40 - Daddy's Men
Two blocks later, he saw her red head floating smugly up the
Boulevard, a catwalk parade he'd been through a thousand times with Sarah,
wearing a waiting-to-be-discovered air. Lance darted up and snagged her arm
before she had a chance to escape again.
"That was a
dirty trick you played in there," he said.
"Go away,"
she said, yanking her arm free. "If I needed protection I'd go find
Mikie."
"I'm
sorry," Lance mumbled, appropriately shamed.
"I'm sure,"
Marie snapped. "Why don't you go save your old lady and leave me
alone."
"It's too late
for her."
"Meaning it
isn't for me?"
Lance shrugged.
"Something like that, I guess."
"Well
you..." She bit off the rest of the sentence, her face twisting into an
expression of horror. "No. It can't be. Not here."
"What's the
matter?" Lance asked, turning to study the crowd into which she stared,
seeing nothing but tourists and hippies.
"Quick,"
she said and grabbed his arm, yanking him on a mad dash along the sidewalk.
"But you just
said..."
"Shut up,"
she growled. "Daddy's men are back there."
"Daddy's men? You
mean as in the detective agency?"
"Of course I
mean the agency," she said, steering a weaved course through the crowd,
panhandles and Jesus freaks looking up as they passed. "Someone must have
tipped Daddy off. As if things weren't bad enough with Mikie and the police. We
have to find him quick. Did you say anything about where he was going?"
"He mumbled
something about seeing Free Press Bob," Lance said, recalling his parting
words. "But that was hours ago. I doubt if he'd still be there."
"We have to try
it. Staying on the street with Daddy's men is suicidal. You don't know them.
They're blood hounds. They never give up."
As if to prove the
point two men stepped out of the crowd behind them. Not macho-movie detective
types, but slightly pudgy men wearing the same Hawaiian garb of tourists,
almost invisible in the crowd.
"Leave me
alone!" Marie screamed and bolted again. But more little men appear, four
or five crossing the street between honking cars. They reminded Lance of the
Cong, of street vendors who turned suddenly into soldiers with the pulling of a
grenade pin, wearing the same brainwashed expression of solider ants. The old
fears surged into Lance's chest.
He caught up with the
fleeing Marie. She staggered, her fancy shoes stuck in a crack near the curb.
She took them off and threw them back at the advancing men. The orange `don't
walk' signed blinked, but she plunged into traffic. Horns blared and taxis
squealed to a stop to avoid hitting her. Behind Lance, the bulldogs came,
sniffing out the trail.
Cong again, Lance's
mind screamed, lacking only the slant eyes and yellowed skin. But he could hear
the bicycle bells and the groaning soldier vanishing in the midst of the
crowded city, always a knife or gun waiting to steal a life when least expecting
it. Back behind the lines. Back where Lance could not save them. Death stalking
each and every soldier through the drunken alleys and drug infested streets.
Death! And frightened
Americans.
Half way across the
Boulevard, Lance saw more of them. Hawaiian shirts racing along the sidewalk to
intercept them. Lance howled and tugged Marie down the center line, in between
the string of cars, coming finally to the light, where Daddy's men gathered on
either corner waiting to converge. Not smiling. Not grim. Just like ants.
"Run!" he
shouted.
"Run
where?" Marie asked, looking bewildered, a strand of red hair strung
across her face.
"Into
traffic," he said, shoving her towards the flow of warm metal ahead of
them. More horns and curses and swerving cars. But they made the far side
safely, leaving a wall of metal between them and the army of ants.
"Keep
going," Lance said when Marie slowed, turning up the next street and into
the tangle of twisted streets that marked the lower portion of Hollywood hills.
Right, then left, then right again. Lance glancing over his shoulder at
intervals to see if Daddy's men had managed the maze.
Finally-- too tired
to keep running-- they stopped and rested. The street sign said
"Franklin," giving Lance a clue to how far they'd come. They had
circled back towards the Boulevard without knowing. And down the street, the
army of Hawaiian shirts marched towards them filling both sidewalks, moving
passed the Selma Hotel, unaware or attracted to the host of prostitutes asking for
dates.
Inhuman bastards,
Lance thought, remembering the same cold-faced expression on the Cong when it
came to whores.
"What now?"
Marie asked, looking weary enough to give up.
"Only one
direction now," Lance said. But he distrusted the hills above Hollywood.
Too many dead-ends. Or cul-de-sacs. And he didn't trust a trip through
Griffiths Park. "But we're not taking it. We'll try and lose them in the
cross streets. Come on."
He dragged Marie down
Franklin to Wilcox-- Old Hollywood thick on either side in four-floor
brownstone hotels. The Blackburn grinning from one side while new Hollywood
invaded across the street with a small convenience shopping mall and associated
apartments. He turned down Wilcox back towards the Boulevard. On either side
empty store fronts hinted of changing times, old headshops, poster stores and
hippie fashions closing up as money became tight. Only the Boulevard retained
its magic and as they plunged out into it, Lance thought he saw bits of tinsel
wearing away even here, some aspect of it growing grungy beneath neon lights
and back-beating rock & roll.
"Hey!"
Marie said holding back when he turned the corner. "I thought you said
we're going to the Free Press office."
"We are. But I
don't want to lead your father's men there," Lance said.
"But where else
are we going to go?"
"You'll
see," Lance said, managing a grin.
Again, he pushed
across mid-block, drawing more horns and curses, as well as a few dark looks
from cops on the north side of the street, cops too lazy to give chase on a
jaywalking ticket.
He glanced back over
his shoulder. He didn't see any of Daddy's men, but knew they were there, and
kept moving.
Circling inward. A
trick of the jungle. Always move towards the sound of your own guns.
He stopped in front
of the Golden Cup Tavern.
"What the hell
are we back here for?" Marie protested, eyeing Lance as if this was some
kind of trick.
"Don't ask
questions, just get inside," Lance said and shoved her through the door
before she could argue, following after her as someone-- one of Daddy's men--
shouted for him to stop.
The big gay in the
fishnet shirt still hovered inside the door, most likely a bouncer of sorts. He
cried out upon seeing Lance and pounced upon him, muscular arms closing around
him.
"What did I tell
you about coming back here?" he hissed in Lance's ear.
"Look,
man," Lance pleaded. "There are people looking to hurt us
outside."
The big gay's brows
folded down. "Who?"
"Detectives," Lance said, breathing
hard from the pressure on his chest. "They're from her father."
Understanding
flickered in the hard eyes. God only knew how many others had been through
similar rituals, families hiring men like the Tinkertons to save their children
from this world. The man's arms eased from around Lance as the big gay peered
out the door's stained glass. Lance could just make out the wobbly image of
Daddy's gathering men.
The man snarled, like
a dog smelling cop. "This way," he said, motioning Lance and Marie
towards the back of the club. He signalled others behind the bar, and a sudden
electricity filled the room-- different from when they had marked Lance as a
vice cop, more like preparations for a siege.
The man led them to a
back door and a narrow alley running parallel to the street.
"Just follow
it," the gay said.
Lance nodded, took
Marie by the hand and scooted out. He didn't look back.
Comments
Post a Comment