Hip Cities and Lost Souls
Chapter 18
Panic and Joy.
Bobo now knew what the prospectors in these
hills once meant when they hit a mother load. The unexpected treasure hung
heavy in his hands, the two shopping bags bumping against his legs in an uneven
rhythm as he walked. It was the best he could contrive in the short time
allotted him. Perhaps that had been panic, too. Afraid the Tinkertons would
call the police. Afraid Danny-boy would pop back through the door while he was
packing. But the phoney cops had shown no interest in the drugs after their
initial search of the refrigerator, as if they had expected to find a cool girl
wedged in with the milk and cheese, not a million dollar shipment of dope from
Denver. And packing it into the bag, he'd felt every bit the Grinch who stole
Christmas, humming to himself as he cocked an ear for the sounds on the stairs,
imagining poor Dan's face when he opened the refrigerator to find the treasure
gone.
But the shuffle of feet came just as he
finished packing and for a moment he'd thought of leaping from the balcony to
the ground. Dan or the police meant the same ill luck he'd experienced since
the beginning. And he, a man, who'd prided himself on cleverness, able to duck
out of any situation, either with the skill of a cat-burglar or the voice of a
con-man. But Dan wouldn't be fooled twice and the cops already had their nets
out for him, suspecting him of everything from white slavery to participation
on Charlie Manson's family rituals. And there wasn't even a pea-shooter in the
house with which to fight himself free.
Yet when the knock came, he was ready, pushing
the bags behind the door. "Who is it and what do you want?" he asked,
peering through the peep hole into a beehive of nearly purple hair.
"You can let me in, young man," the
woman demanded, her harsh voice like Bobo's mother's had been, grating on the
edge of his nerves. "I've had just about enough of this."
"I'm afraid I don't understand,"
Bobo said. And didn't.
"Just open the door, asshole,"
another, harder and definitely male voice said, banging the door with a fist as
if to knock it down.
It wasn't a cop. But from the peeved tone of
voice, it might have been worse. An angry relation to the land woman. Perhaps
the Tinkertons had told her about the drugs. And both relation and woman had
obviously mistaken him for the tenant.
Advantage one. He smiled and undid the chain,
letting the door swing in. Two very large, late-thirty males barged in like a
pair of bull dogs, fists ready as if expecting a fight.
"Oh," the woman behind them said.
"You're not Mr. Drummond."
"No," Bobo said. "I'm just a
house guest. Is there a problem?"
"I should say so," one of the men
growled, eyeing Bobo with some suspicion. Bobo balanced himself. Ready. He
could handle the man. Both if need be. He'd handled worse overseas, in Saigon
bar brawls. There was nothing more dangerous than a drunken South Korean. "Where
is the bum?"
"Can't say," Bobo said.
"Well, you're going to have to leave just
the same," the woman said. "Mr. Drummond doesn't live here any
more."
Eviction, eh, Bobo thought. Another bit
of hard luck for Lance. He'd liked the fellow, despite their obviously
differing opinions on the war and violence and street life. But it was the way
things went sometimes. Part of the game, and it was another bit of added
fortune for himself, since he had wondered about how to cover his trail.
"I was just leaving anyway," Bobo
said, snatching up the shopping bags from behind the door. "I don't know
where the others are. But I've had enough of people stomping in an out all the
time."
It was exactly what the woman needed to hear.
"And you should hear it downstairs," she said. "Like a herd of
elephants and any time day or night, too. I'm at wits end, I tell you. Even
with rent late, I might not have put them out-- but the noise. How am I
supposed to run a respectable place here with all that noise?"
"What do you want us to take first, Aunt
Marge?" one of the men asked, as Bobo eased passed them and through the
door.
"Anything, dear," the woman said.
"It all has to go."
Once down the stairs, he rushed out to the
street, avoiding Fountain and his promised meeting with the others, heading up
to the Boulevard where he could get himself lost in the crowd, slightly
confused by his own success. The way he had been in Denver when the men had
insisted on him taking their dope, saying there would be more.
Just don't talk to anybody about what you
know, they'd told him. And don't kill anyone.
Kill who? Or why?
Neither question answerable till weeks later
when the name Buckingham came up with reports of wide spread murder across the
whole west. Drug dealers and radicals murdered brutally. The underground hippie
pipeline was insane with the news.
Only then did he understand the nervousness of
the Drug Company men, who had mistaken Bobo for Buckingham and had given him
dope as a bribe. To find out after he vanished, they had bribed the wrong man.
Nor had their error ended there. They'd sent a second shipment south along one
of the usual routes, despite the haunting presence of Demetre, who was on to
them.
To stop the killing. To keep part of their
organization in tact. Too many cross-overs. People they needed for their
legitimate business.
And Dan and Bobo had picked that precise time
to take over the L.A. end of the drug route, just when the company was decided
to shut things down. Not forever. But long enough to let things cool down with
the cops. Perhaps there were even thoughts of shaking Buckingham. Yet in the
meantime bribes had to be paid.
Bob hadn't intended to string Dan out. He'd
flown to Denver less with the idea of ripping him off than warning him. Demetre
was loose, and one of the L.A. people had broken Dan's name in a plea bargain.
Bobo never imagined himself arriving first, or being mistaken for Buckingham.
He had simply thought to follow the trail back, looking to catch up with Dan
and the first new shipment before both of them got busted.
But once they shoved the dope in his face, things
changed. Visions of being the king of L.A. floated before his eyes like a
hallucination. With monthly shipments this size, he could rule the town
forever, sitting back living high off the hog in Beverly Hills like any other
muckity-muck, hobnobbing with the rich and famous, maybe even looking down his
nose at them for a change.
And all that changed again when he heard of
Buckingham-- it meant being caught between the killer and the cop. A few local
dealers caught onto his plans, too, and blamed Bobo for the recent spurt of
busts-- most of which had to do more with the Narco Article in the paper than
his dealings in Denver. But then, they blamed him for the narco article, too,
as if a small time con-man could come up with such files. But there was no truth
down here once the panic started. Only the perpetual skin of an onion. No
center. No source. Only rumors.
And things weren't stable. And he could feel
life here beginning to unravel, as if some other master designer had planned
the down-fall of the L.A. drug scene, with perhaps the idea of seizing control.
By the time all this had sunk in, dealing the
first shipment in small spurts for maximum profit was impossible. Too easy to
get caught, even one deal was risky. But that was his plan, to sell and get out
and hope he could dig up another deal in another city half as sweet as this.
And now, the second shipment had fallen into his hands. How sweet that was! A
grub stake for his move. He could sell one batch and keep the other for slower
sales in the new city.
But walking the streets of Hollywood loaded
down like this was crazy. He needed to stash the stuff quick and slip back into
hiding before Dan, Buckingham, Demetre or Billy caught up with him.
But where? His apartment was out of bounds.
Someone-- anyone might be watching it, waiting for him to show up and shoot.
Mike and Dan would be back from their meeting soon, too, thought Bobo had
gotten a strange feeling from the whole Venice thing. At the time he'd said
nothing, but there had been an invitation for him to go as well, and instinct
told him it was a trap. Maybe to kill more than one bird at a time, clean up
the L.A. scene once and for all. What Buckingham had planned for the mob was
still a mystery. This whole Denver connection had always been the alternative
to the much more structured downtown crowd, and half the busts before
Buckingham's arrival had been pulled strings inside the police department to
eliminate competition. Was Buckingham a private contractor for them, to cut off
the flow of dope from competitive sources? If so, then there was no place safe.
Hollywood was as mob-owned as Chicago or Miami, part porno capital, part import
center for cross-country heroin. No one could compete with it out in the open,
or hide from it once the enemy targeted them.
Suddenly, Bobo was even more deeply
frightened, staring at the faces of the people on the street around him,
panhandlers and freep dealers, drug pushers and pimps, all of them potential
finks, willing and able to point him out in the crowd.
Poor Mike. For the first time Bobo understood
the nature of the hunted, when it was all against him, when there was no way
out.
Then he saw the figure, or rather a dark
mexican hat and cloak floating in the crowd behind. It was mexican day. Some
chicano celebration city wide, and yet this figure lacked all the glitter of
the others, less tourist perhaps and more authentic. Imported gunmen were not
unknown in this city and there was something menacing in the movements.
Something professional and deadly and
following him.
The panic won out over the joy. The bags of
dope weighed too much in either hand, preventing him from bolting straight out,
his hope for future enterprise like chains.
Where now? He needed a placed quickly to
unburden himself, to free himself for action. If only he had a gun-- though
guns and knives didn't fit his style. Oh, he didn't feel the way the pacifist
did. Violence had its place. But often people used it too soon and frequently
for Bobo's tastes. Guns took the art out of street life. He preferred words. If
there had been a man like him in the white house, there would have been no
Vietnam, or need for his own long twelve months ducking mortars and grenades
near Danang.
There was a bit of Danang in him now as he
increased his pace, weaving through the crows as best as he could with the
bags. One of the paper handles began to tear with the weight. Danang.
Helplessness. The Marines never taught him to be helpless. To sit and take a
thing. Most of his buddies went crazy with their inability to strike back.
But not Bobo.
There was wisdom in that insane country, right
under the barrels of the guns. Old Buddhists teaching things about patience,
about cycles, about the use of spirit. It had all come home to him, making him
accept the gunfire and blood shit as aspects of a greater, more insane conflict
inside himself. If he could contain what went on in his own head, he could
control the world.
To that part of himself he reached, the slow
chant echoing in his head, pushing down the impulse to run, corralling the
panic like a wild beast. He could not tame it. He lacked mastery for that, but
he could keep it caged for a time, long enough to think, letting his body's
motion answer the pressing problem of escape.
Yet, he watched the figure behind him,
reflections in the angled doorway glass, weaving and bobbing through the
thinning crowd like a hunter. Was one hand buried beneath the cloak for a
reason? Would Buckingham dare to shoot him this openly with this many police?
Where?
Dozens of places came to mind. Dark little
niches of perversity hidden on side streets for the particular tastes of
varying clienteles. But too private. Too out of the way. Where a gun shot might
not draw the attention more public places would.
But the handle tore again. He gripped the bag
itself, feeling it slowly giving, feeling like the little Dutch boy before the
rapidly cracking dike.
Where?
At the next corner, he caught the ragged but
still flickering neon sign-- the blue and red of another era, cheap now in the
light of new electronics, yet luxurious by old Hollywood standards, advertising
the one-time haven of movies stars and foreign dignitaries.
The Selma Hotel.
Long ago, it had fallen into ill repute, a
whore house, opium den, but one far more open than those subtler places now
raking in the profits. Famous as a place of last resort. Old whores went there
to kill themselves. Destitute junkies crawled in its halls. The cops stationed
patrol cars there as a matter of course, dragging the bodies out of the place
with the predictability of a bus service.
It was an answer, although not a good one. But
the best he could find under the circumstances. Even Buckingham would think
twice before shooting him there.
***********
"Well isn't that just grand," Dan
spat as they crowded back into the van, Mike, Marie, Lance, and himself. Billy
had split saying the van was too easy a target for the local heat. But Billy
meant nothing to Dan now; he needed a way out of this, a place where he could
hide his head until his own private heat forgot him. Another town, maybe? Or a
place like one Mike sought, where no one ever heard of American drug companies,
Federal narcs, or a bad, bad dude named Buckingham.
Maybe he and Mike could build a raft and let
themselves loose. If they were lucky, they would drown before the coast guard
caught them, or some rude current deposited them back on American soil.
"It wasn't our fault," Lance said.
"Even if we'd stayed and watched for him, the Tinkertons would have
cornered us."
"I know. I know," Dan mumbled, and
started the engine. "I guess I should have expected as much. But just how
did the Tinkertons get wind of the apartment anyway?"
"It wouldn't have been hard to find out
where Lance lived," Mike said. "The pacifist has a reputation as a
rich hippie."
"Maybe," Dan said. "Or maybe
they were told-- as part of a distraction-- to get everyone away from the
apartment."
"For what?"
"For the dope, of course. Buckingham
didn't deposit it among our stuff as a Christmas present. He only wanted us to
get it into town for him."
"Of course!" Mike exploded.
"Which would explain the invitation. I'll bet you had one, too. Sitting a
Free Press Bob's.,"
"Or forgotten to get delivered by the
same idiot who forgot the earlier messages." Dan said. "Only
Buckingham miscalculated. He figured to get in and out after the Tinkertons.
And there in the middle of it all was Bobo."
"Maybe Buckingham figured none of us
would be back," Mike said. "Things got confused in the fog. He might
have been surprised at the betrayal and the sudden appearance of Billy's
boy."
"I don't care about him, I just want
Bobo. People saw him. He was carrying shopping bags. That's what you said,
Lance, right?"
"That's what people told me," Lance
said. "They said he looked scared."
"Of what I wonder," Mike said.
"Us? Or Buckingham?"
"He's got instinct," Dan said.
"He'd know if Buckingham was stalking him."
"Maybe," Mike mumbled. "But if
he doesn't, then he's already dead."
Dan pictured Bobo's head exploding like the
stranger on the pier. He shivered and twisted the wheel of the van, pulling
away from the curb again and into traffic. The machine struggled under the
weight, like it had in the mountains. A real trooper for a machine ten years old.
"One more pass, okay?" he asked.
"Why not," Mike mumbled. "Then
we've got to figure out what to do after that. Where to dump this stuff and a
place to hide ourselves."
Dan looked over his shoulder at Lance, who was
perched on the seat behind him, just barely fitting into the tangle of
apartment furniture, the pale face and drawn mouth saying everything about what
went on in his head. First Sarah, now the apartment. It must have seemed as if
the world was collapsing under him. But then, it was partly the boy's own fault
for hooking up with a bitch like Sarah.
"Cheer up," Dan said to him.
"We'll get all this straightened up, I promise."
But how? The dope had been his last ace, and
now there was nothing. He might as well go back to Phoenix and wait for the
drug company people to hunt him down, or die of old age, or go to New York
where alimony and smog could kill him slowly.
Then someone waved at them from the sidewalk,
a frantic two-armed plea for them to stop.
"It's him!" Mike howled.
Dan slammed on the brakes, the whole van
shuddering with shifting furniture and suitcases. Mike threw open the door and
dragged Bobo in.
"Quick! Go!" Bobo shouted.
"He's behind me"
Dan didn't hear the shot, but the bullet
ripped through the metal like an angry bee, wedging itself somewhere in the
furniture. He shifted gears and tried to build up momentum again, but it was
like being on the mountain back near Denver, engine chugging ever so slowly,
bucking as another bullet struck.
"Where's it coming from?" Dan
screamed.
"The shadows of a doorway half way up the
block," Mike said, squinting back through the tangle of Lance's
possessions. "Get around the corner and I'll jump out. Maybe we can pin
the bastard down."
"Before the cops get us?" Dan asked,
but complied with Mike's request, stopping the van beyond the yellow curb.
Both leaped from their respective doors,
followed by a more cautious Bobo.
"Take the street side," Mike said.
"Behind the cars. I'll go down the sidewalk."
"But..."
"Just do it."
Dan nodded and leaped out from the side of the
building to the street where the cover of cars kept him from direct line of
fire. A few people wandered the sidewalks, drug-hazed hippies whose perception
of reality did not recognize the danger. Too mellow to care, or perhaps deeper
down in their consciousness seeking to step in front of a stray bullet or
truck. Once on the street, Dan turned and ran at a stoop along the cars, his
pistol pushed out in front of him like a shield.
Mike moved along the shadows, in one doorway
at a time, scooting forward like a frightened rat, closer and closer to the
place from which the shots had come.
No more shots came-- even when Dan pulled up
parallel to the door. Mike came more slowly, motioning for Dan to move to the
other side. Dan nodded and rolled along two more cars till a space opened
between their bumpers. Then with one deep breath, he dove towards the sidewalk.
Still no shot.
Dan rose stiffly, his face grim as he came to
the edge of the glass, his and Mike's reflections shimmering in the distorted
and dusty window display, like items long out of date and yellowed by the sun,
growing older and more unwanted with the passing of days. They looked like
weathered bookends.
Mike moved first, rolling across the mouth of
the doorway with his pistol pointed in. Then, he sagged.
"Empty," he said.
Bobo came up behind Dan. "That's where
the fucker was, I swear it."
"He must have guessed what we would
do," Mike mumbled and slowly rose to his feet, fitting the gun back into
his belt. "It's like fighting someone who can read my mind. Well, I guess
that settles the matter of whether Bobo is Buckingham or not."
"Maybe," Dan said, thrusting his own
pistol into his jacket. "But I have other matters to discuss."
"Look, Dan..." Bobo said, slowly
backing away.
"Where's my dope," Dan asked,
advancing as the man retreated. Bobo made to run, but Dan grabbed him by the
collar and propelled him against the hood of a car.
"Dope?" Bobo grunted. "You mean
the stuff I got in Denver? I told you that's all gone."
"We're talking about it all, pal,"
Dan said, jabbing his fingers into the man's ribs. "The stuff from Denver
and the stuff you stole out of Lance's refrigerator."
Bobo twisted his head around, his expression
one of total confusion. "I'm afraid you've lost me there, Danny-boy!"
"Bullshit! I've got witnesses. You're not
going to wiggle out of it this time."
Bobo sagged a little, his forehead falling
gently against the car hood. He shifted, his gaze searching either side of him
like a man looking for answers in the air.
"I wasn't trying wiggle out of
anything," he mumbled unenthusiastically. "I just don't think this is
the time or place to discuss such matters. Do you?"
"He's right, Dan," Mike said.
"The shooting's attracted attention." He motioned down the street
where cops leaped into their cars from hassling bikers. "I think maybe we
should split."
"What about my dope?" Dan asked.
"It's Buckingham's dope," Mike said,
tugging on Dan's arm. "And if this clown's got it stashed, the better for
all of us. What are we going to do with it, carry around with us? We look a little too obvious for that, don't
you think?"
It made sense. Which peeved Dan off all the
more. Yet, he let Bobo up from the car. "So what do we do now?"
"We regroup," Mike said. "Come
on."
***********
It was late. The Freep crowd had shrunk to a
ragged line of freaks outside the Free Press office and sleeping forms behind
the hedge. Even the love-making had ceased. Pot and incense smoke filled the
air. A religious silence dominated the participants, reminding Lance of the
perimeter fire bases west of Hue after a long gun fight.
Their own little party seemed to violate the
sanctimony of the ritual, raising up paranoid gazes as the five pushed up the
drive from the street. They had walked down from the Boulevard. The van looked
too suspicious, sagging heavily with the apartment load of furniture. The cops
had seen it pull away from the scene, and no doubt, fit it in with other
reports-- like the shooting in Venice, or the cop-killing on Vermont.
"Safer to walk," Mike said. "No
use attracting more attention to ourselves than necessary."
And yet, even walking, they seemed too
obvious, a little army of ragged hippies out of touch with the current street
paranoia which made travelling in large groups dangerous. Bobo resisted the
march, holding back at the last minute as they came into the driveway, his
puffy face contorted.
"This is crazy!" he said. "What
the hell did we come here for?"
"News," Dan said.
"Right," Bobo growled. "Like
he's going to give us anything straight."
They stopped half way to the door, shielded
partly by the hedge on one side and a dying, transplanted tree in the front
yard of the neighbor. Mike looked nervous, too, staring back at the street as
if expecting something to rush up at them. He glanced suspiciously at Bobo.
"What are you telling us?" he asked.
"There's talk about Free Press Bob. About
him making a deal with the pigs."
"And I told you before it's a lie!"
Dan said, making a grab for Bobo's throat, stopped by Mike.
"Let him talk. What kind of deal?"
Bobo shrugged. "I don't have any inside
track on the man."
"Ah for Christ's sake!" Dan growled.
"Next he'll be saying Free Press Bob is Buckingham."
"And he could be!" Bobo said.
"He's situated perfect for it."
"I'm not going to listen to any more of
this!" Dan said. "Deal making with the cops to being Buckingham! Next
you'll say he's Charlie Manson! Come on. It's dangerous standing here."
Dan marched up the driveway to the door. The
others followed, though Mike's frown had deepened and his attention seemed less
dedicated behind them as to the door and windows of the house. Dan tapped
softly on the glass, the rat-tat-tat muffled by the stacks of papers inside.
Lance smelled pot fumes under the door. Or had it become ingrained in the
fabric of the place, saturating the old wood the way salt did near the sea?
A stoned set of eyes appeared in the opening,
careful scared eyes which looked them up and down before undoing the chain.
"In, quick," Free Press Bob said. He
yanked them in by the hand like a man saving children from drowning, shutting
the door tight behind, locking each lock with deliberation.
Inside, a dim bulb glowed from the corner, providing
little more illumination than a night light, barely denting the shadows of the
room. Details of the paper man's face eluded them, but his voice sounded
fearful and concerned.
"You people are in trouble," he
said, stepping back over the barrier to his usual position, as if it somehow
separated him from their deeds.
"What do you mean?" Mike asked
sharply, keeping near the door with his ear bent to it, his eyes catching the
light like a cat's.
"The fuzz is what I mean," the paper
man said. "They've had me up a half dozen times tonight looking for
you."
"For who?" Mike said, head turning,
his face of panic fully defined even in the dim light.
"All of you. By name," the paper man
said. "As if they'd read it off a list of the city's most wanted."
"Our real names?" Dan asked.
"Even Mike's and Bobo's. They kept
mumbling something about murder. But no one said exactly who you were suppose
to have done in or why."
"Damn!" Mike howled. "The fuck
head promised me!"
"Who?"
"Demetre," Mike said, spitting out
the name as if it was poison. "He's the only one who knows I'm in
town."
"Maybe the bloodshed got a little too
much for him," Free Press Bob said. "They seem to be finding bodies
everywhere. Even here in Hollywood."
Bobo stiffened, his face growing pale in the
dim light, his gaze squinting at the newspaper man. Something sparkled in his
eyes, alarm, maybe, or paranoia.
"Here?" Bobo said. "Where
exactly? And when?"
"From what the cops told me, they found
someone butchered less than an hour ago over at the Selma Hotel."
"NO!" Bobo howled.
"What's the matter with you?" Dan
said, grabbing the man as he made a dive for the door.
"That's where I stashed the dope,"
Bobo said.
"You what...?"
"With an old friend," Bobo said,
half coherently, like someone lost in a fog. "A black dude. He runs the
place. I knew things would be safe with him."
"That much dope isn't safe with
anybody," Mike said.
"With him it was," Bobo said,
defensively. "He hated the stuff and wouldn't have taken it except he owed
me a favor."
"Oh?" Dan said suspiciously.
"What kind of favor?"
"I saved his life in DaNang."
"Well," Free Press Bob said.
"It seems you set him up for a pretty heavy thing. They say the man who
killed him, cut him up bad. And the cops seemed to have connected you three to
it."
"As if they were reading from a list?"
Mike repeated from Free Press Bob's earlier remark. "A set up?"
"What do you mean?" Dan asked.
"I mean someone's trying to get us busted
like they've been doing everybody else on the street, passing along tips to the
cops, making it look as if Bobo or someone else was responsible."
Dan pondered it for a moment, then nodded.
"It would fit the pattern. And if it's who we think, then Buckingham has
his dope back and doesn't need us for anything any more."
"Maybe," Mike said, then looked
sharply up at Free Press Bob. "You sent messengers around for the son of a
bitch. How many invitations did he issue for the Venice pier."
"One for each of the lot of you,"
the newspaper man said. "And some for a few who'd already been
busted."
"My God!" Bobo moaned. "It
sounds like this character planned a dope dealer's convention."
Mike frowned. The shattered face came back
from the pier, the eyes hot with fear. Had he been a puppet-- one sent out into
the fog like bait, repeating the Demetre's litany of admiration in order to
make them all target? But how many could a lone gun man in the fog kill before
being killed? Or had confusion been desired, a hope that each would think the
other started and begin mass warfare with Mike killing Billy or Billy killing
Dan or stray bullets from all killing each other in an insane panic?
If it was a convention, it was one in which we
were supposed to die," Mike said at last, not sure of all the details, but
knowing something had gone wrong with it-- no Bobo. No Billy. Dan and Mike on
the same side. And that talking puppet indian spewing secrets. "This thing
with the Selma must be something he thought up on the spur of the moment."
"It's too loose," Dan said.
"No one could expect you to get caught by something as obvious as
this."
"Maybe not," Mike admitted.
"Maybe Buckingham just wants to drive me out of town. I'm hot enough. I
wouldn't want my name circulated."
But Free Press Bob shook his head. "I
don't think so. Not if the rumors are right."
"What do you mean?"
"Talk is Buckingham wants you dead and
won't settle for anything less. I think this is just a bit of psychological
warfare, something to throw you off guard, or pressure you into making
mistakes. I think he counts on your panicking."
"Maybe," Mike said thoughtfully.
"And he's got a point. But I think we've been dancing around the issue for
too long. If he wants us, then we should give ourselves up to him."
"What?" Dan and Bobo exploded at the
same time.
"Set a trap for him," Mike
clarified.
"A trap?" Bobo asked. "Don't
you think this dude'll know it's a trap?"
"Of course, he'll know. But he'll come.
I'm beginning to get a sense of his game. It isn't just a matter of destroying
me. Buckingham has something to prove. Maybe he needs to feel better or more
important than I am. And part of that would involve being able to get around any
trap I could set. It's the pattern."
"Then break the pattern," Dan said.
"Run."
"And have him pursue me to some other
city, or catch up with me when I least expect? No, I'm afraid we're going to
have to play this game out right here in L.A."
"All right," Dan grumbled. "So
how do we play it out with no dope to offer him?"
"Who said we had no dope?"
Again, Mike drew startled expressions from Dan
and Bobo. Free Press Bob contemplated Mike over the tips of his fingers, but
did not seem unduly alarmed.
"I seem to recall there was an early
payment made to Bobo back in Denver," Mike said, looking sharply at Bobo.
"Oh no!" Bobo said, backing up to
the door. "You're not getting your hands on that. Not for some crazy
do-or-dare with that monster. Bad enough he got the Albuquerque shipment and
killed my friend in the process. I'm not going to lose everything on this roll
of the dice."
"You don't have a choice," Dan
said, moving towards the man. Bobo glancing around for escape, finding nothing
but grim faces. "It isn't your dope," Dan went on. "And now I
know you still have it."
"I don't," Bobo said. "I
converted it into cash the minute I hit town."
"Bullshit!"
"Even that wouldn't be bad," Mike
said. "We could offer to buy Buckingham's shipment back."
"No," Bobo said. "Absolutely
not."
"You work it out, Dan," Mike said,
sagging a little. He looked and felt weary again, the way he had before
settling on the farm, before his partner brought the cops in on his dream of
settling down. Perhaps there was truth in Demetre's talk. Perhaps he could find
a niche and settle again, letting the long arm of justice sweep on past. Maybe
he could think in terms of a new job like he'd tried in Detroit without the
ghostly visions of his child stirring up the old anger. "I'm going to take
Marie and Lance and find a place to dump the shit from the van. We might need
to travel fast."
Mike looked to Free Press Bob. "You think
you could find a way to reach Buckingham again?"
The newspaper man shrugged. "I don't
think its a matter of me reaching him. He's got his ear to the ground. I
wouldn't be surprised if he already knew."
"Send out word anyway. Set up the meeting
for tonight. Late. Make it midnight. He seems to like that time for some
reason."
"Where?"
Mike pondered for a moment, then looked at
Lance. "Where does Dale live?"
"Dale?" Dan laughed. "What's he
got to do with any of this?"
"I was thinking of stashing Lance's
furniture there. I don't want to travel much in daylight if I can help
it."
"He lives over on the south end of Echo
Lake," Free Press Bob said.
"Perfect!" Mike said. "Tell
Buckingham to meet us in the park."