wipe the blood off the blade on the bitch’s skirt. Flick it closed. Shove it in the back pocket. Grab the bitch’s feet. Pull her out.
Her head made a popping sound when it thumped on the pavement, a thunder blast to his heart. The world surely heard, but no one came running. Horace shot a look around. All quiet. Hands still wrapped around her ankles, he dragged her toward the dumpster, dropped her in front of it, scurried back to the van.
His eyes lit on Virgil as he closed the back. Poor dumb bastard, dead in a pool of blood and shit. Back in the driver’s seat, he started it up. He took a quick look in the rearview as he turned out of the alley. No lights came on. He was in the clear.
Maybe.
He couldn’t be safe till he logged some miles between the body and himself. The freeway called to him. In minutes he was on it.
Chapter Eight
Gordon Takoda slid out of the booth. The game had run over three hours. They were a nice couple, James and Paul, but they were poor losers. Every time he took a piece, they wanted to replay the move, discuss how they could have played it. And to their consternation, Gordon let them do it over and he still creamed them.
“Good game,” James said.
“Yeah, we learned a lot,” Paul said.
Gordon gave them a smile before he started for the bar. Those boys didn’t understand, chess was like life. In the real world you don’t get to take it over.
“Coffee coming up.” Jonas started for the pot.
“Black and strong.” Gordon inhaled the aroma as Jonas poured. “Uh oh, trouble.” A uniformed police officer had come in and was making his way to the bar.
“Problem, officer?” Jonas said. As a rule the police were rare in the Whale.
“There’s a body in front of the dumpster out back. Female. She’s nude, full of bullet holes.”
“Maggie,” Gordon said.
“It couldn’t be Maggie,” Jonas said. “She said she was going straight home. You called her there.”
But Gordon wasn’t listening. He was off his stool and out the door before the cop could protest. An icy dagger wormed into his spine. Spasms racked his chest. He was in shape, but a heart attack wasn’t out of the question. He was the right age.
He stopped at the mouth of the alley. Jonas and two cops were already there. They’d come through the kitchen. They were standing over a bloody body. The light from Jonas’ kitchen gave the alley a kind of black and white look, surreal.
“You don’t want to see this.” Jonas came toward him, blocking his view.
“Get out of my way.”
Jonas stepped aside.
“You know her?” the cop who had come into the bar said.
Gordon sank to his knees with a thud. He dropped his head into his hands.
“Sir, we have to ask you to step back,” the policeman said.
Gordon pulled his hands from his face. Tears covered his cheeks. “Get something to cover her with.”
“I’m sorry we can’t do that. Not yet.”
“Come on, Gordon.” Jonas put a hand to his shoulder.
“I won’t leave her.”
“Please, sir,” the policeman said.
“Do what you have to. I stay.” Gordon took her hand. There was still some warmth.
“Sir, please don’t touch the body.”
“Just her hand,” Gordon said. “I’ll be careful of any evidence that may be under her fingernails.”
“I’m going to have to insist,” the officer said.
“Or what?” Gordon looked up at the cop. He bit into his lip to stop the quivering.
“Just the hand then.” The young officer’s face was pasty white, he looked like he was about to be sick.
There were some people behind the cop. A small crowd was gathering, despite the hour. There should be more cops. Probably on the way. “Keep them back till your people get here,” Gordon said. “I won’t disturb anything.”
“Yes, sir,” the cop said and with Jonas’ help, they moved the crowd back.
Gordon ached to wipe the hair from her eyes. She hated that. “Oh, Maggie,” he whispered. So much blood.
A couple more uniforms pushed through the crowd. They saw Gordon, one started to speak, but the first officer raised his hand and the man held his tongue. More cops, arriving in pairs. The alley was cleared of civilians, save Jonas and the uniforms.
Gordon stroked the back of Maggie’s hand with his fingers.
“It’s Wolfe,” one of the cops said.
“Fucking ghoul,” another said.
“He gets the job done,” still another said.
Gordon looked up to see a man in his mid-thirties push through the crowd. He was wearing faded Levi’s, a threadbare sportcoat over a white Dodgers T-shirt and a blue Dodgers baseball cap over a shaved head. He didn’t look like a ghoul.
“Clear everyone out. I need a few minutes,” Wolfe said, voice barely above a whisper.
“I heard about you. I know what you need,” one of the uniforms said and the police started to move back, taking Jonas with them.
“Come on,” the cop said to Gordon.
Gordon met Wolfe’s eyes. They were pale blue, but sad, like they should have been brown. Gordon tightened his grip on Maggie’s hand.
“He can stay,” Wolfe said. “Give us fifteen. If the lab van comes, tell them it’s me, they’ll understand.”
Then the alley was empty, save for Gordon, Wolfe and, of course, Maggie.
“Your wife?” Wolfe whispered.
“I’m gay.”
“How would I know?” Wolfe’s voice seemed to carry years of pain. More than a whisper, almost a rasp. Sad, begging empathy. He squatted down to Gordon’s level.
“I don’t know. Some people seem to.”
“Everybody cries,” Wolfe said. “Everybody hurts.”
“Not just that.”
“People are what they are.” He reached over and took Maggie’s hand from Gordon. He studied her face. “Who is she?”
“Maggie Nesbitt,” Gordon said. “She lives upstairs from me. We’re friends.”
“More than friends, I think,” Wolfe said.
“Yeah, we’re close.” Gordon didn’t want to admit she was dead.
“She have a husband? Someone we should notify?”
“Nick Nesbitt.”
