The Expendable Man (30 page)

While he ate, he related the day's developments. “Why don't you let me take you to Stacy and Edward's for the night?”

“And tell them there's a killer after you?”

There couldn't be a good-enough excuse, she was right. The same was true for taking her to the grandparents'.

She said, “I'll take the same precautions as before.”

“But you opened the door tonight.”

“I knew you were on your way.”

“It didn't have to be me.”

“I won't open it again. And I'll tell the desk not to put through any more calls after you leave.”

He had to be satisfied with it that way. He finished his dinner. The late movie had come on TV. It was vintage cops and robbers; the girls wore knife-blade marcels and the men lip rouge. He was too restless to watch it.

Ellen said, “Why don't you go home?”

“I'll go after he phones.”

“He may not again.”

If the prowl car had spotted him, he wouldn't. There was no actual reason why Hugh shouldn't start on his private mission. But he waited. At the next commercial, he got to his feet. “I think I'll go over to the dispensary and get a bottle. We could have a drink.”

“There's plenty on the shelf.”

He paced, stopped by her chair. “Would you trust me out of your sight long enough for me to go to the office for the L.A. papers?”

Her eyes probed. “Just there?”

“My word I won't leave the motel grounds.”

She was reluctant but she said, “Very well.” She opened the lanai door. “Go this way. It's safer from outsiders. I'll latch the screen after you.”

Outside he took a deep breath of the cooling air. He couldn't have endured the confinement much longer. He had to have a look around. If Fred O. was in the vicinity of the motel, he had to know it. Before he set out for Doc Jopher's. If Fred should sense that Hugh was heading for Jopher's, he'd stop it, whatever he had to do. He couldn't allow Hugh to talk to Jopher. Because it had to be Jopher, there was no one else.

He followed the white walk bisecting the green lawn. At regular intervals there were low-standing amber lamps, like jungle flowers growing along the path. They gave little-enough light, yet if Fred were nearabout, he could recognize Hugh. A middle-aged couple was ahead of him; they turned off at a cross angle. Two high-flying Texas types came out of the cocktail lounge with two nasal, talkative middle-young women. Hugh let them get a good start toward their quarters before he continued on his way. He didn't want to run into minor trouble.

The lobby was enclosed by glass and chrome on three sides. Within it, he would be spotlighted. He entered. Two elderly men were on a couch, boring each other with reminiscences. They gave the inevitable flicker at Hugh and put their heads closer together. One clerk, a woman, was at the desk. The newsstand counters were covered for the night but the dailies were stacked outside, by the magazine and pocketbook racks. He hadn't seen an L.A. paper for some days, he took one of each lying there, the
Times
and the
Herald
. He paid at the desk and went out again.

He walked along the boundary fronting on Van Buren. He didn't step off the grounds. He didn't have to for a look into the dispensary. The lonely clerk was as usual alone and there were no cars parked at the curb. From here he could see only a part of the service station lot. It was peaceful.

When he started back to Ellen's rooms, no other guests were in sight. It would have been a good time for Othy to face him. But there was no incident. Hugh tapped on the frame of the screen and immediately Ellen pulled aside the draperies. She must have been standing there. She said, “You were gone so long.”

“I walked a bit. Fresh air. But not off the premises.” He asked, “Any calls?”

“No calls. There aren't going to be, Hugh. If there were, it would have been before now. There were three in the hour before you came.”

He agreed but not aloud. He'd wait until midnight. In Los Angeles, the case of the girl in the canal had been relegated to unimportant inner pages of the papers. There were fresher murders to report. At midnight the picture ended and he turned off the set. Neither of them had watched much of it. Ellen read a book—it was
Sartoris
—while he dallied with the papers.

She raised her eyes. “Do you give up?”

“I'm afraid I'll have to. Although I don't like to leave you alone.” He'd said it so often.

“I don't like to have you go out there.”

“I always check a bit before I head for Jefferson.” He outlined his circuitous movements of the preceding nights. He walked to the front doors. “I'll go this way. I didn't park outside tonight.”

For a moment they stood there looking at each other, then as if she sensed he held private plans, she lifted herself taller and touched his cheek with her lips. “Don't be brave,” she said. “You're in enough trouble.”

She waited in the lighted doorway until he lifted his hand and moved away. He heard the door close but the light still swathed his path and he knew she was watching. He didn't look back.

THE AREA
where he'd parked wasn't crowded now, only the cars of late celebrators remained. A young couple backed their convertible out as he approached. The man wasn't Othy.

Hugh got in his car, waited until they'd gone before turning on the engine. Instead of circling out onto Van Buren, he took a side exit. For safety he would have a better look around the neighborhood before traveling to Scottsdale. The prowl car could only be on one street at a time.

The cross street he had inadvertently chosen wasn't a good one. It was too dark, too narrow, too lonely. A small frame house stood on the northwest corner. It was either vacant or everyone in it was long asleep. On the west, for the length of the block, there were only vacant lots. On the northeast corner was a machine shop of some sort, long since shuttered for the night, its back lot littered with rusty shadows. The only indication of life was at the far end of the block where there was a night club of sorts with a painted sign on its roof, lettered black on red:
THE CANCAN
. The building was an ugly frame shack of a depressing dark red color. The windows were painted black. Here and again on them were vivid scratches, as if the inmates had, in a sudden attack of claustrophobia, clawed a glimpse of a cleaner world outside. In driving to and from The Palms, Hugh had noticed the shack, with an idle wonder at the kind of need for companionship, or hope for pleasure, which would lure a person to it. The dim light over the door, the reflector for the roof sign were the only illumination on this entire block. The street lights from Van Buren on the north and Washington on the south did not carry to the long stretch of the midblock.

He did not know where the car came from. At one moment, he was solitary, driving toward Washington; within a breath, a car without lights darted like a snake into his rear-view mirror. In another breath, he was forced to swerve to a sudden stop, half on the dirt sidewalk; there was no curb. It had happened so rapidly, Hugh was yet without comprehension of its meaning when he pushed open his door and started to get out, demanding, “What the—”

Not until that instant did he understand. Fred O. was getting out of the other car. An ugly smirk was on his face, his muscles and fists were tensing. At the wheel of the marauder car was some friend, hidden by the night, no more than a silhouette with a high-pitched jeering laugh.

In the split second of comprehension, Hugh had the choice of getting back into his car or of continuing his outward movement. He couldn't drive away; he was penned. He got out. It wouldn't be a fair fight but he too was ready. He had inches on Fred, that alone could help him. He did not have the experience or the cruelty. Nor did he have reserves in his car.

Fred waited for him to push shut the door of the Cadillac. The youth's eyes in the night light were hot with satisfaction. Hugh backed away a few steps, hoping to reach open space before he was attacked. If he was maneuvered into the narrow end of the funnel created by the cars, he would be at Fred's mercy. It could be a common strategy of young hoodlum gangs.

He spoke as he inched backwards. “What's the idea? You might have wrecked both cars.”

In response, Fred spit directly at the Cadillac. From within the other car, the titter sounded again.

Hugh continued his cautious backing but he didn't make it to clearance. Fred moved up with cold menace. Hugh would not turn and run; he wouldn't have that humiliation forced on him by this scum.

As of yet, Hugh had not openly given recognition. He did now, as a delaying tactic. He said, “You'd better get going. The cops are looking for you.”

The smirk twisted to hate. Fred's voice was a monotone. “You goddamn dirty nigger, you won't tell the cops no more about me when I get through with you. You won't tell nobody nothing. Never.”

“Aren't you in enough trouble?” Hugh was taut, controlled, waiting for the initial lunge.

“Not the trouble you're going to be in, nigger.”

The weight of Fred's whole body followed his fist, a low blow that knocked Hugh against the rear fender of his car. By making a fast half-turn, he had avoided taking it in the groin. But it put him off balance. He struck back and heard his fist land somewhere on Fred's face, but it was no deterrent. Fred moved in, chopping at Hugh, spinning him, and backing him into the narrows. Irrelevantly, the thought kept jangling through Hugh's mind: he's neglected to turn off the car lights; would they run down the battery?

He was being beaten cruelly. But he kept fighting back. Only his height, offering some protection to his eyes and point of chin, and his reach, which kept forcing Fred to protect his own features, kept Hugh on his feet. He knew he was losing ground, he hadn't the training. And it was possible a rib had been cracked in that first powerful blow.

From the car, the laughter screamed, close to hysteria now. “Give it to him, Fred! Give it to him good!” It was a girl's voice, breathy, shrill. It had never occurred to Hugh that Fred's companion might be a girl. It could have been his reaction of disgust which for that fleet moment took him off guard. A shoulder blow staggered him and, before he could recover footing, Fred's knee thudded into his groin. Hugh doubled over, crumpled to his knees, and automatically covered his face and head with his arms.

“Now you got him!” the girl whimpered ecstatically.

A boot crunched into his side but he held his position, crouching in sheer agony, trying to recover breath. Trying, before he was beaten unconscious, to get to his feet and kill Fred.

“Go on, give it to him,” the girl was squealing, and then she broke into a sudden scream. “Jesus, Fred. The cops!”

The boot caught Hugh again but not full strength. There wasn't time for completion. He heard the swoop of Fred getting into the car, the metallic slamming of the door. The girl must have had the motor running but he didn't hear the wheels churn the gravel, the pipes roar. He passed out.

He must have returned to consciousness shortly after. At least no one had delivered any first aid, he was where he had fallen. In the muscle relaxation of unconsciousness, he must have rolled over on his back, but his arms were still rigid, covering his face.

He heard voices, male and female, as from an echo chamber. “He's coming to . . . he moved . . . he isn't dead . . .” And he heard a disgruntled girl who might have been sister to the girl who drove Fred's car. The words were distinct. “It's only a nigger.”

He managed to slit his eyes and he saw the boots. Without volition, his knees jerked up to his chest for a shield. He remembered at once what he must do, get to his feet and kill. And then he realized that these weren't cycle boots, they belonged to a police uniform.

In the background the staccato of a police radio was audible. With effort, he forced his eyes open and glimmered up at the circle of faces illuminated in the spotlight of the police cruiser. He distinguished first the young and anxious uniformed officer, behind him a blur of curious bystander faces, western-looking men, farm-looking women. One of the women had her hair up in leather curlers.

And then he saw Venner. Venner with sly amusement on his lips. Venner who must have identified him before now from the white Cadillac with the California license plate. Someone had turned off the lights of the car.

He kept trying to push up to his feet. The young officer came to his assistance. “Take it easy now,” he said. “We've radioed for the ambulance.”

Hugh shook his head and blackness spun about him. Someone's strong arm kept him from falling. He slurred, “I don't need an ambulance. I'm all right.”

“Now you just take it easy,” the policeman repeated. “We'll see.”

He heard Venner on the periphery telling the onlookers, “It's all right, folks. Go on home. Go on now.”

And he heard a woman twanging, “Well, if they want a witness, I'll testify. It's dreadful.” It wasn't the voice which had dismissed Hugh on seeing the color of his face.

The policeman opened the rear door of the Cadillac. “You'd better sit down.” He directed Hugh, helped him to sink down to the floor of the car. Hugh's head was thudding, there was blood in his mouth. But he remained almost upright, his feet pressed to the dust of the road, his shoulders held by the door hinges. He managed to say, “Thanks.” With his elbows on his knees, his head propped in his hands, he could possibly keep from passing out again.

When the mist cleared, he saw that Venner was standing in front of him. There was a satisfied stench about him. “If you were looking for trouble, you found it.”

Hugh managed to extract his handkerchief from his pocket. He dabbed at his mouth. The teeth seemed intact, the blood was coming from a cut or tear of his lip. He couldn't talk too well but he said, “It was Fred Othy.”