Kill Me Tomorrow (14 page)

The second thing of interest was Bludgett's finally moving. When he stepped forward just before the lights were doused, he took Frankenstein with him. He simply bent over and bunched some cloth in his hand, or grabbed the guy's belt, picked him up—I mean, with one hand picked him up—and walked off with him.

It's one thing to be strong. But this guy had to be seen to be believed. When he picked Frankenstein up, the man was absolutely limp, so naturally he bent in the middle, head and arms dangling loosely on one side and legs flopping on the other. Which meant, in order not to scrape him along the ground, Bludgett had to lift him into the air a ways. So he did. Just cranked up his arm and bent his elbow and walked off as if he were carrying a suitcase.

It was, perhaps, unlikely I would live long enough for it to happen, but as I watched that scene with something approaching awe I couldn't help thinking:
Man, I hope I
never
get clobbered by Bludgett
.

There was conversation over there in the darkness, but I wasn't able to make out any of the words. I heard the slap of shoe leather on pavement; somebody was running—but away from me, the sound getting a little fainter.

I still had the flashlight in my left hand, gun in the right, but neither of them gave me a real sense of security. It was clear I couldn't make it back to my Cad. And I wasn't about to get into a gunfight, any kind of fight, with three men—at least three—if I could help it.

So I eased back, brushing against the telephone pole, and moved slowly a couple of feet from the hedge. I turned and started to walk away from the activity behind me, and thought I heard the faint cry of a siren. I stopped, listened. The sound became clearer, and in a few seconds I could distinguish two sirens, wailing almost in unison at first and then falling into their separate rhythms, even in the warm night their thin and whining dissonances strangely chilling.

Two of them, getting louder. On their way here, undoubtedly. That didn't surprise me. But what happened next did.

There was a shout—the same hard, flat voice: “Fleepo! Get back here. Crank it up!”

I wasn't sure of that first word. A man's name, undoubtedly. Fleepo, or Flippo, or maybe even Cleepo. But shortly after the slim-hipped muscle-boy yelled, there was, again, the soft slap of shoes on the ground, then the sharper splat of them on pavement. A car engine turned over, caught.

I moved back to the telephone pole. Just beyond my Cadillac headlights flicked on, the car door opened, somebody jumped in, the door slammed. I could hear the thud of another pair of feet well to my left. The car backed up, jumped forward, swerved around my Cad and headed down Willow Lane. The sound of thudding feet stopped. Then the same thing was repeated. Door opening, slamming, engine catching. Headlights lit up the darkness half a block to my left on this side of the street. The car came toward me, gaining speed rapidly, raced past me and skidded around the corner.

I stood there, wondering.

Obviously, those lads did not like the law. Almost certainly, they had good reason for not hanging around to jaw, as they might put it, with the fuzz. Particularly if there was a body hereabouts, with a hole in its head. Even if they hadn't put the hole there.

My natural impulse was to sprint to the Cad and get the hell out of here myself. But also fresh in my mind was what had happened when, thinking all the would-be killers had flown, I'd run out through the front door of Henry Yarrow's home.

I pressed my left hand against the pocket of my coat, felt the round reel of tape there. And made up my mind. The Cad it would be. But I wasn't about to walk over to it, whistling, and I didn't. None of my sly stratagems made any difference. Nothing happened.

So I climbed into the Cad and left that scene like a bomb, maybe fifteen seconds before the first police car arrived.

I should have felt very good about it. I did feel good. Still, there was one small kernel of discontent.…

It had been too easy.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was the right tape, the second “Jenkins tape.” No question about that.

I punched the rewind button, stopped the machine, started playing the tape for the second time. Not from the beginning. The end of the plastic tape was stretched and torn—undoubtedly by Jenkins in his haste to get away from wherever he'd been—and the whole thing played for just over fifty minutes. But it was only the last six minutes which would be of real interest to others—and were fascinating to me.

After reaching my rooms at Mountain Shadows I'd taken time to shower and change clothes again, then arranged with the desk for the use of two tape recorders. I'd used one to play the Jenkins tape, while making a duplicate of it with the other. The first three-quarters of an hour consisted merely of conversation and a few phone calls of no apparent importance, and there were never more than two or at most three people conversing. But in those last six minutes seven men spoke, and it sounded as if a planned meeting was in progress.

Unfortunately the sound reproduction was of very poor quality, probably in part because of the equipment Jenkins had used but also because of a humming noise, perhaps due to air-conditioning equipment in operation nearby. I had to admit that Jenkins had done an admirable job in getting anything recorded at all, but while I was able to distinguish a difference in tone and phrasing when each man spoke, I was unable to identify any of them from the sound. Except, possibly, for one man.

I knew Henry Yarrow's voice almost had to be one of the seven, since the transmitter had been placed in his home, but the only voice I was able to pick out was quite distinctive, and I'd heard it very recently. It was a voice with muscles in it, flat and hard, a little louder on the tape than others. Maybe it wasn't a hundred to one, but I called it eight to five that the guy was the slim-hipped and well-muscled cat I'd seen so recently on Willow Lane.

Not knowing who the men were, though a few names—including mine—were mentioned, I mentally identified each new voice with a letter, from A through G in the order of their vocal appearance. I made a few more notes as the tape rolled through the machine for the second time, and the dialogue in those last six minutes went like this:

A:
OK, that's enough of that. Let's get a few things settled. First goddamn thing, what the hell are we going to do about Scott? Ace,
you
miss him. Fleepo's at the wheel so you don't even have to worry about drivin', you're in the back seat like it's shootin' ducks. You got him cold, so you
miss
him—

B:
I already told you. He was there, then goddamn he ain't there. The sonofabitch ain't human—

A:
Shut up. You miss him, then even The Nailer misses him. And what happens? He kills The Nailer.

C:
If I—if I could ask a question here … I can understand about Scott. And I certainly realize Reyes could have caused a great deal of trouble. But was it necessary to kill him? Scott wouldn't be in this at all if—

B:
Christ, am I gonna get bugged by you, too? You mean we shouldn't of hit him? When he's blabbing all over about Civano?

A:
You know what that could of screwed up. First you, then me, then the whole goddamn works. If anything screws the setup now, when we're so close—

C:
That won't happen. Nothing is going to … screw the setup. I've guaranteed that—

A:
You goddamn well better keep it guaranteed—

D:
Gentlemen, that's enough! It is true that Scott wouldn't be involved if Reyes had not been hit. But Reyes had to be hit. He was not greatly exercised, but I feel certain he would have persisted and caused us serious difficulties eventually. Under the circumstances, I saw no reasonable alternative.

A:
You're goddamn right, there wasn't none. Next thing, that Mex bastard might have been kicking the Attorney General in the pants—and we got no line up that high in Justice.

D:
There has been enough argument, enough digression. The problem is serious, but not critical—and it will not become critical once Scott is eliminated. Therefore, the first question is how do we eliminate him? There is one way which keeps us out of it, and almost assures us that we can keep it in the family, so to speak—that the sheriff's department will not conduct an intensive investigation, which is especially important after what has already happened tonight. That way is to give the contract to Jimmy Ryan.

E:
Lucky? Maybe nobody told you yet. He already gave it a shot and crapped it up. He's just
lucky
Scott didn't hit him in the head.

D:
I know about that. You overlook an important factor. We brought Ryan up here, but that was because of the trouble in Tucson—

A:
Yeah, I still want to know who the hell we look for in that mess. That's just as important—

D:
One thing at a time, all right?
All right
?

A:
Yeah … sure. It's just it's natural … OK, OK, go ahead.

D:
We brought Ryan here, but not to kill Scott. Nobody knew that white-haired sonofabitch was going to show up at the Villas, he was supposed to be on a vacation. The important factor is that the fool play Ryan pulled was his own idea, it was not authorized. And because he is both stupid and impulsive, he made a mess of it. But, with proper planning, Jimmy Ryan is the perfect man for the contract.

E:
You mean on account of the beef in L.A.?

D:
Exactly. He tried to kill Scott in Los Angeles. That is well known. It would surprise no one if he
did
kill Scott. When Jimmy Ryan was brought here none of us could have anticipated the present situation. But he is here. He is available. We should make use of the opportunities presented to us.

A:
What difference does it make who kills him? Or how? Just so the sonofabitch gets off our backs—and goddamn quick. Especially now, with what we
know
he's come up with somehow. Scott's not the same thing as a Brizante—or even that Mex bastard. He already knows enough to screw us up plenty, maybe even all the way. Jesus, when I think of how close it was to blowin' up if Henry hadn't handled himself right, when Scott was asking him—

D:
If you will allow …
allow
me to complete the presentation, I will explain why it makes a difference. Of course we hit Scott as soon as possible. But we can't just leave him on the street like a pile of garbage—not here at the Villas. Maybe it will come to that, maybe we'll have to take that chance, the extra risk, but
not yet
. And if it can be worked with Jimmy Ryan as the hit-man there won't be any loose ends.

E:
I don't get it, either. If it's smooth, nobody's going to know who done it anyway—

D:
On the contrary, they will know. We plan it that way. There's no advantage to having Ryan kill Scott unless it becomes known that it
was
Jimmy Ryan—right now awaiting trial on that ADW rap. And who is the chief witness? The man who will testify against Ryan? The man Ryan has the best possible reason to hit? Scott.

A:
Sure … yeah. Perfect. I'll vote for it.

E:
Am I stupid or something? How's anybody going to know who the crap kills Scott? What do you mean they'll know it was Lucky? He's just going to stand there and say I done it?

D:
It should be obvious. Ryan hits Scott. We kill Ryan.

E:
Well, crap. I guess I just hadn't thought it far enough ahead. Who hits Lucky?

D:
Ace and Fleepo. They handled Reyes without any trouble, they work well together. And Ryan trusts them. It's perfect all the way around. Are we in agreement?

A:
I already said it. I like it.

E:
Yeah, swell, now I understand how you meant it.

D:
Ace?

B:
Sure, why not? Only … Well, the bum owes me a couple hundred fish. If I kill him, there goes my two hundred.

D:
We can do without the jokes, Ace. Fleepo?

F:
Sure. You say so, OK for me.

D:
All right, Ryan gets the contract. Ace, it's got to be arranged so you and Fleepo have enough time to get Scott's gun and use it on Ryan. I don't want
any
loose ends. Of course, this is predicated on the assumption the present situation does not deteriorate. It may develop that we'll have to get rid of Scott any way we can, but if it's at all possible we'll do it this way.

E:
Just in case it doesn't come off—like, look what happened with Ace and The Nailer both spraying lead at him, who'd have figured it?—maybe I could handle it my way, like I already mentioned.

D:
That remains a possibility, but right now there is too much risk involved.

E:
Yeah, OK. It's just, if it comes to it, I wouldn't mind handling it. I wouldn't mind a goddamn bit.

D:
There is another thing you—all of us—should keep in mind. Scott has a great many friends in Los Angeles, especially Uncle Angelo. Including that goddamned Samson. Imagine what would happen if Scott was killed in an accident, say in a cell, on his way to the can, almost any kind of accident with even a little smell to it. There'd be enough heat in Los Angeles to reach here and halfway to Chicago.

A:
What's worse? A little heat, or the big heat? It don't matter if L.A. gets steamed up so long as they can't prove Scott was hit. He's dead, he can't cause trouble, that's the main thing. I mean … just in
case
something gets screwed up, we got to hit that sonofabitch in the head any way gets the job done. But your way's the best … I agree, like I said. Very definite, best way to keep trouble down.

D:
That's why I was sent out here.

C:
If I could ask another question. Will it be necessary to do anything about this man Brizante? I mean, you know who his daughter is. If he was hurt, or killed …