‘Back in a minute,’ Marta whispered.
She pulled out the ignition key. Holding the key case in her right hand, she opened the car door with her left, then took the pistol from between her thighs and climbed out. She kneed the door shut.
As she stepped out of the gloom of the car port, she looked down at herself. Gun in one hand. Arms streaked with Neal’s blood. Sodden T-shirt clinging to her. Her thighs smeared a bit with Neal’s blood, but her cut knees dark with her own, which had run down her shins.
Anybody sees me, they’ll call the cops for sure.
She glanced up and down the alley. No cars were coming. She saw no people, either – though she supposed that anyone might be lurking in some of those dark places.
Too many dark places.
She turned her eyes to the Jeep. The car port was fairly dark; unlikely that anyone would notice Sue in the passenger seat.
Can’t take her with me, that’s for sure.
Marta turned away and hurried toward the rear gate of Neal’s apartment building. Before opening it, she gazed into the courtyard. She couldn’t see much: the passageway on the other side of the gate, most of the swimming pool, and the front gate area beyond the far end of the pool.
Both sides of the courtyard were out of sight.
She didn’t like the idea of walking in with a gun in her hand.
So she clamped the key case between her teeth. With her right hand, she tugged the neck of her T-shirt, stretching it down. Then she slipped the pistol through the neck hole. She tucked it, barrel first, beneath her right armpit and lowered her arm to hold it in place. The handle pushed against the side of her breast.
The pistol felt heavy and slightly cool.
She wished it was loaded.
Take care of that in a few minutes.
She took the keys in her hand, went through the gate, and walked quickly into the courtyard.
Lights glowed above many of the front doors, but all the doors were shut. Most of the windows were dark. Scanning the lower and upper levels, she saw nobody looking out at her.
You never know.
She kept the pistol tucked under her armpit as she silently climbed the stairs.
The light above Neal’s door wasn’t on.
He always keeps it on at night.
Maybe Glitt turned it off, she thought.
Had he been here? Very likely. He’d been planning to come over tonight before going for the payoff.
We could’ve been here, waiting for him. Nailed him when he showed up. If we’d done that, Neal might still . . .
Neal’s dead.
Dead.
Impossible. There has to be some mistake. Or this is some sort of a really horrible, vivid nightmare.
I’d sure like to wake up.
Please, let me wake up. Let it all be a dream. We’re all still fast asleep on my bed, and I’ll wake up and Neal will be there with his head on my hip, Sue with her head by my shoulder. We’re the infamous Two-she . . .
But she knew she wouldn’t wake up.
This was real.
I’d give anything if we could all go back. Start over again.
This time, stay away from Video City.
Hell, stay away from Vince.
Let him keep his damn money.
Go back and do ANY of it differently, and Neal’d still be alive right now.
It didn’t seem right, not being allowed to go back. It seemed hugely unfair.
What’s the matter with you, God? My God, have a heart! What’d Neal ever do to hurt anyone? You want his kid to grow up fatherless?
Anyhow, I LOVED him! What’s the MATTER with you!
I’ll tell you what the matter is – you don’t give a rat’s ass!
She was in tears by the time she reached the top of the stairs. Walking along the balcony, sniffing and sobbing quietly, she searched through her leather key case and found the key to Neal’s door.
Don’t blame it on God, she told herself. We got ourselves into this mess.
Ourselves? Fuck that! Put the blame where it belongs on Vince and Glitt and the assholes who gunned down Neal.
She reached down the neck of her T-shirt and pulled out the pistol. Then she unlocked Neal’s door. She pushed the door open. There were no lights on.
Nothing to worry about, she told herself. Nobody’s here. Glitt’s on his way over to Vince’s house. Probably.
He must be. Vince not only cheated him out of half a million bucks, but hired a carload of gangsters to blow him out of his socks.
But they got Neal!
Don’t think about him, she told herself. Don’t. Gotta hold it together and take care of business.
She stepped into the dark room, reached out with her elbow and flipped a switch up. Behind her, the light came on. She hit the second switch, and a lamp suddenly filled the living room with light.
Everything looked fine.
Marta shut the door.
Better look around.
Be quick about it, for godsake!
She hurried across the living room. As she entered the dining area, she glanced back. Her cut feet had left faint, reddish scuffs on the gray carpet. She supposed that she’d probably made a trail through the courtyard and up the stairs as well.
Doesn’t matter. I don’t care.
The sight of Neal’s word processor sent a sudden thick wave of sickness pushing through her.
He’ll never write another screenplay. Never make it big. Never anything.
She spun away from the word processor and hurried through the kitchen.
Fine, fine, fine. Nobody here. Get on with it.
She rushed into the bathroom and flicked on a light.
Fine, fine . . .
She saw herself in the mirror.
It was no surprise to find her face bloody; she’d been able to feel the stiffness of the drying blood on her cheeks and chin and around her mouth. But this was so much worse than she’d imagined.
‘Carrie at the prom,’ she muttered.
All of it from throwing herself onto Neal’s body and kissing him.
Unlike Carrie, Marta had little or no blood in her hair. But her face was a red mess, and blood had dripped down her neck. Her T-shirt, all the way down . . .
She set the pistol and keys on the edge of the sink, then shut the bathroom door and thumbed down its lock button. With both hands, she grabbed the bottom of her T-shirt. She lifted and the shirt came unstuck from her skin. She pulled it over her head.
I don’t have time for this, she thought. Haven’t checked the rest of the place yet, either. What if someone’s in the bedroom?
‘Screw it,’ she muttered.
It felt good to be rid of the gory T-shirt. She wadded it and tossed it to the back of the bathtub. Then she climbed into the tub, pulled the curtain shut and bent over the faucets.
Make it quick, make it quick! Just to get the blood off.
The water came rushing down on her back, cold. She yelped and flinched. Not waiting for it to grow warm, she stood up straight. The cold spray wet her hair, then hit her in the face.
Eyes shut, lips tight, she kept her face in front of the shower.
This’ll get most of it. Forget soap, I’d have to waste time rinsing.
She rubbed her face with both hands, rubbed her neck and shoulders, her arms and breasts. Her skin was rumpled with goosebumps. Her nipples were hard and jutting.
I’ll never feel Neal’s hands. Or his mouth.
Don’t think about him!
The water was no longer quite so cold.
As she stepped back, the spray drenched her body. Warm, it pelted her breasts. It grew fairly hot against her belly. By the time it reached her groin and thighs, it was too hot. She bent down quickly into steamy, stinging water and twisted the faucets off.
Standing up, she wiped her eyes clear. She looked down at herself. Her skin looked flushed and shiny. The goosebumps were gone. So was the blood. The cuts on her knees didn’t seem to be bleeding a
nymore.
She swept open the shower curtain and stepped out.
Quick all right. The mirror didn’t even steam up.
She jerked a towel off its bar, quickly rubbed her head with it, then draped the towel over her shoulders and opened the bathroom door. She grabbed her pistol and keys. Dripping, she hurried into Neal’s bedroom and elbowed a light switch.
The lamps came on.
Nobody.
She started toward Neal’s bed, thinking she might drop to her knees and check underneath it.
Don’t waste your time. If the boogy man was here, he would’ve nailed you in the shower.
She turned to the dresser. In the mirror above it, she saw herself set down the pistol and keys. Her hair was a dark tangle. She was dripping.
She considered pulling the towel off her shoulders and drying herself with it.
Why waste the time? Who cares if I’m wet?
She tugged open the top drawer where Neal usually kept his ammunition. There, hidden under some socks, was a flat brown box labeled .380 auto.
Standing on one foot, then the other, she inspected the cuts on the bottoms of her feet. Nothing really major. Most of the bleeding had stopped. She didn’t want to waste time with bandages, so she took out a pair of socks and put them on. They felt thick and good on her feet.
She took the box of ammunition from the drawer, opened it, and slid out the clear plastic rack that held the cartridges.
Water trickled down her body. Some of the dribbles made her skin itch.
Ignore it.
The rack was about half full. The cartridges stood upright: rows and rows of disks that looked like golden wheels with dull iron hubcaps in the center of each.
She picked up the pistol. Its slide was back, indicating that it was empty.
She studied it for a few moments.
Neal had taken her to a shooting range back in April. She’d used the Sig, and he’d shown her how to reload it. But the lessons seemed like ages ago.
Something trickled into her left eye. It made her eye burn. Sweat? She blinked, then rubbed the eye with the back of her slick right hand.
The rubbing did little good.
‘Terrific,’ she muttered.
Forget it. Get the pistol loaded and get the hell out of here!
She tried thumbing the small lever just forward of the hammer. It didn’t seem to do anything. Then she tilted the pistol and studied the bottom of its handle where the magazine was inserted.
She found a black, ribbed switch at the back of the magazine.
A bit of memory returned.
That’s it!
She shoved it with her thumb. It moved. It clicked. The magazine lurched downward a bit.
All right!
She slid the magazine all the way out and set down the pistol.
With her free right hand, she jerked the towel off her shoulders. She quickly mopped her dripping face, her chest and breasts and sides and belly. Then she pressed the towel between her thighs, where it would be easy to reach.
She plucked a cartridge out of the plastic rack. Holding the magazine with her left hand, she braced its bottom against the top of the dresser. With her right hand, she pushed the cartridge down against the top of the spring-loaded slide.
The spring seemed awfully powerful.
But it gave a little, then gave a little more.
Water and sweat dribbled down her back, down her sides, down her buttocks, down the backs of her legs. She ached with tickles. She wanted to drop everything and flop onto Neal’s carpet and squirm around to make the itching stop.
Finally, shoving down as hard as she could with the tip of her thumb, Marta jammed the cartridge into place.
‘Christ!’ she gasped.
She glanced at the end of her thumb. It was red and deeply dented.
One down, five to go. Or six? I’ll be lucky if I can fill the damn thing!
She snatched the towel from between her legs and frantically wiped herself dry from head to toe, front and back.
Then she stuffed it between her thighs again.
She picked up the magazine and the second cartridge, took a deep breath, and started back to work.
6.
Sue swung off San Vicente at treetop level and raced for Vince’s house.
Where the hell’d it go?
Most of the houses below had backyard swimming pools. Several even had tennis courts. But Sue couldn’t find a house with a pool area that looked like Vince’s.
It’s gotta be here someplace. Didn’t just get swallowed up.
She overflew the narrow road once more.
Where in tarnation . . .?
She aimed for the full, white moon. It looked huge. The Man in the Moon had a surprised look on his face.
Here I come, ready or not.
She wondered how high she could go. Could she get up there all the way to the moon?
No way.
There was a pulling sensation, as if she’d already gone about as far as possible and something wanted to drag her all the way back to where her body was.
Anyhow, this oughta be high enough.
She gazed down. For a few moments, she was staggered by her height. Her stomach dropped. She wanted something to hang on to. This was way worse than being on top of the Pony Express.
Nothin to be scared of, she told herself. Ya can’t fall.
From up here, she could see the Pacific Ocean. And the airport, maybe ten miles down the coast. And several clusters of tall buildings: some nearby; a much larger group of skyscrapers a few miles to the east. She supposed that the larger group was downtown Los Angeles.
The ocean mostly looked black. So did the range of hills that seemed to start almost below Sue and stretch along the side of the city. She could see a few roads through the hills, and a scattering of lights. But away from the hills, the basin itself was almost as bright as the Video City parking lot.
A few cars were creeping around on the roads. They looked tiny.
Sue wondered if she might be able to see Glitt’s Subaru.
San Vicente was easy to recognize; it had lots of lanes and a center strip that was wooded and grassy like a city park. Right now, it looked deserted except for two or three cars coming up from the coast. Nothing at all was approaching from the east.
Glitt’s probably already at Vince’s. If I don’t hurry and get there . . .
She gazed down at the area where she’d been searching for Vince’s house.
Where is the darn . . .?
Suddenly, she noticed a thread of poorly lighted road just to the east. It ran into the broad, bright lanes of San Vicente exactly where Greenhaven was supposed to be.
Even before locating Vince’s house, she knew she would find it. In her rush to get there, she must’ve simply overshot Greenhaven.
She dived.
On the way down, she spotted Vince’s house.
It was the only house without lights. All its lights seemed to be off. None shone at the porch or street or driveway. None spilled out from windows. The pool area was dark.
But Sue could see it all in the pale glow of the moon.
None of the other houses had such large pools. And this pool had two diving boards at its north end.
As she neared the pool, she saw the tremendous height of the high-dive. She remembered Marta up there, bouncing. Bouncing and bouncing. Her breasts hopping up and down, all to keep Vince’s attention while Neal searched for the money.
She’d sure looked dandy up there.
Too bad a dirty pig like Vince had to put his eyes all over her. But he would’ve caught Neal, maybe, if Marta hadn’t . . .
Too bad he didn’t catch Neal.
Wish he had.
If we’d never laid our mitts on his damn money . . .
Sue suddenly found herself wondering why all the lights were off at Vince’s house.
He better be there!
She made a low pass over Greenhaven. It was carless from San Vicente to
the front of Vince’s house. No sign of Glitt’s Subaru. Vince’s driveway was empty, his garage door shut.
Inside the garage, Sue found a white Mercedes. It made quiet tinking sounds of the sort that cars usually made for a while after they’d been driven somewhere.
Vince had probably gotten home only minutes ago from dropping off the sack of paperback books.
Glitt would be coming along soon.
If he comes.
He’ll come, all right. Only he won’t be comin just to ask where the money is. He’s gotta know the drive-by was meant for him. Marta figured it out and so will he.
Leaving the Mercedes behind, Sue glided into the house. She found herself in a dark hallway. No lights came from either direction.
He’s gotta be tryin to hide.
Unless maybe Glitt got here and shut off the power.
The thought of Glitt in the house made a chill scurry up her back.
I ain’t even got a back.
In the car, I do.
She wondered if her body, in the passenger seat of Marta’s Jeep, had goosebumps all over it. More than likely.
Marta might notice and figure she was cold.
I ain’t cold. Just got me a case of the jitterbugs, thanks to Glitt.
Vince didn’t scare her, but Glitt sure did. She hated to think that he might be creeping through the house at this very moment.
He jumps out, I’ll likely pitch a coronary.
He can’t hurt me, she told herself. Shoot, he can’t see me or touch me or even know I’m here.
Besides, he really shouldn’t be here yet.
Though Sue wasn’t sure about the distances involved, she figured that Vince’s house must be eight or ten miles from Video City. In spite of Glitt’s head start, and in spite of her own problems locating the house, Sue figured that she might’ve beaten him here by a few minutes.
Unless he drove like a bat outa Hell.
He ain’t gonna speed, Sue told herself. Not that much, anyhow. He’d be scared the cops’ll pull him over.
So where’s Vince?
Come out, come out, wherever y’are.
She made a pass through the bedroom, its long closet where Neal had found the money, and the bathroom. No Vince.
Where ya hidin, chicken-ass?