“It sounds to me as though he doesn’t know for sure,” Kate said. “But the old bastard is clearly willing to do whatever it takes to find out.”
Kate did not mention the letter that she had received from Ed Rawls:
Kate,
Freddie W. knows about J.A., but I have him neutralized, for the moment. I’m not sure how long I can keep my foot on his neck, though. He figured out that it was me and had me thrown into the hole for a week, but I may have made him think it’s somebody else. He could probably have me killed, if he wanted to.
43
Zeke crept out of Rosa’s bed and, leaving his clothes on a chair, tiptoed into his own room. He took a zippered canvas bag from under his bed and checked its contents: a pair of dark coveralls, a ski mask, a pair of driving gloves, a dozen feet of clothesline, a set of bolt cutters, and a fifteen-inch length of lead pipe, wrapped with two rolls of friction tape at one end.
He slipped into some jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of canvas boat shoes that wouldn’t leave a tread mark, then crept down the stairs and out of the house. It was a ten-minute drive to the construction site he had picked out, and when he arrived he drove around the block twice, looking for LAPD patrol cars and the night watchman. He saw no cars, but the watchman was walking the perimeter of the site. Zeke parked and watched until the man returned to his shack. Zeke got into his coveralls, rolled the ski mask so that it looked like a watch cap, slipped on the thin gloves, then grabbed the bag and headed for the fence. He cut his way through the chain links with the bolt cutters and slipped through. The watchman was still in his shack, probably dozing.
Zeke ran lightly over the rough ground to the shack. From inside he could hear the sounds of an old movie coming from a small TV set. He pulled down the ski mask, removed the lead pipe from his bag, stood behind the door, took a deep breath, and coughed loudly. A moment later, the TV went off and the door opened. Zeke waited for the man to take a step or two, then swung the pipe in a short arc toward the back of his neck. There was a faint thump, and the man fell in an uncoordinated heap. Zeke dragged him back into the shack and, with the length of clothesline, lightly hog-tied him, then stuffed the man’s own handkerchief into his mouth. He turned the TV back on and turned up the volume.
Zeke left the shack and, standing in its shadow, waited three minutes, watching for traffic. There was little to be seen, and no patrol cars. He ran toward the explosives shed. He cut through the padlock with the bolt cutters and let himself inside. There were no windows, so he switched on the light; everything he wanted was there. He had to resist the temptation to take it all, but he settled for two pounds of plastic explosive, which was about the size of a brick, and some detonators.
He stuffed everything into the bag, checked for traffic again, and ran back to the opening he had cut in the fence, then to his car. He tossed the bag into the trunk, got in, and drove away. A few blocks down the street he stopped, shucked off the coveralls, and threw them, along with the shoes, the gloves, and the ski mask, into a Dumpster; then he drove home and crept up the stairs again.
He stowed the bag under his bed, then tiptoed back across the hall, used the toilet, flushed it, and got back into bed with Rosa. She rolled over and threw an arm over him. The woman slept like a stone; his alibi was tight.
The following morning, Zeke stood with Hank Greenbaum as the unassembled podium was brought to the platform on a forklift and lowered gently to the plywood floor.
“How long will you need to install the thing?” Hank asked.
“I’ll have it together tonight and ready for painting,” Zeke said, “but I may have to put in some overtime.”
“That’ll be fine,” Hank replied. “How much help do you want?”
“Just one man.”
“Rico!” Hank hollered to a man across the platform. “Get over here and help Harry put this thing together.”
Rico walked over. “Sure thing,” he said.
“Take your orders from Harry,” Hank said, and walked away.
The two men began unloading sheets of custom-built paneling from the forklift. Shortly before noon, as the podium was beginning to take shape, two men in suits arrived.
“Secret Service,” one man said, and they both flashed ID.
Zeke hadn’t been ready for this, and his first impulse was to kick the man in the crotch and run like hell.
“We’re just looking the platform over,” the agent said to Zeke. “What are you two men doing here?”
“We’re assembling and installing the podium,” Zeke replied.
“Let me just make a note of your name,” the agent said. Looking at the laminated ID badge hanging from Zeke’s pocket, he jotted down some information, then did the same with Rico. “How do we get under the platform?” the agent asked Zeke.
“There’s a door at the back, and one at the front,” Zeke replied.
“What are we going to find down there?”
“Nothing, except a closet where all the telephone, electrical, and sound-system wiring is led in.”
“Thanks, carry on,” the agent said, and the two men walked away.
Zeke went back to work, breathing easier.
When the quitting whistle blew, Zeke turned to Rico. “I’ll take it from here,” he said. “There’s not much more to do.”
“Whatever you say,” Rico replied. “See you tomorrow.”
Zeke continued to work on the podium as the rest of the work crew made their way off the Coliseum floor. Finally, he was alone. Using a power saw, he cut a section out of the floor under the podium, then hinged it, creating a trapdoor. He had planned this to give quick access to the wiring closet below. Nobody would think it was anything but a good idea.
He let himself down into the closet, switched on the light, and gazed at the wiring installation. Slowly, he identified each wire and where it led. Each wire was marked with a strip of masking tape, and its destination was written on the tape. He located the wire that would lead to the microphone, on the premise that, once the mike was installed and working, nobody would pay any further attention to it. The wire turned out to be red, which would help him identify it again later. He looked around the closet, which was nothing more than a six-foot-by-eight-foot framework of two-by-fours, clad in quarter-inch plywood. All that this room needed for his purposes, he decided, was a ceiling. He took some measurements, then went behind the platform where materials were stacked, found a piece of scrap plywood that was big enough, trimmed it with his power saw, and went back into the closet.
He cut a number of holes in it for the various bunches of wires to run through, then he reran all the wires and tacked the plywood to the framework. It was hardly noticeable, since it did not impede the work of the electricians, but now he had a gap of four inches between the new closet ceiling and the plywood that made up the floor of the platform. The gap would be there when he needed it, very near the new trapdoor.
He cleaned up after himself, gathered his tools, and went whistling home, content with his day’s work.
44
Will pulled his black bow tie tight and examined it closely. He had once seen Vance Calder perform that task in a movie, and his result had been a lot better than Will’s.
Kate came out of the dressing room, where she had been applying her makeup. “Better let me take a look at that,” she said.
“Wow,” Will breathed. “That is some dress!” It was black, short, and low-cut.
“I thought it would be good for the Hollywood glitterati to know that there are tits back East,” Kate replied coolly.