He hung his head and didn’t say anything for a beat, then mumbled, “My mother taught me never to lie.”
“I hoped she also taught you never to kill people. Because if you’re guilty, it will come out. Your story will probably get a great deal of attention in the press. With all the renewed publicity your chance at a future parole will be nil.”
“You gotta believe me,” he said.
“Yeah, Al. I know.”
It was almost four p.m. when I drove out of the prison parking lot, heading back to Downey. I flipped on the radio; it looked like the Sig Alert was going continue right through the rush hour.
Everyone jumped off the Pomona Freeway and headed east on Grand Avenue, where I just happened to be, creeping along behind a loaded hay truck. I thought of the long drive to my office and decided to grab a bite to eat before fighting the traffic all the way back. Pulling into an In-N-Out burger place on Grand Avenue, a couple of miles from the prison, I ordered a Double-Double with cheese, and fries. Taking my food order to one of the picnic tables outside, I sat and faced the parking lot and started in on my food.
A black Buick Century pulled in and parked not too far from my table. I set the cheeseburger down and looked at the two big guys lounging in the front seat. No one got out of the sedan. The guy on the driver’s side wore a striped Polo shirt, stretched tight across his massive chest. His buddy had on some kind of Deadhead T-shirt, Skull amp; Roses-the Grateful Dead’s new album-plastered on the front.
They seemed to be staring at me, giving me the once-over.
At first it bothered me a little. Then I figured I was being paranoid, having just left a prison where everyone pinned both the guard and me as we walked along the prison corridors to meet Roberts in the visiting room.
But why were the two guys just sitting there in the sedan in this heat without getting out and ordering anything to eat? They were hard looking, serious, like cops. But they weren’t cops. Cops didn’t wear Deadhead T-shirts, at least while on duty-unless they were undercover. And undercover cops worked alone, not in pairs.
The Buick had no front license plate, no number. Anyhow, what would I do with it? Find a phone booth and call it in? “Hey, Sol, can you run a plate? Very suspicious, two guys are parked at an In-N-Out without a burger in their hands.”
Looking out at the guys in the Buick staring at me put a dent in my appetite. I picked up the box holding my cheeseburger and fries and changed tables.
I didn’t see her approach, but I turned when I heard the pleasant lilt of her voice. “Hey, fella, got a light?” Five-foot-nine of feminine beauty, a figure in a mini-skirt and a semi-transparent ghost of a flowery blouse stood next to my table. She had the look of a woman who’d stepped out of a forties movie, the femme fatale, not the loving wifey type. I dropped my burger and sprung to my feet. She held a cigarette in two fingers out in front of her face, a face that would make a dead man dance.
“Yeah, sure,” I said, fumbling in my pockets. I pulled out a book of matches that I kept for such emergencies and lit her cigarette.
Without taking her eyes off of me, she took a long drag. She exhaled and the smoke curled out slowly through her parted lips. Her face, backlit against the sun, seemed to glow and her bright blue eyes seemed to sparkle when she smiled. She glanced out at Grand Avenue.
“Traffic’s bad, huh?” she said.
“Yeah, the Sig Alert, big rig flipped over. It’s a mess.”
“Where you headed?” she asked. Was she just making small talk?
“Downey,” I said without adding anything.
She studied me for a moment. “Hmm, never been to Downey.”
“I have an office there.”
Her smile grew. “I knew you were a professional man. You have that look.”
Was she coming on to me? That would be wild, more than wild. Maybe I should’ve worn a nicer shirt. “Thanks, I’m in the law business.” I didn’t want to mention the word lawyer. Some people get spooked, or they start asking my advice, whip out their insurance policy and want me to read it, or something.
“Law biz, huh? Well you must be smart.” Her eyebrow arched a bit, like she was asking for a confirmation of her remark.
“Do you live around here?” I asked, with illusions bouncing in my brain. I wondered what it would be like to sleep with her. The word fantastic came to mind.
“Just passing through.”
I gestured toward the takeout window. “Hey, are you hungry? Can I buy you a Coke, a burger, some fries?” Big spender Jimmy, a girl like her probably turns down proposals for lunch at the Ritz, and I offer her a burger from a takeout joint. “Or, maybe, we could-”
She took another drag on her cigarette. “That’s sweet of you but I have to get along.”
I brushed back my hair with my hand. “Yeah, I understand,” I said, but then wondered why she stopped here if she wasn’t hungry.
“Bye.” She smiled again and my gaze followed the slow rippling of her hips as she sauntered away. If I could package that walk and sell it three for a buck, I’d make a fortune. She headed back toward the parking lot, walking to a red Mercedes convertible parked a few spaces to the right of the Buick. The two big guys hadn’t moved.
I stood there for a moment taking in her beauty, knowing I should say something, but words wouldn’t form.
She stopped at the Mercedes sports car and over her shoulder, glanced back at me. She dropped the cigarette, grinding it out with the pointy toe of her stiletto boot. Then she opened the door of the convertible and slipped into the bucket seat. In a smooth motion, flashing a little thigh, she swung her incredible, almost mythical legs in and closed the door.
She guided the Mercedes to within a few yards of my table. With a long slender finger, she beckoned me over.
“You’re Jimmy O’Brien, aren’t you?” she asked, looking up at me.
How would she know my name? I didn’t recognize her, except in my dreams. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“I have a message for you.”
“Yeah?”
The beauty wasn’t smiling this time. “Certain people want you to stop messing around where you don’t belong,” she said as she the convertible’s engine came to life.
There are over forty sphincter muscles in the human body, all of mine tightened. “Who are these certain people? And just exactly where is it that I don’t belong?”
She didn’t answer. She shoved the Mercedes in gear and raced away. Was it my imagination, or did she glance at the men in the Buick, nodding once, as she turned onto Grand Avenue?
Sitting at the table again, I wondered what the hell that was all about. I picked up the remains of my cheeseburger, which now didn’t seem so appetizing, and dumped it in the trash bin.
After climbing back into my Vette, I pulled out of the parking lot and turned left on Grand, in the opposite direction of the woman. I adjusted the rearview mirror. The Buick was gone.
CHAPTER 7
Back on the road again, I limped along on Grand Avenue, making little progress. I finally turned at Payton and drove south. It would be a bit out of the way, but I figured I’d beat the traffic by traversing the Chino Hills via Carbon Canyon Road. Then I’d catch Imperial Highway, which in a roundabout way would take me back to Downey. Plus, I knew I’d enjoy the scenic drive with its little-known, two-lane road wandering through the pass. So as not to spoil my ride, I vowed to put the woman’s message out of my mind. Maybe it was a hoax, but I doubted it. Those guys in the Buick were real and they looked like thugs. They were part of her warning. They meant to be noticed. It wasn’t a joke, and the clowns in the car weren’t laughing.