Boyd sighed, nodded.
On the way back, the sun came up. The remaining trees had the same blazing colors as back home, reds, yellows, greens, browns.
I dropped Boyd off at the stakeout pad, then drove to the Highland Motel. Or I should say high motel. When I used the key in the door, and stepped into the darkened room, the silenced nine mil in hand, the girl didn’t move, just lay there in obscene spread-legged distress. Well, not incredibly distressed, because she was sleeping. Snoring a little, if not snoring her fool ass off, as Climer had described his fiancée’s visit to the Land of Nod.
I clicked on the bedside lamp and sat next to Brandi.
She blinked herself awake and looked over at me. I have never seen a more mingled expression of fear and hope in my life.
“What happened?” she asked, softly. She often played the little-girl sex card, but right now she really did sound like a little girl.
“Did you know that kidnapping is a capital crime?”
“What’s a capital crime?”
“It’s where they execute you. Electric chair in this state, I believe. Strap you in, throw the switch.”
“I didn’t kidnap nobody.”
“You were in on it. How close were you to Bruno?”
“Not close. That sounds like something happened to him.”
“How close?”
“Well, I fucked him once. Took him about two seconds. That’s about it. First I met him was at the club, just last week.”
“And Eddie?”
“Hardly knew him. Just a pal of Bruno’s. Did something bad happen to Bruno?”
“I killed him.”
She swallowed. “Oh. And Eddie?”
I nodded. “How do you feel about Larry?” She was thinking about crying. “Same as Eddie. Just some guy. You’re just trying to scare me.”
“Do you know what felony murder is?”
“Does it mean that murder is... a felony?”
“It means that if somebody gets killed, no matter who does the killing, during the commission of a crime... of a felony crime... everybody in on that crime is guilty of murder.”
“I never murdered nobody!”
“The three I killed tonight, you’re as guilty of that as me.
Electric-chair guilty, Brandi. Or would you prefer Wanda on your headstone?”
“I don’t want a fucking headstone!”
“Good girl. Because I don’t want to put you under one. I haven’t told Max Climer about your role in this. As far as I’m concerned, you helped me out last night so I could prevent that kidnapping.”
She nodded. “Yes, I’m your helper.”
My helper who was on her back handcuffed and strapped naked to a cheap-motel-room bed.
“You have one more night at the Climax Club,” I said.
“I do if you let me up, and don’t... do anything to me.”
“Here’s what you’re going to do, Brandi. You’re going to finish out your engagement at the club. You’re going to be a happy little stripper and, if you see him, you’ll thank Max Climer for the opportunity, and say that you hope to come back. Okay?”
She was nodding. “Okay.”
“None of this ever happened.”
“None never happened.”
“You talk about this to anybody, you’ll put me in an untenable position.”
“I won’t talk to nobody. Put you in a un-what?”
“A bad place. A position where I have to do something I don’t want to do.”
“Like kill me.”
“Like kill you. Neither of us wants that.”
“No. No, we sure don’t.”
I undid the handcuffs and dropped them in the left pocket of my windbreaker. Unstrapped her wrist and ankle that had been bound with torn pillowcase. She immediately flung herself at me and hugged me, hugged me hard.
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”
I hugged her back. Somewhere in there was a sweet kid.
She backed away a little and said, “You wanna... do something? Like to seal the deal?”
“No. No, thank you.”
“Wait a second,” she said.
She ran to the bathroom and sat and tinkled, leaving the door open, giving me an embarrassed little grin. When she was done, she washed her hands and brushed her teeth, then emerged, still naked, and extended her hands in tah-dah fashion. “Fresh as a daisy. You sure you don’t wanna? Last chance!”
“No, really. I’ve had a busy evening.”
She came over and hugged me again. Looked up and said, “You did me a big favor. And I don’t just mean letting me stay alive and all. I mean... I learned a lesson. I learned there’s lines you shouldn’t cross.”
I smiled, nodded, slipped out of her grasp. She gave me the little-girl wiggle-finger wave as I went out.
I paused on the second-floor walkway, leaned against the wrought-iron rail. Sighed, smiled to myself. It wasn’t every day I guided a kid like her onto the straight and narrow path.
But good as that felt, I was still left with a bitter reality — that failed kidnapping was just a sideshow. Somewhere out there a couple of lowlifes were preparing to kill Max Climer.
And so was whoever hired them.
Eleven
The Corner Newsstand on South Highland took up a corner, all right, but wasn’t a newsstand in the traditional sense — this was one of those long, narrow book, magazine and tobacco shops, with the latter commodity lending a pungent aroma throughout.
Late on a Saturday morning — I’d grabbed a few hours sleep since our rescue efforts last night — business was good, making navigating around other browsers a real trick. On either side of the shop were magazine racks, with news, entertainment and women’s subjects on the right side, and men’s-themed material, from sports to skin mags, on the left. In between were aisles of double-sided bookcases of hardcovers and mostly paperbacks.
I selected a L’Amour, Ride the Dark Trail, and paid for it up front. The indifferent college girl at the counter, reading a well-thumbed Feminine Mystique paperback, peered at me from behind big black-rimmed glasses, her dark hair hanging like steady rain, slanted shelves of cigars in boxes framing her, and informed me that the manager, Mr. Peck, was in back.
She wasn’t lying — a door that said, LEONARD PECK, MANAGER, PLEASE KNOCK, awaited me at the far end of this wide-ranging literary world that included authors from Marcel Proust and Charles Dickens to Jacqueline Susann and Agatha Christie, and periodicals ranging from U.S. News & World Report and Sports Illustrated to Better Homes and Gardens and Juggs.
My knock got me a cheerful, “Come in please,” from behind the door, which I opened and went in.
The office was small, and so was the man behind the large metal desk that took up much of the space. His dark hair was receding a little with some salt in the pepper; his eyes were the same very dark brown as his thick mustache, his face oval, wide nose, modest mouth. He was in a short-sleeved white shirt with a navy bow tie that matched his suspenders.
“Leonard Peck,” he said pleasantly, but not rising or offering a hand. “May I help you?”
The wall behind him was arrayed with framed civic and business awards, lots of calligraphy and gold medal-type seals. The desk was piled with neat stacks of papers and files, plus family photos and a phone and pen holder and blotter and a triangular wooden name plate that said, you guessed it, LEONARD PECK, MANAGER. Typewriter on a stand. Two file cabinets. A visitor’s chair.
Before taking the latter, I said, “Mr. Peck, my name is Jack Quarry. I wonder if you might spare me a moment.”