At Ease with the Dead (13 page)

“When did your parents die?” I asked her. I sat back against my chair. My hands were throbbing badly now and my muscles were beginning to tighten.

“When I was twelve. An automobile accident.” Her eyes narrowed and she canted her head slightly to the side. “Are you sure you don't want to see a doctor?”

I nodded. “Yeah. But maybe you'd better get me back to the room.”

Concern came over her face. “What if they come back? Those three men.”

“They won't. For all they know, I've been in touch with the police. They won't come anywhere near the motel.”

“But what if they do?”

“They won't.”

“You could stay with us. We've got a spare room.” She smiled. “I won't try to seduce you. I promise.”

I smiled. “No. Thanks, but no.”

She pouted theatrically. “You're really a pain in the ass. Did you know that?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I hear it all the time.”

When she parked the car in the motel lot she turned to me. Her face very serious, she said, “You're sure, now, that you don't want someone to tuck you in?”

“I'm sure, Lisa. Thanks.”

She smiled. “Last chance.”

I smiled back. “I'll probably regret it. And I thank you for the offer. I'm flattered. But it's not a good idea.”

She sighed elaborately. “You're doing wonders for my ego.”

“I think your ego will survive.”

“Ummm,” she said, noncommittally. She leaned toward me and I could smell the faint scent of her perfume. “If you change your mind later, maybe I could give you one more last chance.”

“I won't be changing my mind.”

“Call me if you do.”

“Yeah.” My throat was constricted. Damage from the fight, no doubt.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“Yeah.”

She laughed. “Good.” She came still closer and kissed me lightly on the cheek. She sat back, smiling. “Think about it,” she said.

After she drove away, I went to the front desk and changed rooms. Not because I was worried about her returning for my maidenhead, although the thought did occur to me, but in case the three men came back. As I'd told her, I didn't think they would. But no harm in a few simple precautions.

The new room was only two doors down from the office, which made it, by my lights, a decided improvement. It took me a while, with two battered paws, to get my stuff moved over there, but finally I was set. I popped a couple codeine tabs, crawled carefully into bed, and waited for the pain to fall away. After a half an hour it did, and then the stocking masks stopped advancing toward me, and then I fell asleep.

The cops came for me the next morning at ten o'clock.

12

W
hen I woke up and tried to move, I felt as though I were constructed of old two-by-fours and rusty hinges. I forced myself out of the bed, across the carpet, into the bathroom. Forced myself to take a hot shower. The bandages and the wounds made it a piece of slapstick. Afterward, even more gingerly than I had last night, I dressed myself. I had just finished changing my bandages when the pounding began at the door.

Too loud to be Lisa Wright. And not likely, in broad daylight, to be three men in stocking masks. I walked to the door and called out, “Who is it?”

“Police,” came a male voice from the other side.

I opened the door. There were two of them, uniformed cops, both about my height, both looking bulky in their dark blue satin jackets, and both with their guns drawn.

The one in front—older, in his thirties—had bushy red sideburns below his uniform cap, and a sprinkling of reddish-brown freckles across his broad pale white face. The other was a young Hispanic—olive skin, a wispy Zapata mustache.

“Hands in the air,” snapped the redhead. “Back up.”

Never argue with a man holding a gun. I raised my hands and stepped backward, into the middle of the room.

The redhead came in first, crouching low, the butt of his service revolver in both hands as he glanced quickly around the room. The Hispanic followed him, blinking, dark eyes darting nervously. The hammer of his revolver was uncocked. I was grateful. Twitchy as he was, if the gun had been cocked I could've been dead in an instant.

The redhead turned to me. “You Croft?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Can you tell me what this is about?” Cops like an asshole to treat them politely. An asshole is anybody they're pointing a gun at. Right now, for whatever reason, I was an asshole.

“Watch him,” he said to the Hispanic, then crossed over to the bathroom and disappeared inside. I heard the shower curtain hiss as he yanked it back.

The Hispanic licked his lips nervously, his glance sliding between me and the bathroom. So far, he was the one who bothered me most. If the redhead shot me, it wouldn't be by accident.

A moment later the redhead returned to the room, holding the pistol with its barrel pointed toward the floor. “Took ourselves a shower, didn' we, boy?” A redneck Texas drawl.

He looked down at the waste basket. He reached down and, using the tips of his thumb and index finger, lifted out one of the gauze bandages I'd thrown there fifteen minutes ago.

He held it up for the Hispanic to see. “Got us some blood here,” he said flatly.

The Hispanic nodded, licking his lips again.

I said to the redhead, “I scraped my hands yesterday.” I nodded upward, indicating the new bandages.

“Uh-huh,” he said. He lay the bandage carefully on the dresser, then came across the room. He eyed the gouge on my cheek, centered now atop a lavender bruise. “Got ourselves bung-up too,” he said. He reached out his left hand and jabbed his thumb, twisting it, into the wound. “Didn' we?”

I jerked my head away. Involuntarily I clenched my fists. Pain from the injured palms shot down my arm.

The redhead saw me wince, and he grinned. The irises of his eyes were pale gray, the pupils large and black. “Take the position, boy,” he said. “Up against the wall.”

I moved to the wall and leaned forward. Cautiously, I put my weight on the fingertips; even so, the pressure tore at my flayed skin.

“Spread 'em,” he said, tapping me with the gun barrel, not very lightly, on the hip.

I moved my legs apart. Quickly, competently, the redhead frisked me.

“Right arm,” said the redhead.

I eased away from the wall and brought my right arm down. He grabbed my hand and, deliberately, he squeezed it between thick fingers and dug his thumb into its center. The flash of pain was so intense my knees nearly buckled. He clicked on the cuffs, tightly, then said, “Left arm.”

I inhaled and lowered my left arm. He did the same thing again. My breathing was beginning to get a little ragged.

He turned me around so that my back was to the bed. Holstering his pistol, he smiled at me. “You sweatin', boy.”

“Warm in here,” I said.

“Uh-huh.” He turned to the Hispanic. “Warm in here, Jimmy.”

Still standing by the doorway, the Hispanic nodded and licked his lips some more. “Right, Lee.” His pistol, I was pleased to see, was back in its holster. He stood with his thumbs hooked over the buckle of his belt, but the posture didn't quite come off. He was still new enough for it to seem like a pose.

The redhead poked his forefinger in my chest. He didn't need much force—with my hands manacled behind me, my center of gravity was off. I stumbled backward a step.

“Why'd you kill her, boy?” he asked me.

I think I'd known since they arrived that it was a killing. Their guns, their hard-ass entrance, their interest in the bloody bandage.

Lisa? Had someone gotten to Lisa?

“Who's dead?” I said.

“Who's dead,” he repeated. He turned to the Hispanic, smiling. “He wants to know who's dead, Jimmy.”

“Right,” Jimmy said, and smiled. Like the posture, the smile didn't entirely succeed.

The redhead poked me in the chest again, harder this time. I stumbled backward till my legs were against the bed.

I'd been thumped around a lot lately. Stupidly, I said, “Why don't you take off the cuffs and try that again?”

He grinned widely. “Tough boy.” Over his shoulder, to the Hispanic: “We got us a tough boy here, Jimmy.”

“Look,” I said, already regretting the mistake. “I'm a licensed private detective. My credentials are in the wallet in my back pocket. I'll be happy to answer any questions you've got.”

The redhead found this all very engaging. He didn't once stop grinning. “Oh, I know you will, boy. I know that.” He unclipped the portable radio from his belt, fiddled with it, frowned heavily, then turned to the Hispanic.

“Radio's broke,” he told him. “Go out to the car and tell 'em we got him. Wait out there for me.”

If they were playing this to the standard script, right now would be a good time for Jimmy to reveal himself as the Good Cop.

The Hispanic blinked uncertainly and licked his lips once more. “I dunno, Lee.”

“Go on ahead, Jimmy.” The redhead grinned. “This boy resists arrest, I'll just subdue him some.”

The Hispanic's glance shifted between me and the other cop. “Jeeze, Lee …” His voice was beginning to shift up the register.

The older cop shook his head. “Just do it, Jimmy. Now.”

Jimmy looked at me again, caught his lower lip between his teeth, then turned and left the room. His shoulders seemed hunched together as he pulled the door shut behind him.

I would've preferred the standard script. I wasn't very happy with this one.

The redhead grinned at me as though reading my mind. He reached into his jacket pocket, and when his hand came out it was holding a small black device about the size of a transister radio. Two shiny silver-colored electrodes, each an inch long, protruded from one end.

A stun gun.

The redhead said seriously, “Amazing, ain't it? Fifty thousand volts. All in this one tiny little package. Don't leave no marks neither. No scars, nothin'. You ever tried one, boy?” He pressed a button on the thing and a bolt of bright blue light sizzled between the electrodes.

“Cute,” I said.

He grinned again. “Tough boy.”

He jabbed it at me, hitting me in the chest. What I felt was beyond pain. Every cell in my body exploded. My heart stopped, my breath stopped, the universe stopped. Something collapsed to the bed and I realized after a moment that it was me. My feet were hanging off the mattress and I was lying on my wounded hands.

Somehow I rolled onto my side.

My ears were still roaring when I felt him put his knee on the bed. He grabbed at my hair and he said softly, almost crooning, “They say it don't do no permanent damage, but they mean when you use it only the one time. Who knows what happens you use it twenny times? Thirty times? Fifty thousand volts, boy. Got to put some hard duty on the old ticker, don't you figure? So you just tell me, boy. Why'd you kill her?”

I took a deep breath. “Later,” I said. “I'm going to find you later.”

He laughed then. He let go of my hair and pushed me over onto my stomach, held me down with a fist between the shoulder blades.

And then he jammed the electrodes into the palm of my left hand.

The hand, and the rest of me, was ripped suddenly apart.

When everything cleared again, I could hear him saying, “… C'mon now, boy, you don't want to get yourself hurt serious.”

I was having a hard time getting oxygen into my lungs.

The redhead was whispering. “… Use it on a guy's privates enough times, he just ain't no good no more. I figure—”

I heard the door slam open, crash against the doorstop.

Jimmy?

A new voice, deep and growly and clipped. “Farrell.”

I felt the big red-haired cop stand away from the bed, heard him say, “Right, Sarge, just checkin' him for weapons. I got-”

“Hand it over.”

“Sergeant—”

“I'm not gonna say it again.”

A pause.

The redhead's voice. “Shit. Didn' hurt him none. You can see he's the guy done it.”

The deep voice: “Get him off there.”

Hands gripped my upper arms, pulled me away from the bed. Light-headed, breathless, I was swung around until I faced a fat man in a shiny blue suit. He wore a white shirt tight against his round belly, and a black bolo tie clasped with a chunk of polished malachite. He was bald and he needed a shave, and the pug nose and the bags beneath his brown eyes made him look like a world-weary pig. He was beautiful. My second
deus ex machina
in twenty-four hours.

“Uncuff him,” he said to the redhead.

The redhead moved behind me and freed my wrists. I brought them around and tried to rub the circulation back. Difficult with bandaged palms.

“Who died?” I asked the fat man.

“Alice Wright.”

My body sagged. “Jesus.”

The fat man said to Farrell. “Out. You and Jimenez take off.”

His pale gray eyes narrowed, the redhead glanced at me, looked me over, memorizing everything, then turned and left, walking past the fat man and out the door. He left it open. The fat man pushed it shut and turned to me. “I'm Mendez.”

I nodded. “Okay with you if I get a glass of water?”

He nodded.

I walked, still woozy, across a thousand miles of carpet to the bathroom. Found the water glass, ran the faucet, filled it. My hands were shaking again. I was turning into Barney Fife. I drank the water and looked in the mirror. The gouge on my cheek was bleeding. With the back of my hand, I wiped the blood away.

Alice Wright dead. A regal woman.

Deal with it later. Right now deal with the fat man.

I went back into the bedroom.

Mendez had pulled the chair out from the flimsy writing desk, turned it around and straddled it, belly pressed against its slats, arms folded atop its back. He nodded to the bed. “Take a pew.”