Interface (Crime Masterworks) (19 page)

Frustrated, Peeler sprang back. He weaved, crouched, feinted.

Light gleamed on Docker’s long blond hair. He was in a crouch himself now. Rizzato lunged. But somehow Docker was not there, was circling his opponent with his jerky, lopsided step. Able to put full weight on the right knee which, though it still made him limp, seemed to have miraculously recovered its full strength.

Rizzato gave a pattering uneasy step or two.

And Docker laughed. ‘It’s the fear,’ he said mockingly.

Their circling had carried them away from the cars, out into the open. The garage was deserted. Sudden, almost blind fury flooded across Peeler Rizzato’s face. He came bolt upright for a moment, his eyes wild. He sputtered, ‘You … it’s … you
fucker
!’

On the last word, he lunged.

As he did, Docker gave a tremendous screeching bellow that checked the knifeman’s flow of movement for a millisecond of time. In that briefest of instants, Docker’s left hand snapped forward so steel fingers could slam shut around Peeler’s wrist like a jail sentence. The hand went in and up and around, carrying Peeler’s arm with it; Docker’s shoulder jolted up under Peeler’s elbow but Docker’s left hand kept right on going down.

Peeler’s elbow was dislocated with a sound like a housewife ripping a dustcloth. The knife rattled on the concrete. The imprisoning hand kept moving, so Peeler perforce followed it screeching with pain.

This brought his face forward and down, into the path of the calloused, awful edge of Docker’s other hand, being driven out and up in a backhand lash.

Peeler saw it coming; he died squealing his terror. The knife edge of the hand entered his face just under the nose. Front teeth, violently separated roots and all from the gums, flew out from the little killer’s face like popping corn; needles of splintered nasal bone were rammed up into the jelly-like substance of his brain’s frontal lobes.

Docker sprang nimbly back, let the dying husk go down face forward. Blood poured across the concrete, spattering the tips of Docker’s well-polished shoes. Docker turned and limped blindly away, stood with his bare palm resting on the polished fender of somebody’s car. His color was that of a spent distance runner just before he collapses of mild shock and vomits on the cinders.

‘He had to die,’ Docker said aloud.

No one answered him. From behind him came the echoing mechanized voice intoning PLEASE WALK ON AND OFF RAMP.

‘HE HAD TO DIE!’ Docker shouted at the voice.

The voice continued its mindless litany of instruction. Docker seemed to be coming out of it a little. He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes. He bent, peered at himself in the car’s side-mirror. It gave him back a pair of staring, terrified eyes in a dread-filled face.

‘Too much blood,’ he said to the face. ‘Too many dead.’ Then he found a hollow laugh. ‘The little wop took it out of you, didn’t he, Docker?’

His image mouthed his own words but did not respond. He nodded solemnly, put back on his glasses, shot a quick look around the garage. Far down the aisle he could see three people walking.

Docker toed the insignificant corpse under the nearest car, wiping his shoe-tips on it in the process, recovered attaché case and car keys. Somewhere a car motor started, throbbed. He saw a car beginning to back out, down by the escalator shaft.

He slipped on his gloves as he got into the Montego, then slid down so the top of his head did not show above the window line. He waited. His precautions were unnecessary. The car turned up one of the aisles leading to the exit ramp before getting down to his end of the garage.

Before leaving, Docker got back out, went over to the car he had leaned upon after killing Rizzato, and with the elbow of his topcoat carefully wiped his palm print from the fender.

Docker presented his ticket to the pimple-faced woman at the exit gate one floor above, entered the traffic stream which would take him up over the freeway and then down into the south-bound lanes. It was completely dark now, except for the blare of whizzing headlights.

‘Somebody could be back there,’ Docker muttered aloud. He kicked it up to seventy-five, though the Millbrae exit he intended to take was only a long mile south, weaved through slower traffic as if with a release of terrific tension.

At the last possible moment, he jammed the wheel hard enough over so he screamed almost sideways right across three lanes of cars and whipped into the off-ramp in a yelp of scorching rubber and the thunder of serrated, crosswise warning curbs under his tires. Horns blared and brakes shrieked, but nobody hit him; and then the Montego was at a decorous exit-ramp twenty-five that would keep the CHP off its tail.

At El Camino Real, main artery of the Peninsula’s tightly-packed suburban clutter, he went south again. Docker’s fingers drummed the wheel. The mathemetical possibility of a tail still existed: somebody could have been behind him who had anticipated such an exit and had lain far enough back not to be caught napping.

Therefore, a squealing right into Trousdale from the left lane, in front of a station wagon being stood on its nose by its outraged woman driver. Left into Marco Polo, seconds later right into the spacious grounds of Peninsula Hospital, twist the wheel again to shoot into a
DOCTORS ONLY
slot in a small courtyard beyond the arched ambulance entrance, killing lights, motor, and sliding down in the seat all in one motion.

Nothing. No green Plymouth or any other car thrust a questing nose into the courtyard; none passed in the blacktop beyond the arch.

Docker got out of there, for fifteen minutes played around in the curved residential streets lacing the subdivisions rising up the flank of the hills between Burlingame and the sea. Nobody stuck to his mirror for more than a block. Adeline Drive carried him into Hillside, and Hillside soon found the old Skyline which Interstate 280 had rendered obsolete.

Here Docker turned the big car north, back toward the city from which he just had escaped. Thirty feet short of a lonely phone booth, he pulled off on the shoulder. He got out a large flashlight, went over the car quickly and competently for electronic bleepers which might have been placed on the unguarded machine in the airport parking garage. It was clean, but Docker still seemed set on preparing for some final action; he got the long-armed lug wrench from the trunk and put it on the front seat beside the attaché case.

He limped to the phone booth, shut the door long enough to dial, then opened it so he would be in darkness. The car lights were off. He was only a shadow listening to the electronic bleeps and chuckles which would carry him through to his number. As he waited, he stared unseeingly at the great gleaming castles of the airport far below and a couple of miles away.

The operator asked for more money. Interstate 280 whined late commuter traffic south and early fun traffic north. Belatedly, Docker ripped a handkerchief apart with his teeth, stuffed enough of the strips into his mouth to give him the distinctively muffled voice which carried so much greater menace than normal tones ever could.

‘Hariss residence.’ Young voice, female.

‘Give me your father.’

Docker’s tongue adjusted his mouthful of sodden linen. ‘Give me your father.’

Careless clatter of receiver on Formica countertop. Steps receding, teenage voice bawling. Steps returning. Slight scrape of receiver being lifted. Abrupt rattle of another extension being picked up.

‘Walter Hariss speaking.’

‘Get the cunt off the other line.’

After a momentary silence, Hariss’ voice, congested with rage, said, ‘Dawn.’

‘Bi-i-ig deal,’ said the teenage voice. ‘I’ve heard it before.’ But within a few seconds, Docker and Hariss were alone on the line.

‘Listen, you bastard, whoever you are, my family—’

‘It’s Peeler,’ whined Docker in his asthmatic voice. He became querulous. ‘His teeth are all over the floor. I had to wipe his blood off my shoes.’

The silence was longer this time. Hariss’ tense, almost frightened voice said, ‘Gus … Gus is …’

‘His nose is up under his forehead.’ Docker’s laughter almost got away into hysteria. ‘Marquez. Kolinski. Rizzato.’

There was cold terror in the importer’s voice by this time.

‘Doc … Is this Docker? What do you want?’ He was almost whispering. ‘
What is it
, damn you? You’ve got the … the merchandise, the money …’

The operator said, ‘Your three minutes are up, sir, please signal when through.’

‘Thank you, operator.’ Docker laughed again. ‘That’s how long you’ve got, Hariss – as far as I am away from you. Then …’

‘My God!’ whispered Hariss’ new, terrified voice. ‘Lo … look, you’ve got a quarter of a million in dope, street prices. Keep it. You’ve got a hundred-seventy-five thousand cash. Keep it. All—’

‘I want your life, Hariss,’ said Docker in measured tones that carried conviction even through the muffling handkerchief.

‘But … but
why
?’

Docker laughed again. The laughter went into registers where normal laughter never went.

‘Does that matter, Hariss? Your life. Tonight.’

The line was dead. Docker had hung up.

W
alter Hariss hung up the phone with a shaking hand. Sweat was running down his face. He looked around the ornate study with eyes whose whites showed all the way around the pupil, giving his heavy features a slightly owl-like look. The eyes did not seem to register what they were seeing. The shaking hand found a cut-glass whisky decanter, splashed generously into imported glass. Italian glass, hand-blown, $86.76 a dozen wholesale …

The phone was ringing. Walter Hariss raised his head. He looked stupidly at the glass in his hand. It was empty. The level in the decanter on the sideboard was three inches lower.

Panic flooded across his features. His eyes sought the Seth Thomas clock, a thing of chrome and plastic and gleaming brass on the antiqued oak sideboard.

Twelve minutes since Docker’s call. Twelve precious minutes gone.

The phone was still ringing. Walter Hariss ran his hand over his eyes, across his fleshy face, as if attempting to dismiss the nightmare.

The phone had stopped ringing.

His daughter’s footsteps came to the study door. She called through the thick hardwood. ‘I said you were on the other line. He said he’d call back in five minutes.’

‘Who …’ His voice had an odd tone. He stopped, adjusted it, as if to isolate his family from a viral contagion. He’d had an argument with Dawn on the way home, their relationship was still tender. ‘Who was it?’

‘A man named Neil Fargo. He said—’

‘Good! Thank you, Dawn.’ The name seemed to act as adrenalin on him. Intelligence and cunning were once more moving behind his eyes. ‘If I’m on the other line when he calls, tell him to hang on. I want to speak with him. Don’t let him hang up.’

‘I’ll rape him,’ she said through the door in her sexiest tones.

He got out ‘Dawn!’ sharply before recognizing the mockery in her voice. He finished lamely, ‘Whatever you think best, Dawn.’

She went away. He dialled on the other line. After several rings, the voice of Blaney, the overweight Rock Hudson, answered, ‘Bush Street.’

‘Where’s Daggert?’

‘Out for hamburgers, Mr Hariss.’

‘Want to start earning that percentage, Blaney? And there’s fifty cash each in it for you and Daggert besides.’

‘You’re on, Mr Hariss.’

‘Good. Call in a couple of the temporaries, and then as soon as Daggert gets back, you and he come directly to my house, understand? Four-eighty-eight Sea Cliff Avenue, in the traffic circle right beyond Phalen State Beach parking lot.’

Dimly, he heard the other phone ringing, heard his daughter’s voice in the hallway, heard her step outside his door.

‘Daddy …’

He turned from the phone. He called, ‘Right. Thanks, Dawn. I’ll take it in a second.’ Back to the phone. Speaking with the strongarm, his voice had none of the fear it had carried in speaking with Docker. ‘Right away, Blaney, understand?’

‘Got you, Mr Hariss.’

‘I want both of you armed.’

He hung up, picked up the other phone, hesitated momentarily as if he feared it might be another call from Docker; but when he spoke his voice was an executive snap. ‘Is that you, Fargo?’

‘Me. Listen, I’m in a pay phone at the airport. All hell broke loose out here while I was sitting in the middle of a fucking traffic jam at South City. Docker’s gone again. Still by car, not by plane. One of your inside men, some hippie kid, is in custody for trying to steal an attaché case—’

‘Docker’s?’

‘You hired the kid, you know what you told him to do.’ Neil Fargo laughed without any particular mirth. ‘Your other man, that fat little guy dressed up like Robin Hood, was found in the elevator over in the parking garage, out cold. People found him thought he’d had a heart attack. but I saw him and there were some mighty big red marks on his neck. And some lady lost her lunch when she found Peeler stuffed under her car down in the lower level of the garage. So Docker’s been around.’

Hariss was having trouble with his voice again. ‘Gus … ah, had Gus been struck in the face?’

There was surprise in Neil Fargo’s voice. ‘Yeah. Hit under the nose with a hard narrow object. The cops think it was the leaf out of an auto spring, but I know damned well Docker karate-chopped him – I’ve seen that fucker in action before. Peeler would have died of encephalitis from having bone driven up into his brain anyway, but he was DOA when the cops got there. Which means he didn’t make any dying statements, and you’re still in the clear.’

Hariss fought to keep the terror out of his voice. ‘In the clear? I’m not … not in the … Fargo, you’ve got to get up here! Docker called me. Here at home! He said—’

‘I thought your lines were unlisted.’

‘I …’ It was Hariss’ turn for surprise. ‘They are! How …’

‘Did Roberta Stayton know them?’

‘Not from me,’ said Hariss.

‘Kolinski?’

‘Certainly.’

‘There’s your answer. If she was planning on setting up you and Kolinski for some kind of fall, she’d have asked. What did Docker say?’