Night World (R)

  “Think.”

  “Well, there was one he talked about, several months ago. He’d just come in to dry out.”

  “Alcoholic?”

  “Yes. The reason Bruce mentioned him was because of the way he ran his business. He was in real estate.”

  “Here in town?”

  “Somewhere in Los Angeles. Culver City, that area.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “He did tell me, but I can’t recall—”

  “What did he say about him?”

  “That he had figured out a new way of picking up property cheap. But you don’t want to hear about the real estate business—”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, suppose you had a house to sell, and you went to him and told him what you wanted for the property. He’d promise you action if you would give him an exclusive listing—and action is what you’d get. In a day or so he’d bring a couple over, nice middle-aged people with a new car, obviously respectable and responsible. They’d go through your house, and the woman would tell you how much she liked it—just the location they’d been looking for, too. But the man would complain. If you didn’t have a pool, he wanted a house with a pool. If you had a pool, he didn’t want one. The garage wouldn’t be big enough, or he needed copper-pipe plumbing, something like that. And by the time he got through all his objections, he’d offer you a price way below what you were asking—a ridiculous figure.

  “So you’d say no, and they’d go away, but the real estate man would tell you not to worry, there were plenty of other prospects.

  “Sure enough, in a few days he’d bring over another couple. They’d be driving an older model car and would look a little on the seedy side, but neither of them would complain. And the man would tell you this was just the kind of a house they wanted, only there was a little problem about financing—he’d lost his job in the aerospace industry and in order to swing the deal, you’d have to give him a second mortgage at low interest.

  “When they left, the real estate man would reassure you again, tell you to be patient. And after a week or so he’d show up with another couple. Chicano, or maybe black, with several small children. And this would put you off—not because of the ethnic thing, but because it would turn out that they weren’t really interested in buying, just in renting on a month-to-month basis.

  “Well, by this time you’d be getting a little discouraged, and the real estate man would give you another hard-sell pitch. He’d admit that maybe the market was a little soft right now, things were pretty tough, but houses were being sold and he knew he could scare up a buyer—maybe if you’d shave the price down to a more realistic figure. Perhaps you’d give him an argument on that, but after all he still had a ninety-day exclusive listing, and half of that time had gone by, so you’d have to hold still and wait for him to dig up more prospects.

  “Then he’d let you sweat for a few more weeks. If you called him, he’d tell you to cool it, he was doing the best he could. And finally he’d show up again with another couple. A young couple, driving a microbus, long hair, the whole bit. And they’d tell you your pad was beautiful, man, only they didn’t have the bread, and how’s about a deal where they moved in and looked after the place until you found a buyer?

  “After they got lost, you’d sit and wait. And wait. And wait. And when you called the real estate office, your man would always be out and he wouldn’t return your call. Until one day he’d come rolling up with a sharp-looking executive type and his wife and they’d go through the house. Just go through it, no comments. Finally the man would ask the price and you’d tell him, maybe even coming down a few thou on it. He wouldn’t say a word—just look at his wife. And then they’d turn and walk out.

  “After that, you’d wait again. Maybe another month would go by and not even a word. Until finally you’d get a phone call from the husband of the first couple who looked at the house, the nice couple with the new car. He and his wife had been thinking about your place, and if it was still for sale he was still ready to offer you the price he’d quoted—cash on the line.

  “Chances are, if you really needed to sell your house, that this time you’d say yes. And sure enough, the real estate man would bring them over again, the papers would be drawn up, the deal would go through escrow, and your house would be sold at that ridiculously low figure.

  “What you’d never know is that you’d sold your house to this real estate man. Because the nice couple were his employees. And the others—the seedy couple, the black couple, the young kids, the executive type—were actors.”

  “Actors?”

  “That’s right. Professional actors, hired on a per diem basis, to play the roles of prospects. The whole thing was an act he used to buy up properties at a fraction of the market price—so he could resell them on his own at a nice fat profit.” Rita shook her head. “How about that? No wonder he got rich.”

  “Who?”

  “Lynch.”

  Galpert glanced at her quickly. “That’s his name—you’re sure?”

  Rita shook her head. “No, not Lynch. It’s—Lorch. His name is Jack Lorch.”

  Galpert smiled at her. Then he took his bone and went out.

  Rita stood in the doorway and watched him drive away. After a moment she turned and went back into the office.

  Very quietly, very cautiously, Bruce Raymond emerged from his hiding-place in the cockpit of a plane tied down outside the hangar.

  Then he started off into the night.

  CHAPTER 11

  Jack Lorch walked down the street. Walked slowly, because his feet hurt and because it wasn’t safe to run.

  It seemed as if he’d been walking forever. Hard to realize that less than twenty-four hours had passed since—

  But he didn’t want to think about that.

  He didn’t want to think about leaving the sanatorium, or the ride into town in Griswold’s car, or about what happened after that car parked on the darkened dead-end street in Sherman Oaks.

  Dead end. He didn’t want to think about that, either.

  The important thing was to remember he’d gotten away—running at first, then slowing his pace once he realized he was free.

  Free?

  Lorch grimaced. What freedom is there for a fugitive from justice? A fugitive from injustice, really. The whole damned police force was looking for him now. In their eyes—those ice-cold official eyes—he was an escaped lunatic and a murder suspect.

  Lorch halted under a streetlamp on Washington Boulevard and stared into the plate-glass window of a hardware store. He examined his reflection carefully, wondering what the police would see if they spotted him.

  Middle-aged man in a dark blue doubleknit suit. Good enough, because it hadn’t wrinkled too badly when he slept hidden under the bushes on the slope of the freeway last night.

  His face was puffy and swollen, and he needed a shave, but that in itself was no crime—not yet. Plenty of middle-aged men walking around in need of a shave. And the suit looked respectable, even though he wasn’t wearing a tie.

  The trouble was, if anyone stopped him, he had no identification. “Let me see your driver’s license.” That was always the first thing they said. And when you couldn’t come up with one, there was no way. What could you tell the judge? Your Honor, I plead not guilty on the grounds that I’m a pedestrian.

  All right, so he was overdramatizing. They’d settle for credit cards, your Social Security number. But he had no cards with him at all. Not that his credit wasn’t good; hell, he still owned the company, the money was still rolling in, even at the sanatorium he got regular reports from his accountant. Blix was a smart operator, he kept his eye on the business.

  But Blix was probably a little too smart. If Lorch had given way to his first impulse and gone to Blix for help, the bastard would be only too happy to throw him to the wolves. Thank God he’d had the sense to realize it and stay away.

  So he hadn’t tried to contact Blix. He’d spent the day walkin
g—stopping to rest at the little parks along the way.

  He’d never realized how far it was from the Valley to Culver City, particularly when you have to make those uphill grades on foot. No wonder there aren’t many pedestrians around anymore. The sun bakes the juices out of a man, and by the time you start downhill on the city side, you’re tired and hungry and your throat is dust-dry.

  That’s what kept him going—his throat. Lorch turned away from the window and moved along the street.

  There wasn’t much traffic, not for early evening. Maybe everybody had decided to stay indoors tonight, because of what had happened. Well, he didn’t blame them. But nothing they could have heard or read would ever begin to equal the reality. The way that nurse had looked when the cord tightened around her throat, the way Griswold screamed like a woman, the way he smelled when the current went on full force—

  But he mustn’t think about that now. He had to keep walking. Only a few blocks more. His feet burned, his throat burned, but he walked.

  Nothing but business places here, no residences, and that was good. People who might recognize him were gone now, shops closed for the night. Lorch crossed the street—one more block to go, and he’d be home free. As far as he was concerned, the realty office was home. He couldn’t consider going to the house; they’d be watching there for sure. But at this hour the office was probably safe. It better be, because he couldn’t go much further.

  There’d be some cash in the office; he kept an electric razor there, and a change of clothing. Maybe even another pair of shoes, though he couldn’t remember for sure. But once he had money in his pocket again he could make some plans.

  Planning, that was his strong suit. Always had been. When you’re a kid in an orphanage, you learn how to take care of yourself. And when you leave, you know how to make it on your own. You’ve found out the hard way that you don’t need parents, so why worry about friends? It had been a long road he’d traveled from the orphanage to the Lorch Agency, and he’d made the trip alone. It was planning that kept him out of the draft, planning that got around the IRS and the Board of Realtors and all the other jokers who tried to stop him. Tell ’em and sell ’em—that was the big secret. If you tell the suckers what they want to hear, you can sell them what they don’t want to buy. And that’s why he’d ended up with his own company, the new Caddy every year, the monogrammed shirts, the forty-dollar haircuts, everything. Somewhere along the line he’d picked up this little drinking problem, but he had that under control, too. Nobody sent him to the sanatorium, he’d figured that move out for himself. And it worked. Plans always work.

  Lorch started down the street, heading for the office at the end of the block. Midway he passed the lights of the liquor store.

  Funny, it hadn’t been there a couple of months ago. Schermerhorn’s property, wasn’t it? Used to be a cycle shop, but vacant for a long time. He’d tried to get old man Schermerhorn to give him the listing, but the tight bastard turned him down—too cheap to pay commission. So he’d gone ahead and rented it on his own. Mortlake Liquor was the name, slashed across the storefront in red neon.

  Lorch halted and glanced past the cardboard window displays, peering at the brightly lit interior beyond. He stared at aisle racks heaped with half-pints, counters cluttered with quarts, wall shelves filled with fifths, hosts of half-gallons, pyramids of pints.

  The glittering reflection of light bounced off ten thousand bottles. It radiated from rum, glinted on gin, vivified vodka’s crystal clarity. All the colors of the rainbow assaulted Lorch’s eyes, and once again he was conscious of the burning in his throat.

  Twenty-four hours without food will do that. Twenty-four hours without food, and two and a half months without a drink.

  Lorch could see the proprietor sitting behind the counter next to the register. Little old man in a short-sleeved white shirt that hung down over his potbelly. You didn’t have to look twice to know that he shuffled when he walked. And he wouldn’t even have time to get to his feet if Lorch slipped through the doorway, grabbed a bottle from the nearest display and slipped out again. It would be easy.

  Unless, of course, the old man had a gun under the counter. Or someone happened to come along just as he was on his way out. In any case, the old man would sound an alarm, and he’d have to run for it.

  No, that wasn’t the answer. He hadn’t gone through two and a half months of purgatory and then the hell of last night just to start running. Not when he was so close to safety.

  Just a few doors down was the realty office, and he’d find the answer there. The answer to his little drinking problem was in the big liquor cabinet behind his desk. Little problem. Big cabinet. Griswold said whiskey would kill him, but Griswold was a fool.

  Lorch turned away, quickening his pace. Not too fast now. Losing your grip, letting your mind go off like that. Because your throat burns. You still have to make plans.

  He came abreast of the frame bungalow set back from the street and turned down the walk. No sense going up to the front door; the lights were out—it was locked up for the night and he couldn’t smash the lock, not here in full view of the street.

  Lorch glanced around. No one in sight. He skirted the side of the bungalow, moving past the wooden sign on the lawn and into the shadows behind it. He emerged on an empty alleyway. There was a rear entrance, but Lorch didn’t bother to try it; that door would be locked, too. His best bet was the window.

  The window was around on the other side of the building. He moved up to it slowly, still conscious of the dryness in his throat. The window blinds were up, and he could stare into the darkness of his private office. He could see his desk, but not the liquor cabinet; it was in shadow. He knew it was there, though, and all that barred his way was a thin pane of glass. Easy enough to find a rock out in the alley—

  No. Got to make plans. Lorch shook his head, taking a deep breath. Breaking glass was too noisy. If he could find something to pry the window open with—

  Lorch extended his damp palms to test the frame. His hands were shaking now, he knew he’d have to hurry. His fingers slipped from the wood. The window was rising.

  It was rising. It wasn’t locked!

  Goddam Blix and his efficiency. Smart operator and too dumb to remember to lock the window! Wait until he saw him, he’d chew him out—

  Only he wasn’t going to see Blix. That was the whole point. See no one. Take the money and walk, not run.

  The window slid up.

  Jack Lorch gripped the sill and hoisted himself to the ledge. Perspiration beaded his forehead, the rosary of effort. He sat panting there for a moment, eyes searching the alleyway, ears straining for sound. Darkness and silence reassured him, and his breathing subsided to a normal level. But his throat was dry. So dry—

  Over the ledge and into the office. His desk loomed in the shadows. There was a desk lamp, but Lorch didn’t turn it on. Too risky, and he didn’t need light. He knew every foot of the office, every inch. He could find his way blind; the liquor cabinet was just five steps to the left on the wall behind the desk. All these miles, and now just five little steps to go.

  Lorch groped along the side of the desk. The money would be in the upper righthand drawer. Loose change and a few small bills for petty cash, right on top. A metal box for checks and big bills. Locked, of course, but the key was always here, under the desk blotter. He could reach for it now, open the box—combination was forty left, fifty-seven right, twenty left—and put the money in his pocket. But that could wait for another minute. His pocket wasn’t what burned.

  First things first. First a drink, then the money, then plans. And maybe one more drink before the planning. That’s the way he’d always worked, sitting behind the desk and relaxing over a shot while he figured the next move. And that’s the way he’d work now. A drink, two drinks at most, but no more. Not on an empty stomach. And he wasn’t going to slip back into the old routine again; he’d had it with alcoholism, he’d paid his dues. But that first one he
needed. Now. To hell with Griswold and his oral-erotic crap, all that jive about infantile craving for the nipple. Once the cash was in his pocket he could have all the nipples in the world. Acres of tits, anything he wanted—after he had a drink.

  Lorch stepped into the deeper shadow at the corner of the room. He moved faster than he realized; only four steps and he banged his forehead against the corner of the built-in liquor cabinet. He didn’t hit hard, but the pain was just enough to sober him.

  Sober. Funny word. Funny feeling. The way he felt now, opening the door of the liquor cabinet. Because he realized that up until now he’d been drunk. Dried out for two and a half months, but drunk as a lord. Drunkenness is a state of mind.

  Of course. Why hadn’t he figured that out before? Alcoholism doesn’t come out of bottles, it comes out of craving. A few ounces deaden the pain of reality, but—by God, old Griswold told the truth!—the pain is subjective. Like all that crud going through his thoughts about the liquor store. An alcoholic is drunk before he ever starts drinking. He sets up his own crazy world, his thoughts are staggering long before his legs.

  Lorch reached out and opened the door of the liquor cabinet, trying to focus his eyes on its contents.

  There it was, three deep shelves crowded with bottles. Gin, vodka, vermouth, bitters on the bottom—Irish, Canadian, Scotch in the middle—top shelf, solid bourbon. Some of the bottles were partially empty, recapped and recorked, and he could smell their contents. The sharp reek penetrated his nostrils and curled down into his throat. Lorch found his hand automatically extending towards the top shelf, felt it falter and draw back as he realized his throat wasn’t burning any longer.

  Strange. All the dryness was gone, and he was conscious of another reaction. Gut-reaction. He was hungry. Not thirsty. He didn’t need a drink. Oh, he wanted one all right, no sense trying to kid himself about that, but he didn’t need it. What he needed was food. A good square meal. And then, he knew what to do.

  A plan wasn’t necessary. Now that he was sober, really sober, he knew it never had been necessary. Getting bombed and trying to figure some way-out scheme for running off again—that had been the drunk’s idea. But it wouldn’t work, couldn’t work. Where could he run to and how long before they’d catch up with him anyway? Sooner or later they’d find out he’d been involved; Blix would probably tell them after tonight and be a big hero.