Daddy Cool (9 page)

The bum waved his hand in farewell. He was only too glad to see the man he considered a fool leave. All the time Daddy Cool had been talking, the bum had been afraid that the man would change his mind and try to keep the five dollars. Now that he had the money clutched tightly in his fist, he hurried away, wanting to put as much distance between him and the giver as possible.

Daddy Cool grinned as he watched the bum hurrying away. Without another backward glance, Daddy Cool made his way to the nearest main street and hailed a cab for the short trip back to his hotel.

He went immediately up to his room and relaxed. After taking a quick shower, Daddy Cool removed the two knives from the bag. He began practicing with them until he was well acquainted with each one. After an hour of steady knife throwing, he knew he could hit his target without any trouble. He now handled the two knives as if they had been in his hands since birth.

Moving with slow deliberation, Daddy Cool removed the picture of the man he was tracing from his coat and studied it closely. When he finished, he replaced the picture. After dressing in an old dark-blue suit that was at least ten years old, Daddy Cool placed a man's wig on his head. The wig was a bushy natural. He studied the effects of his appearance in the mirror.

Not quite satisfied, he took out a jar and opened it. He began applying the lotion from the jar onto the palms of his hands, then slowly rubbed it evenly over his face. After about ten minutes, he replaced the lid. The effect of the lotion was instantly recognizable.

His skin color had changed slightly. Now he appeared to be much darker than normal. The tanning process had worked quickly. Instead of there being a light-skinned black man, now there was a brown-complexioned man staring back at him out of the old dresser mirror. Taking his time, Daddy Cool went into the toilet and washed his hands, making sure there were no traces of the mixture he had used.

Daddy Cool took one more look at himself in the mirror before leaving. After that, he let himself out into the hallway. Daddy Cool walked down the stairway and made his way into the lobby. He bought a cup of coffee out of the machine, then found a soft cushioned chair and sat down. He picked up an old newspaper lying on the table and hid his face behind it. The seat he took allowed him to see everybody who came in and out of the hotel door.

He was visible only to the people who walked in the area on the right side of the desk. True, anyone taking the stairway up or down would be able to see him clearly, but for the people coming in and going up to the desk, he would only be an outline.

For the next two days Daddy Cool continued to keep his close watch on the lobby. On the morning of the third day he broke luck. The man he had been waiting for walked through the entrance of the hotel carrying an overnight bag.

It dawned on Daddy Cool at once that his prey was just returning to the hotel from some trip. For the past days the man hadn't been living at the hotel. The key to the man's room was behind the desk on a peg, which Daddy Cool had noticed before. Now the desk clerk took the key down and pushed it under the bulletproof glass that separated the clerk from his customers.

From out of the corner of his eye, Daddy Cool watched the man take the key and head for the elevator. The man looked around the lobby nervously before the elevator arrived and he stepped inside the cubicle. From his movements Daddy Cool knew that the man was nervous. That much, at least, was obvious to anybody.

As the door closed behind the man and the elevator started up, Daddy Cool began to put his plan together. It had been impossible for him to make any complete plans earlier because he hadn't been sure that the man was still staying at the hotel. Now that he was sure, he could get the job over and done with. And the sooner the better.

He quickly dismissed the idea of just knocking on the man's door and making the hit on him when he opened it. Anything could go wrong with the hit if he tried it that way. The man might come to the door with a pistol in his hand or somebody could step out of an apartment just when he got ready to knock the sucker off.

No, it would have to be done in a different way. But how? The question leaped through his mind. How? How? How? Ruthlessly he dismissed one idea after another until he thought his head would burst.

The last thing he wanted to do was expose himself to danger. It would have to be done smoothly. There could be no mistake.

On the third day of his constant watch, Daddy Cool decided that something would have to be done to bring things to a head. He was tired of sitting in the lobby with the old people who made up most of the customers in the hotel. Walking over to the coffee machine, Daddy Cool bought his fourth cup of coffee, then walked back to his seat and sat down.

If only, Daddy Cool reflected, the bastard would leave his room at night. He had waited and hoped that he could catch his prey out in the streets somewhere, but the man never went out at night. Daddy Cool glanced at his watch. It was almost one o'clock in the morning. The midnight clerk had come on duty.

Daddy Cool had just about made up his mind to turn in for the night when suddenly the man he stalked came hurrying out of the elevator. The man glanced right and left as he walked swiftly across the lobby. Daddy Cool waited until the doors had closed behind the hurrying figure, then he got up and began following him.

Daddy Cool was just in time to see his man get into a cab. He glanced up and down the nearly deserted street, cursing under his breath as his keen eyes saw the empty street. He cursed harshly as he realized that it was his own fault. He hadn't bothered to rent a car since he had believed he would end up making the hit inside the hotel.

Suddenly Daddy Cool saw bright headlights swing onto the boulevard from one of the smaller side streets. Quickly he stepped out into the street from the curb. He raised his hands in the air and began to wave wildly, all the time trying to keep the car in front of him in his eyesight.

The cab driver started to stop. But it seemed as though, as soon as the driver saw that it was a black man trying to wave him down, he pressed down on the gas pedal and the cab leaped forward.

"You cocksucker," Daddy Cool yelled after the disappearing cab.

He turned on his heels and retraced his steps back toward the entrance of the hotel. More angry at himself than he was with the cab driver, Daddy Cool stopped in front of the hotel. It was too hot, he reasoned, to be shut up in the tiny hotel room. Even though there was a slight breeze blowing, the night air seemed to be choking him.

As he started to walk around the block his mind returned to the subject that constantly stayed with him-his wayward daughter. If only he could keep her off his mind he would be able to take care of the job he was sent out to do. So far, all he could do was reflect on the mistakes he had made since arriving on the West Coast.

Altogether, he had made too many errors. In his line of work, mistakes were very costly. At the rate he was going, he reflected, he would end up paying the dues he owed, too. For the obvious reason, he just couldn't bring his full concentration to the job at hand. Janet. Janet would be his damn downfall if he didn't change his ways.

He couldn't help but wonder if there had been any changes in the young girl's mind since she had left. Enough time had passed. She had been gone long enough to forgive her father for what he had done in the heat of his anger. There was no reason for her still to hold a grudge against him, yet he realized that was what was wrong. Her temper, just like his own, was her worst enemy. When angry, she didn't take time to think anything out; she just reacted.

As he continued to walk, deep in his moody thoughts, he failed to notice the group of six young boys who turned around and started to follow him on the narrow side street. The darkness of the street suited his black mood. The six boys crossed over so that they were now about fifty feet behind him. Their steps picked up as they started to gain on the tall black man in front of them.

Any other time, Daddy Cool would have recognized the danger he was walking into. But now, with his mind three thousand miles away, he never even glanced up when the loud sounds of hurrying footsteps should have warned him of approaching danger.

The first warning he had was when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He glanced around without really thinking of what he was doing.

"What the hell," Daddy Cool managed to say; then his keen nerves sent warning signs that almost exploded in his head. You fool, he cursed himself. What the hell have you allowed yourself to walk into? The question inside his mind was never answered. Before he could figure out some kind of defense, another hand touched him on the other shoulder.

Daddy Cool was a product of the ghetto streets, so by nature he knew what a trick would run into. Yet he had allowed himself to fall into the very same trap that tricks ran into every day when they slummed in the black neighborhood after dark. It was even possible that the young group of boys had mistaken him for a white man in the dark. Whatever the reason, only swift action would save him now. Even though the gang now realized that it wasn't a white man they had stopped, they were too far committed to back off now. Whatever the result, they would play it to the end.

Knowing that swift action was the only thing that would save him, Daddy Cool still hesitated a second too long. When he did make his move, he was seconds too late. One of the boys had his arm pinned behind his back, while another large black boy slammed him twice in the stomach. The vicious punches brought a gasp of pain from their victim. Daddy Cool bent double from the blow. Another fist struck him behind the neck.

Daddy Cool felt like a fool. The beating he was taking was all because of his stupidity. If he had kept his mind open and alert, none of this would be happening. Suddenly he felt a hand feeling around in his back pocket. He wanted to scream out for them to take it, just take the money and leave him alone. He knew that there was only about two hundred dollars in the wallet, plus some funny identification. He wouldn't miss the money or the ID. He only prayed that his attackers wouldn't hurt him too badly.

So instead of trying to resist, he played possum. He went limp in the hands that held him up, allowing the hoodlums to do what they would, trying to show them that he wasn't going to give them any trouble. To fight back would only bring down worse punishment on him. Since he couldn't reach the knives he carried strapped to his back, there wasn't too much he could do with just his hands.

"I got it!" a young excited voice called out.

"Make sure, goddamn it," a huskier voice answered. "Remember last time, ya ran off with the fuckin' wallet and wasn't nothin' in it."

"Shit," the excited voice came again, "this bastard was loaded. It's full of big bills."

Daddy Cool was thankful that they had found the money. Now, with luck, they would run off and leave him alone. But even as the fleeting thought ran across his mind, he was struck viciously against the side of his head. A moan escaped from him, and the pain reached him with a jar. He realized now that the young hoodlums might just decide to kill him in case he had recognized one of them.

He grabbed his head and tried to fall to the ground. Strong arms still held him tightly, so he managed only to wiggle around in their grasp. Instantly, blows began to rain on him from all sides. Again he tried to break the grip that held him. Fear gave him strength so that he finally got one arm free.

"Goddamn it," he cursed loudly, "take the money, you bastards, and go!" He screamed loudly, his voice rose to a pitch that he couldn't recognize.

For his troubles, he received a blow in the mouth that he knew cut his lips. He could taste the fresh blood running from the cut.

"Not yet, you motherfucker," a harsh voice stated.

Then all the pain in the world burst loose in his nuts as one of his attackers kicked him viciously between the legs.

Without warning, the pavement came up and struck him in the face. He lay stretched out on the cold ground as he heard the footsteps running away in the dark. He knew he should be thankful, but the pain he was feeling was too great. He couldn't understand what he should be thankful for. It seemed like hours, but it had only been seconds, when he heard a woman's voice speaking to him. It sounded as if she was a long way away.

"Are you all right, mister? We saw them boys attacking you from our car and waited until they let you go before we got out." The woman seemed to be waiting for an answer; then she spoke to the other person with her.

"Sally, maybe we should call the police. He seems to be hurt real bad."

"You want me to drive up and find a pay phone somewhere?" Sally asked.

For a second the other woman hesitated, then spoke sharply. There was fear in her voice. "No way, honey, you ain't 'bout to leave me standing out here in the dark. Shit, them niggers might come back!"

At the mention of the police, Daddy Cool's mind began to work. He knew he couldn't stand any police questions. There was even the chance they might search him and, when they found the knives he carried, he would be in a world of trouble.

"No police," he managed to say. "Please, just help me to my feet," he begged the woman nearest to him.

As she began to lift him up, he tried to help her, but the pain was too great. He let out a loud moan.

"Damn, honey," the woman lifting him said, "you're hurt real bad, man. Maybe you better go to the hospital and let them look at you."

From somewhere, Daddy Cool found the strength to stand up. He managed to stand on his own feet, with the woman's helpful arms around him. "I'll be okay," he mumbled. "If I can get back to my home, I'll be able to handle it from there."

The woman stared at him curiously. "Well, it's your own business, but if it was me, I'd sure as hell go to the hospital and let them have a look at me."

Daddy Cool knew the woman was right, but he couldn't stand being undressed at the hospital, not as long as he carried the brace of knives strapped to his back. Maybe after stashing the weapons in his room he could then take the risk of going and getting medical help, but not until after he had cleaned up.