A silent gasp as pain racked his ribs. Horace clenched his teeth as he made his way out to the living room. He moved through the apartment like an apparition, silent and quick. In seconds he was out on the balcony. The kid was still asleep. Horace resisted an urge to kiss his forehead.
The kid opened his eyes. Wide, afraid.
Horace tossed the boy into the night.
He fought puking his guts out as he took the elevator down to the parking garage. Outside, back on the beach, he heard someone screaming. Head down, he jogged along the bike trail to the stairs up to Ocean Boulevard. He pulled away from the curb expecting sirens. He didn’t hear them till he was past the Safeway, where Virgil had grabbed onto that bitch’s shopping cart.
If only he could go back and live that few minutes over, Virge would still be alive.
He turned into the Safeway parking lot, parked and locked the van. He crossed the lot to the country and western bar. Inside, he ordered a tequila shooter. He passed on the salt and lime, drank it straight down, ordered another. Then he saw the pay phone on the wall at the end of the bar.
“Got quarters?” He dropped a dollar on the bar.
“Guy over there’s been playing the juke all night,” the weightlifter of a bartender said.
“It’s for the phone.” Horace turned, saw a slim guy with dirty jeans and unkempt hair drop quarters into the jukebox. Springsteen started singing ‘Born in the USA.’ “A sign.” Horace tossed down the second drink.
“What?” the bartender said.
“It’s a sign. My brother’s favorite song. He’s trying to tell me something.”
“You want another shooter?”
“Naw. I was gonna call my boss, then get drunk, but now I’m gonna call a girl instead.”
“I hear ya.” He put four quarters on the bar.
“Wish me luck.” Horace scooped up the coins, headed for the phone. Most things Horace forgot right away, but he had a head for phone numbers.
“This better be good,” Sadie said instead of hello. “It’s the middle of the night and I have to work in the morning.”
“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”
“Horace?”
“You know my voice?”
“I don’t exactly tell all the men I meet to call. Of course, I know your voice.”
Horace was flattered. “I’m in kind of a spot, plus I feel about as low as hound dog at the bottom of an outhouse.”
“That sounds pretty low.”
“I could use some company.”
“Where are you?”
“You know that cowboy bar out by the pier?”
“Give me ten minutes.” She hung up.
Now his wounds didn’t hurt so much. He signaled the bartender, raised a finger to let him know he wanted another drink. He gulped the shooter, then dialed Striker’s number. He wanted business out of the way before he saw Sadie. Striker sounded like he was out of breath when he answered. Horace told him about his evening.
“So, you okay?” Striker said when Horace was finished with the telling.
“I think so.” He ran his hand along the wound in his side. “Feels like the bullet seared along my rib cage, like I was cut with a knife, but it didn’t enter. And I got a graze on the forehead, bled like a pig, but I got it under control. I just saw that gun in her hand and started back-peddling. I was lucky. That’s one tough bitch.”
“And you say she looks like the Kenyon woman?”
“I only got a quick look, but yeah, except for the hair, it’s her. Must be twins, only thing I can think of.”
“Margo Kenyon didn’t have any sisters. Maggie Nesbitt didn’t either.”
“They sure look alike,” Horace said.
“They say everyone’s got a double,” Striker said. Then, “Regarding the gunshots. You should be in the clear. A black-and-white responded. Neighbors heard shots, but nobody knew from where.”
“How do you know this stuff so fast?”
“I was a cop a long time. I got friends.”
“I left a lot of my blood up there.”
“Any prints?”
“No.”
“So, it’s not a problem. When the news guy gets home and sees the mess, he’ll call the cops, but so what?”
“What about the woman?”
“That is a problem.” Striker told Horace about the woman he’d followed into the liquor store and how she had dark hair. Then he told him about the car chase and how he saw the Porsche crash into the sea. “But apparently she didn’t die,” he added, “because I was outside that duplex. I heard the shots and saw the same woman run out. I followed her and the guy from downstairs out to a warehouse by the airport, then I lost ’em.”
“So, who’s the broad, the news guy’s wife or the Kenyon bitch?” Horace said.
“She was Margo Kenyon this morning and Maggie Nesbitt this evening,” Striker said.
“Something real hinky is going on.”
“Yeah,” Striker said.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Stay put. I’ll put the Japs on it. They’ve been dying to help, now we’ll find out if they’re as good as they say they are.”
“No, I started it, I’ll finish it.”
“When?”
“This time tomorrow she’ll be toast. You can count on it.” Horace didn’t want the Japs involved. If they took care of it, maybe Striker wouldn’t need him anymore.
“Alright. I’ll keep them in reserve. And don’t blame yourself about tonight, no way you coulda known she’d be in the bathroom with a gun. It was just bad luck.”
“Yeah, bad luck.” Horace grimaced. His side was killing him.
“Stay cool,” Striker said. “If we pull this off, we’re gonna have enough money to go live on a Caribbean island for the rest of our lives, sun, sea and more girls than you’ll know what to do with.”
“Right.”
Striker hung up.
Horace thought about the conversation as he replaced his own receiver. Striker had talked to him like a partner, not like an employee. Why did he do that? Was there a lot more in this for him, or was Striker just setting him up? He sighed. And how come Striker took off following the broad after he’d heard the gunshots? Who the fuck did he think the bitch was shooting at anyway?
Horace shrugged. Maybe Striker didn’t hear the shots. Maybe he did and didn’t think about the consequences. Whatever, point is he’d never known Striker to lie. If he said there was gonna be a big payoff, there was gonna be a big payoff.
For a second his thoughts were clouded with the boy. That was bad. No kid should have to die. But then he thought about what Striker had said. The sun, sea and more girls than he could count. Sometimes sacrifices had to be made.
“Horace.” Sadie climbed up on the barstool next to him.
“Hi.” He touched the makeshift bandage on his forehead with a finger, then put the finger to his lips.
“Gotcha.” She knew enough not to say anything in front of others. Horace admired that.
“Let’s get a booth.”
“No, let’s go to my place. You look like you could use some serious attention.”
“Nobody’s ever asked me to their place just like that.”
“We’ll talk about it after we get there. Come on.” She took his hand and led him to the door.
“My van’s in the Safeway lot.” Horace had trouble walking straight.
