The Original Alibi (Matt Kile) (19 page)

After chatting back and forth about everything and nothing, we took coffee in china cups brought in by the cleavage from the front counter. Styrofoam in this office would be a crime punishable by banishment from the ranks of the employed.

“Mr. Franklin, other than the general’s will, what legal matters do you handle for him?”

“I do the legal end of all his business dealings. Look over limited partnership agreements he might be considering investing in. The leases he uses for a small apartment building he owns near the Long Beach traffic circle. He sometimes buys or sells real estate and a few times he has invested in a couple of small businesses. The last six months or so, he’s divested himself of many of those holdings.”

“Getting his estate in order?”

“Something like that, yes.” After a pause he added, “The general’s instructions were that I was to give you a copy of his latest will. It has been mailed to you.”

I nodded while mouthing the words, “I got it.”

“The general asked that I cooperate with you. What is it you’d like to know?”

“Has he recently changed his will?”

“No. We prepared the current will about five years ago, perhaps a little farther back than that.”

“I’d like a copy of the former will, the one he changed from, also the one in effect at the time of the murder of Ileana Corrigan.”

“I don’t know, Mr. Kile. The general said to give you a copy of his will. Then again, the general said to cooperate fully with whatever you wanted to know. All right, his former will dates back fifteen years so that would have been before the Corrigan woman’s death. Do you want anything farther back than that? I think we had one, but it involved Benjamin, his son, before his death.”

“Skip that one. The one I have and the former one executed fifteen years ago will be fine.”

Franklin buzzed his receptionist, told her what he wanted and we chatted about the L.A. Lakers until she brought it in. I left a few minutes later, resisting a desire to approach Franklin’s receptionist. At this point it seemed a little too strong a mix of business and pleasure. The polka dot dress in the elevator was still in play, although what might come from that would be up to her.

Chapter 24

Whomp. Whomp. Whomp. I opened my eyes to see a guy in a ski mask slamming his fist into my navel; it didn’t fit. The blows had somehow brought me around. I hadn’t felt anything before that, but the way his chest was heaving he had been working hard on me long enough for sweat moons to have formed under his arms. I knew I had taken more than three blows. My feet were off the ground, my hands tied above my head. That allowed me to swing back and forth a bit with each blow. He timed his punches so I would swing forward to meet each of them.

The last thing I remembered, I walked out of Russell’s restaurant on Atlantic Avenue just north of Carson Street. I had parked in the back lot along the alley. Then I remembered my head being hit, after that I remember only now, now with nothing in between.

I was trussed up like a carcass from a hunt, and that’s likely how my friend in the ski mask saw me. My hands were tied, but they didn’t feel super tight. I fought against the binds without progress. A blow struck the left of my jaw. Thump. Then just below my right ear. Schwap. The meaty part of my face came into play for a while. After that, he zoned in just below the eye where body design forgot to leave any padding. Crunk. Crunk. The internal sounds of blows to the face varied according to bone density and tissue thickness. He was an equal opportunity thug as he worked one side of my head and then the other. The man was nasty and clearly enjoyed his work. I did not.

I thought about how I would enjoy returning his kindness, should events give me that opportunity. I looked around the room and saw no vise. I had always wondered how well a man would hold up with his testicles in a vise, his in particular.

Then he left the room. I was alone. I tried to take inventory. It appeared I was in an industrial building. One light was on, a lamp sitting on a metal bookcase against the wall near the single door through which my keeper had exited. There was also a big door, a loading type that had a chain pulley next to it for raising and lowering. The ceiling was dotted with hooks, big hooks. Meat hooks, or ones that looked like meat hooks, spaced evenly along a chain belt likely controlled by a switch somewhere that moved the entire row around the room. The whole set up looked like the thing on which your local dry cleaner hangs clothes. Only, if this had been a conveyor belt for a dry cleaner, it took some serious steroids. More like hooks which might move hanging car fenders through a paint booth, and I was suspended on one of them. The walls appeared to be metal, the floor concrete. I swung my legs up enough to see there was duct tape around my ankles, likely from the same roll used to tape my mouth. I wrenched my head back and saw that my hands were bound at the wrist with a white cord that had been looped above the hook.

Screeeeech, the metal door dragged on the cement floor. My keeper had come back. The only good thing, he still wore the ski mask. It was warm. He would be uncomfortable. If he planned to use me as a punching bag until I no longer offered entertainment, and then kill me, he would have left the mask off and gone for comfort. I imagined him ugly, as in if I had a dog that ugly I would shave his butt and teach him to walk backwards.

Thump. Thump. This visit he came to work on my stomach, chest, and kidneys. At least that’s where he started. Thump. Thwack. That last one landed on my chest, those sound different. More hollow. At least they do on the inside. Thump, the stomach. Thump again, then twice more. Thwack. Thwack. These two absorbed by the other side of my chest. Whatever he was being paid, he was earning it. Normally I respect a man who takes pride in his work, but not so much when I’m the work. The number of blows disappeared within the pain which had quit ebbing and flowing between blows and became a constant with periodic highlights. The repetition would have been monotonous, if not for the hurt. Instead, I focused on keeping count of the seconds my host spent with me. The last time we had been together a little over 800 seconds.

Thwack. I felt it immediately. That thwack. I knew that feeling. I had felt that feeling before. A broken rib, cracked at the very least. It had to happen. With my feet off the floor I was stretched out. My body’s ability to absorb the blows diminished. Damn.

My personal skier was panting. He was tired. If he had the tape off my mouth I could have suggested we change places for a while so he could rest. Then he switched to my face. He had fast hands. He threw good combinations.

Seven hundred and fifty seconds and counting.

The inside of my mouth was getting mushy from repeatedly being slammed against my teeth, particularly after I became too tired to hold my lower jaw up against my upper teeth. My right eye was cut. I felt the blood worm trailing down the side of my face, tasted it in my mouth.

My head dropped down, my chin held there by my chest. Blood flavored saliva trailed out the corner of my mouth.

After standing back for a moment, admiring his work, he quit. His chest heaved as he turned to close the door.

Eight hundred forty seven seconds.

Both visits had lasted about fourteen minutes. I had also counted the seconds between his visits with me. They ran closer to nine hundred. I had roughly fifteen minutes to try and reset the table or our next meeting would go much like the last two.

Chapter 25

It would only get worse after he came back to deliver another pummeling. I took the first minute to hang free, my weight fully on my wrists, willing the rest of my body to relax. The hook I hung on had to look like the others. The hook itself was the curved bottom end of a rod that extended up until it became part of the conveyor system that ran across the ceiling.

I swung back and forth a bit, and with the momentum I tucked and lifted much like a gymnast pulling up chest high on an overhead bar. Of course, the gymnasts didn’t do it with a broken rib. Then again, the gymnasts weren’t motivated to prevent another beating.

On the third swing I was able to lurch my hands upward to grasp the upper part of the rod rather than simply having the cord that tied my wrists suspend me from the hook. With that hold I swung higher, tucking my knees on the forward swings, and my hips when swinging backward. The tape on my mouth suppressed my groans from the pulsing rib pain. After a half dozen swings I got the necessary height and tried to loop one heel through the slope of the hook in front of me. Missed. The hook swung away and I went back to regaining the momentum I needed for a second try. Missed. A third. Missed. On the fourth, my right heel seated into the hook and I twisted my foot to put my toes behind the rod above that hook.

The heel of my left foot had been gouged as it cut across the hook which had seeded between my feet. I resembled a fighter plane with one wing sheared off. Still, much of my weight was off my hands. That had been the idea. The next move was critical. I needed to leverage enough of my weight onto my stirruped foot to allow me to pull my hands away fast enough that the cord tying my hands would not slide down to again snag onto the hook. If I succeeded I would fall to the floor. I hoped to land on my feet, but I had no idea how I would accomplish it. That would require a flip I was wholly incapable of doing, first starting toward the floor with my head and then flipping to my feet. Yeah. Right. Still, I had very few, make that no, options at this point. I pushed down with my right heel while releasing my hands from the rod. Almost simultaneously, I violently yanked my hands back and away from hook. The floor was about seven feet from where my nearly horizontal body began the fall.

I hit the concrete. The impact absorbed by the side of my buttocks and my upper arm. The pain from my rib was piercing. The tape across my mouth was all that kept me from crying out. I lay there stunned, knowing I had to get moving or the fall to the floor would have been endured for nothing. I was free from the hook. That alone meant only that my personal skier would need to rehang me should he come in before I was ready to receive him.

Before my bad gymnastics bit, while I was just hanging around, I had put together a plan for overpowering my jailer, a plan which might kill him. Ask me if I cared about that. Fortunately, he had tied my hands in front before lifting me high enough to impale me on hook number eight. Yes, they all had numbers. My foot had been suspended on hook seven.

I needed more time. I needed more luck. I needed my plan to work.

After rolling over a few times I got to the sidewall. There, I leveraged myself into a standing position by inching my body up the wall. The first thing I did was to pull the tape from my mouth. Next, I picked up a spare hook from the floor and wriggled my way over to a metal chair. There, sitting, I held the loose hook in my hands and poked and tore at the cord around my wrist until the hook had weakened it sufficiently for me to pull my hands free.

I hadn’t been able to keep count of the seconds due to the effort and concentration of getting off the hook and onto the floor. If my jailer stayed on his prior schedule, I might be ready. I had to be ready. I didn’t want to again play punching bag to his Joe Palooka. I needed a couple more minutes to get things set up the way I wanted. In case he returned before I was ready, my hands were free and I still held the spare hook. But I wanted it to go the way I had it planned.

My feet were still bound so I stayed in the chair and worked the tape until I got them free. I could move faster now. I took down the lamp and unplugged it. Next I yanked the cord out of the lamp. That got me a bare wire, two wires actually, holding each I pulled them away from one another stripping the wires from the insulation that had been around them.

The lamp cord was about eight feet long and I had stripped back about six of those feet, using my teeth to bite and pull off the wrapping so I had exposed wire. I wrapped one of the two wires around the metal handle of the all metal door and the other end around the pin that protruded about a half an inch above the lower hinge. Then I put the chair near the wall socket, held the plug in one hand and the loose hook as a weapon in the other, and waited.

*

Axel and Buddha had only been watching Eddie’s car for about three minutes when he came out of the biker bar, got into his car and drove away. Forty minutes later, Eddie pulled into the general’s driveway. He parked in garage four of the Whittaker’s five-car garage, giving the impression he had roosted for the night.

*

After what seemed five minutes, the metal knob on the steel door into the room where I waited turned and the door dragged along the concrete as it swung in. When I saw clearly that it was my jailer with his hand still on the metal knob, I slid the plug into the wall socket. While I did this he noticed I was no longer impaled on the hook. But his realization lagged behind my plug in. The lamp stayed dark, but the jailer, his body now part of the circuit, went onto his toes and seemed to shimmy there. I was enjoying watching his wattage dance, but after a minute or so I pulled the plug back out.

He dropped to the cement floor. Not moving. I pulled out the plug, then removed a gun from his waistband and went out to look into the outer room. There was no one else. I went back inside.

For good measure or perhaps just for sheer joy, I folded the metal chair closed and slammed it into his head, then I did it two more times. I had seen this done on televised wrestling matches and it always looked to be such fun.