In the dim light, Rollo bellowed and came at me with his knife. But I’d anticipated his move and spun to my left. The blade nicked my right arm. I dropped the pipe, but didn’t feel the cut. Adrenaline took over and blocked all pain as it pulsated through my system. The powerful drug gave me strength and agility. I felt invincible.
I had learned at the police academy that when a bad-ass comes at you with a knife, it’s not a fight-it’s murder. And to come out alive you had to remain focused. I braced and locked onto Rollo.
His eyes blazed and he rocked on his toes. I kicked at the knife in his hand, missed. He charged me again. I dropped and rolled.
He stood above me. I kicked him in the balls. He doubled over and moaned, but didn’t drop the knife. I sprang to my feet.
Our eyes met. “You motherfucker! You’re dead!” Rollo shouted and lunged at me again.
I sidestepped the blade, which missed by inches. With both hands I grabbed his arm, the one holding the knife.
He jammed his free hand in my face, clawing for my eyes and tearing open my wounds. Warm blood ran down my face. I tried to twist his arm, break the knife free, but the bastard was strong.
Suddenly, I let go of him, made a fist and punched him in his gut with all I had left. His eyes bulged. He made a noise that sounded like an imploding pressure cooker.
Rollo dropped the switchblade. I hit him again, harder. Then again, one to the jaw.
He staggered backward and I picked up the knife.
We both saw Danny’s automatic at the same instant, right at Rollo’s feet. He took his eyes off me, went for the gun, came up and fired. But I wasn’t there.
He didn’t see me in the shadows, standing behind an upright beam.
“Where are you, goddammit?” He fired again. The report echoed around the building. He moved slowly, closer to where I stood, peering intently into the shadows. When he saw me, he swung the gun around, fired wildly, and missed.
I dove, grabbed him by his shirt, and thrust the knife blade deep into his belly.
With a startled look, he dropped the gun. He stood there shaking, the unmistakable rattle of death. His face turned white. He clutched his stomach and whimpered, “You fucking killed me.” Blood seeped though his fingers. Three seconds later he fell forward and didn’t move.
I tossed the knife into the puddle of blood that ran from under his body.
Someone shouted, “Danny! I heard shots. You didn’t kill him, did you? I don’t want any part of this. We gotta get outta here.”
Morelli, backlit from the moonlight, stood in the open doorway.
I picked up the automatic pistol and walked toward him, aiming it at his heart. “There’s been a change of plans, Morelli.”
“Oh, God!” He threw up his arms. “Hey, man, don’t shoot! I’m unarmed.”
“Gimme the car keys.”
He tossed me the keys to the Buick. I caught them with my free hand.
“Who do you work for?” I asked.
“I work for Danny. Is he dead?”
I kept moving closer. “Yeah, he’s dead. Who’d Danny work for?”
“Some rich guy. That’s all I know, honest.”
“Yesterday you called someone to tell him about me.”
“Just-just some number Danny gave me. A guy answered. I-I told him Danny took you to the oil patch. That’s what Danny said to tell him. That’s all I know, honest, mister. He was… he was going to pay me to drive him around a couple days. I didn’t know what he was planning. Honest to God, I didn’t know!”
“Tell me the phone number.”
“I don’t remember, 213-2 something. He wrote it on a paper. I threw it away like I was told to do.”
Morelli was scared shitless and I felt he was telling the truth. I wouldn’t get any more out of him, and he hadn’t done anything to me. He was just a flunky, Danny’s errand boy. I didn’t want to haul him to the police station. I’d be there all night, probably forever while cops asked me tough questions as they filled out a million forms. They’d lock me up until it was all straightened out.
“Get the hell outta here, Morelli. If I see you again, I’ll shoot you.”
He ran out of the warehouse, moving at about a hundred miles an hour.
I stood there for a moment and took several deep breaths, exhaling slowly. Did I feel any remorse for taking two lives? No, these weren’t human beings at all. They were cruel, inhuman monsters with not an ounce of humanity between the two of them. They slaughtered a defenseless old lady for money, and probably many other helpless people. They deserved what they got. The sun would shine tomorrow and the world would be a brighter place without them. No, killing them didn’t bother me at all.
At the doorway, I turned and took one last look at Danny and Rollo lying in their own blood.
I heard them first, the high pitch of their squeals. Then I saw the red, shining eyes of the albino and the others as they squeezed through the opening. More flooded into the building, dozens, sniffing and moving slowly toward the bodies.
“Rats-A-Roni,” I said, and left.
CHAPTER 40
I climbed in the Buick and popped open the glove box, looking for a registration or anything that would help ID the owner of the car. Nothing, no documents of any kind. In fact, the Buick was spotless, no telltale signs that anyone had even been in the car. The thugs were pros and didn’t leave a clue as to who they were or whom they worked for. I put the gun inside and closed the glove box.
Winding my way through the oil field, I drove down the hill and caught the 405 Freeway, heading back to Downey. The ride was smooth and at this late hour the traffic was light. I felt invigorated, glad to be free of the nightmare I had just endured.
But by the time I made the turn onto the 605 about ten minutes later, the adrenaline effect had begun winding down. I started to feel fatigued and listless and my body started to hurt.
I lightly touched my face and it stung. Pulling my hand away I glanced at it: blood! I took a quick look at my lap, and to my shock I saw fresh blood there too. I began to feel nauseous and the pain from the cut in my arm intensified. I reached over and felt that wound, then pulled my hand away. More blood.
My vision started to blur. I blinked several times. The red taillights of the cars in front of me pulsated in and out of focus. The headlights from the cars on the other side of the freeway converged into a hazy white ball. I drove erratically and couldn’t keep the Buick between the lines. My head spun, but I kept going, not knowing if I’d make it home without killing myself.
A couple miles later my hands slipped from the wheel, and my head dropped. I fell into a black void.
An air horn blasted. I snapped up just in time, shook my head and glanced up. The Buick was out of control, moving fast, heading straight for an overpass pillar.
I jerked the car to the right, bounced back into the fast lane, and just missed the semi that had blown its horn. The driver must’ve thought I was another drunk heading home plastered out of my mind.
With difficulty, I maneuvered the car into the slow lane and drifted off the freeway at Carson St., the next ramp. I pulled into an all-night Union Oil station sitting on a corner. When I stopped under the canopy, an attendant rushed out.
“Jesus, mister, what happened to you?” the kid in a white uniform asked.
“Cut… myself shaving. Where… am I, anyway?” My words came out in labored spurts.
“Hawaiian Gardens, corner of Carson and Pioneer Blvd. Do you need help?”
“You got a… phone?”
“Yeah, in the office. Can you make it?”
I opened the door and somehow managed to stumble into the small office. “It’s a local call,” I told the kid.
“I don’t give a damn. Call anyone you want. It ain’t my phone.”
I dialed Rita’s home number. “Rita… it’s me.”