Recoil (19 page)

“Making phone calls, probably.”

“All we know is they get back in the car and they lead our guys a merry goose chase over half of Southern California. They head out to El Centro, they cut back toward Santa Ana, they go all over the damn place. They stop for gas, our guys stop for gas. Our guys check in by phone when they get a chance but what the hell can I tell them?”

“Bottom line, Ezio.”

“Bottom line, yeah. They're out in one of those boondock areas—little farm towns, secondary roads, citrus farms. You know, it gets to be maybe eleven o'clock at night. They stop at some café, one of those drive-in things, they get hamburgers, they kill some time. Midnight, they're still driving around. Like they're sightseeing, you know, only it's the middle of the night. They turn down this farm road—dirt road—they go out of sight of our guys for a minute around a bend. Our guys hit the bend and there's this U-Haul truck skewed right across the road. No way to get past it. Irrigation ditches on both sides of the road and it's just one of those narrow little farm dirt-tracks, you know. One-lane wide. This truck right across the road.”

“I have the picture, Ezio. Who was in the truck?”

“Nobody.”

“So it was a setup. The guy in the truck waits there, they arranged it by phone. He waits, the Gilfillans come along. He puts the truck across the road behind their car, then he gets in their car and they all drive away.”

“That's the size of it, Frank.”

“This happened at midnight?”

“Naturally the guys screwed around for a while out there, they busted into the truck; finally they got it knocked apart enough to get things moving and they shoved it off the road. But by the time they got all that done, the Gilfillan car was long gone. There are two freeways and a dozen fairly major highways in the area. No way to trace them fast. Right now Deffeldorf's got people swarming all over the area trying to find out if anybody saw the Chrysler wagon but hell, it was one o'clock in the morning by then, most places were shut up tight and they'd just filled the tank. Not much chance we'll find anybody who spotted the car.”

Frank toyed with the game-fishing rig in its socket by the swivel chair. He said mildly, “Who rented the U-Haul?”

“Papers in the glove compartment said it was hired out by a guy with a name and an address. There's no such name at that address in Los Angeles.”

“But it's a Los Angeles truck?”

“Right.”

“Then probably it wasn't Merle.”

“What does that tell us?”

“Tells us he's got help, doesn't it.”

“I don't see where that helps us much, Frank.”

“It's got to be somebody professional. Your ordinary citizen isn't equipped to walk into a U-Haul agency and plunk down the driver's license and the credit cards you've got to show them to rent a truck …”

“Maybe the feds got Merle back under their wing.”

“I get a feeling it's not federals. This whole elaborate business—it doesn't sound like federals to me. It sounds like some bright free-lance operation.”

“That's kind of farfetched. What's he going to do with mercenaries?”

“Make war,” Frank said calmly. “You send out feelers, Ezio, find out if there is any word about anybody getting hired for a job like that.”

“All right. It probably won't get us anything. Those guys mainly work through mail drops. Like Deffeldorf and Arnie Tyrone.”

“What about the riding stables?”

“We've checked out a lot of them. Nothing yet. There's a lot of ranches and farms down there, Frank. It could take months and we still might not find anything.”

Frank turned; his face indicated his interest in the grass bank of the inlet under the trees. The girls were sliding into the water, swimming out from shore. Frank said, “I handled the son of a bitch with kid gloves because he's a movie star, I figured we couldn't afford to fuck around with a big movie star like that, get all the newspapers on it and everything. I was wrong, Ezio.”

“Crying over spilt milk, Frank.”

“Well it's a mistake I won't make again if I get the chance.…”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Southern California: 14–17 September

1

M
ATHIESON WALKED DOWN THE PADDOCK AT AN EASY PACE,
arms swinging. Watching the fence and the barn and the trees: alert but trying to keep relaxed. Homer's voice boomed behind him:

“
Now!
”

He swiveled, saw the bull's-eye target on the tree, drove his hand inside his jacket and dropped to one knee while he raised the Police Special, cocked the hammer with his thumb, brought up left forearm with elbow on knee …

The movements were coming with synchronized automatic precision now: left hand locking up under the right wrist, target sights leveling.

Squeeze the trigger but squeeze it fast: The .38 charge exploded with an earsplitting boom. The revolver rocked in his fist and drove his shoulder back into the socket.

He forced it down, aimed instantaneously and fired the second one.

It kicked high and he brought it down ready to fire again.

“Maggie's drawers,” Homer said disgustedly.

He heard hoofbeats—a fast rataplan—and when he turned he saw the horseman rush the fence like a charging cavalry general; a whoop, a flap of winglike elbows and the horse came soaring over the paddock rails. Mathieson wheeled back in terror.

The horse came down from its steeplechase leap with beautiful balance and Roger Gilfillan wheeled it on the spot, came unglued from his easy seat, lighted on both boots and spun away toward the paper target—the picture of the movie gunslinger. The single-action roared, five steady unhurried blasts, and went spinning back into its holster while Roger turned toward him with his high whinnying laugh and swept off his hat, bowing over it like Buffalo Bill to the crowd.

Homer stared at him. “Sweet jumping Jesus Christ.”

Roger was still laughing. He took out the big revolver and started plugging the empties out. “Would've been a mite fancier if you boys had the foresight to set up a half-dozen whiskey bottles on the fenceposts. That's the way they usually shoot that scene.”

Mathieson reloaded the Police Special. “You crazy buffoon. Damn near gave me cardiac arrest.”

“That's what you're here for, ain't it? Learn to grapple with the unexpected, like?”

Homer came back. He looked stunned. “You put all five of them in the black.”

“Did I now. Well how about that.”

Homer shook his head in awe, still staring at Roger. “Sweet jumping Jesus Christ. And I always thought they had stunt experts with rifles behind the camera doing all that stuff for the actors.”

“That's me, old son. How'd you think I started in this bin-ness? Stunt ridin' and stunt shootin'. I wasn't always an actress, you know.” He turned to Mathieson. “Now you didn't do too good, did you.”

“I've never been much of a hand with guns.” His ears were ringing and whistling.

Homer said, “I've tried all the usual tricks. Hard to tell what he's doing wrong. I've about run out of ideas.”

“Probably not bringin' the focus down,” Roger said offhandedly. He took Mathieson's revolver and sighted experimentally at the target. “Good square sights on this piece. Shouldn't be no trouble. You sighted this, Homer?”

“Benchrest at a hundred yards. I ran a box of shells through it. Good tight group. Nothing wrong with the sights.”

Roger cocked the hammer and the racket startled Mathieson when Roger began firing like a gunslinger. The bullets chewed splinters visibly out of the mangled center of the target.

In the sudden uneasy silence that followed the shooting Roger snapped the cylinder open and punched the hot cases out onto the little brass pile by Mathieson's feet.

“Here. Load it up and let's see if we can't clear up this little problem.”

Mathieson fumbled cartridges into the cylinder and began to lift it toward the target; he heard Roger's steady talk: “Now gentle down, take it easy. You want the front sight level with the rear notch. A straight line across the top. OK? Now you want the target on top of the front sight. Good so far?”

“Fine.”

“Take in some air and hold your breath where it's comfortable. Squeeze easy.”

He had his eye on the target and the sights wavered a little and he relaxed the pressure until they steadied. When it went off it surprised him, as it was supposed to.

“Low and left,” Homer remarked.

Roger moved around him to his left side. “Try it again, old horse.”

He lifted it, cocked it, dropped his right wrist into his left hand …

“Oh for Christ's sake.”

“'S the matter?”

Roger was turning toward Homer. “He always shoot like that with one eye shut?”

“I don't—”

“No wonder.” Roger threw up his hands. “Both eyes, you dumb dude.”

“But you can only use one eye to—”

“Both eyes, old horse. Focus on that front sight. Not the target—the front sight. You can still see the target back there but it's the gun you're aiming, not the damn target. Focus on the sights and that way you know where the gun is. Homer, who taught you how to shoot?”

Homer's mouth was pinched resentfully. “Army.”

“That figures.”

The essence of magic is simplicity: This was magic—he emptied the revolver and each of them went home dead center; he lowered the gun slowly in disbelief. Roger shot a crafty sidewise glance in Homer's direction. “I think he's gettin' the idea. Old horse, load up and try it again.”

He emptied the cartridge cases onto the pile and bounced the unfamiliar weight of the revolver in his open hand. “I don't think so.”

Homer pivoted toward him. “Say again?”

The thought formed in his mind as he expressed it; it took him by surprise: “It's something I can do if I have to. That's all I need to know.”

Homer's puzzlement turned into accusation. He addressed himself to Roger: “What's the matter with him?”

“Better ask him.”

Mathieson put the empty revolver in Homer's hand. Before he walked away he said, “Nobody's making a killer out of me.”

2

They were eight at dinner and Vasquez presided with a movie monologue filled with Byzantine digressions: He was encyclopedic, wistful, opinionated and almost sycophantic when he spoke names like Cooper and Welles.

Roger refused to be baited and Vasquez's frustration led him into outrageous overstatements. Roger stirred in his chair. “Movies are my living, not my life. I don't go to the things unless I have to.”

Vasquez scowled belligerently at him. “Amazing.”

Roger stood up, detesting straight chairs. “You younkers take off. We've got grown-up talking to do. Only bore the hell out of you.”

Ronny and Billy glanced at each other like French underground conspirators and sped from the room. Amy said, “Those two together go like a match and a stick of dynamite. Don't be surprised if this house gets demolished.”

Jan laughed—to Mathieson it sounded brittle. Homer stood up. “You going to want me?”

Vasquez said, “An extra viewpoint never hurts.”

In the big front room Roger slumped into a Queen Anne chair. Amy sat down on the floor and leaned her head back against his knee. Homer perched on a small chair by the wall as though expecting to bolt the room. Mathieson took a place beside Jan on the couch; she gave him a glance and, hesitantly after a moment, her hand. It was cold.

There was a bench seat built into the bay window and covered with velvet upholstery. Vasquez sat straight up, centered on it. Casually he had positioned himself precisely at the focus of intersecting attentions, giving himself command of the scene.

In the corner of his vision Mathieson picked up the quick amused smile that fled briefly across Homer's tight cheeks; probably he was accustomed to Vasquez's seances and expected pyrotechnics tonight. But Mathieson couldn't imagine Vasquez producing anything spectacular this time; the situation was too glum.

Vasquez began politely: “I commend your efficiency. I'm sure it wasn't easy to break away on such short notice.”

“You had it all set up—Homer with that U-Haul truck. All we did was follow the script.”

“Nevertheless. You must have had difficulty breaking your commitment to the producers. The program you were filming.”

“Taping, not filming. Television horse shit.”

“How did you manage it?”

“It's one of those documentary things. The life of the working cowhand. You know the kind of crap. All I was there for was the narration. Hell, I just called this kid up in Vegas that does nightclub impressions? You know, Cagney and all. Kid's pretty good, does me better than I do me. Then I told my manager to clear it with the producers. Amos got a tongue like old-fashioned snake oil, he'll sell it to them. That kid's real good. It'd take a voice-print graph to tell it wasn't me talking. Nobody'll ever know.”

“Ingenious,” Vasquez said. “The fact remains, your lives have been egregiously disrupted. It's an error for which I share blame. Among other things I'd like to try and ascertain what the appropriate redress might be.”

Roger said, “You and me, we share the same bad habit—puttin' on airs. Mine's harmless—I'm a professional Texan and I talk like one. But we'd get along a little faster if you'd come down off the Oxford Dictionary and talk plain English.” He glanced at Mathieson. “As far as blame goes, I'd just as soon not waste half the night arguing about who among us ought to put on sackcloth and ashes. Let's us get down to the business at hand.”

Vasquez's long jaw crept forward, pugnacious in quarter profile; he jabbed a finger toward Roger. “You're about as rustic and unsophisticated as an Apollo moon rocket.”