52 – Gone, but not forgotten
The dope was gone. Not a pill or popper left anywhere in the
refrigerator, and Dan stared at the food remains as if he would soon be sick,
the world spinning ever so slightly out of control around his head.
Bobo had ripped him
off again!
That much stuck in
his throat. He couldn't cough or swallow. He couldn't even stand without
gripping the counter behind him.
Bobo? Again?
Murder danced in his
heart. He fingered the butt of the pistol Mike had given him. One shot. That
was all he needed. Just one single bullet to the heart. Money or not, he was
that enraged.
"I--," he
said, and looked up helplessly at Mike.
"Come on,"
Mike said, grabbing his arm and leading him back towards the balcony door.
"And step quiet. You want the old lady to call the cops?"
Step quiet? Dan was
lucky he could walk, or stagger, or think. And wasn't completely sure how he
got back over the rail to the stairway platform. Everything was a haze with
visions of his own death popping out of it, the way the shot had out of the fog
at Venice, or the car had tumbling over the mountain outside Denver.
"He might not
have it," Mike said, somewhat later when Dan sat behind the wheel of the
van again, turning the key, listening to the engine sputter to an unhealthy
life. "Someone searched the place again."
Dan turned and
blinked Mike's face into focus. "The old lady said her son..."
"No, this was a
pro. Not a cop, I think. But someone just as thorough."
Dan pondered this a
moment, then shook his head. "You don't know Bobo. He's got a nose like a
hound. He probably sniffed out the dope. Which is why he wasn't here when the
old lady came to collect the rest."
"That doesn't
explain the others."
"No," Dan
admitted. "But it'll teach me to leave the fucker alone next time."
"You didn't
leave him alone," Mike said, turning his gaze to the street and the dark
shadows, and the strange faces which seemed engraved in each island of dark. A
suddenly loneliness came over him, the pang of which was something new to him.
He missed Marie. And this startled him.
The lone wolf aching
for his mate?
It never occurred to
him that she had come to mean so much, hinting of feelings he'd buried after
his time with Chris, determined to never feel them again. They hurt too much
when betrayed. They reminded him of the child he would never see again. They
brought back the hatred and rage.
"I might as well
have," Dan said, noting none of this from Mike's turned face. "Who
the hell can expect of pacifist to stop Bobo? What would Lance do if the man
decided to leave, tackle him? I wonder if he kidnapped them? I wouldn't put it
passed him. He's not the man I thought I knew."
"If Bobo is
Buckingham, things could be worse," Mike said.
"That's
right!" Dan said, smacking himself in the head. "That's what the
whole Venice thing was about. And with him not here... Damn it, Mike! I'm
sorry. Maybe we ought to drive up to the Boulevard and have a look for him. And
what about this search? Any ideas?"
"Tinkertons," Mike said as if
cursing. "It had their touch. Or should I say, lack of it. They look at
things, collecting information, then use it later when it's to their
convenience. They could have called the cops and had Bobo and the others thrown
in jail."
"Not Bobo,"
Dan said. "He wouldn't let no rent-a-cop take him."
"There would
have been too many for him to resist-- and it would explain the missing
dope."
Dan scratched under
his hat, then glanced over at Mike. "So what then? We go look for them at
the station?"
Dan's palms sweated
on the steering wheel. He preferred his own theory to Mike's. At least in that
scenario, Bobo had the dope with a chance of getting it back. Though through
all this, he had the feeling of chasing ghosts. First the money, then
Buckingham, now the dope. If the cops had Bobo and the dope, Dan had some
massive problems. And it was only a matter of time before Denver caught up with
him.
"No," Mike
said after a time of silence. "Not yet."
Was that a note of
hope in his voice? Or despair? It had become difficult to tell with Mike. Dan
had heard the note before, a flirting kind of dangerous hope which had kept
them moving in New York during the bad-smack-epidemic. It was a note of
desperation. If Bobo was Buckingham, then Marie was already dead.
Dan studied Mike's
face carefully, noting the deepened wrinkles around the eyes, the perpetual
squint now glinting with two enraged eyes. If Marie was dead, then nothing
would stop Mike from renting his fury. Not just on Bobo, but on civilization,
and there would be little chance for Dan to recover anything: dope, money, or
even the old and carefree life style. There would only be fear, of cops and
Denver to look forward to.
The van turned onto
Highland. The crowds shrank as the early morning deepened, creating a ghost
town out of Hollywood. The real ghosts huddled in the doorways, eyes chemically
pasted open. Dirty old men prowled the curbside looking for prostitutes and
gays.
"I want to make
a deal with you, Mike," Dan said.
"What kind of
deal?"
"Bobo's mine no
matter how this turns out."
Mike's face clouded,
the dark eyes flashing with passing street lights and bargain basement sales.
"I can't promise that," he said in a tight voice. "Not if he's
hurt Marie."
"And if he
hasn't?"
"Then you can do
what you want with him."
"All
right!" Dan said, grinning. "But we won't rush into anything either.
We don't know for certain that he's Buckingham, or that anything's happened to
Lance or Marie. You said there were Tinkertons there. They might have snatched
Marie."
"I know,"
Mike said swallowing with difficulty."
"And if they do,
any ideas as to how to get her back?"
It was the same pain,
hearing the judgement about his kid from the court, or watching the law drive
off with him in Detroit. The helplessness of a single person against the
machine-- a system of justice that had no room for human beings inside it. No
sense of mercy.
"I don't
know," Mike mumbled.
Dan turned the van
onto Hollywood Boulevard. The four corners at this end still had crowds, the
last vestige of hip community fighting the inevitable change from night to day,
resisting the blue and silver police uniforms prodding them away, hustling them
on with threats of tickets or jail, Freep sales people and bikers on the north
side, Jesus Freaks and Gays on the south.
"There's
Billy," Mike said. "He waving at us. Pull over."
"Here? With this
load of shit? The cops'll have a field day if we do."
"Then pick him
up, for God's sake!" Mike insisted. "That was his boy back in
Venice."
Dan grumbled, but
downshifted. Mike threw open the passenger side door and made room for the man
on the seat, shoving close to Dan as he shifted again.
Billy slid in and
slammed the door, smelling of pot and alcohol. But his face bore the tight
expression of pain and grief.
"Keep
driving," he said. "It's hot as hell around here."
Dan needed no such
advice and had started the van forward, away of the curious cops at the curb,
their turning heads like turrets to a tank, waiting with ticket books and hand
cuffs.
"What happened
out there?" Billy asked, looking straight into Mike's face, his own eyes
bruised. His hands shook as he tried to grip the dash board.
"You mean
Venice?" Mike asked coldly. "I'm surprised you knew about the
meeting."
"Why?"
Billy snapped. "I got a fucking invitation. I thought it was the
cops."
"You were
invited?" Mike said, repeating it several times under his breath before
looking to Billy's face again. "How?"
"By way of that
slob at the Free Press office," Billy said, staring out at the street, but
not seeming to see anything. "It's why I was so suspicious. Freep Bob
doesn't like me, and there's rumors about him being a snitch."
"You're full of
shit," Dan said. "He's no more snitch than I am."
Billy glanced across
Mike at him. "I've had my doubts about you, too, Newhaul," he said.
"You are Bobo's partner."
"Ex-partner," Dan said. "And he
seems to have a lot of those."
"Most of them
are dead or busted. Yet you're not."
"Neither am
I," said Mike interrupting a glaring match between the two men. "Now
what is all this about Free Press Bob? Who says he's a snitch?"
"The talk is
around," Billy said. "People are saying he made a deal with the pigs
to keep them from closing his office down after that narco thing."
"I don't believe
it," Dan said.
"I didn't say I
knew for certain it was true. But it's what people think. Now it's your turn.
What happened down at the pier?"
"Then you
weren't there?" Mike asked.
"After what
happened on Vermont? No way! I sent someone. He didn't come back. I figured the
cops got him. But if you're here, then maybe they didn't."
"Your boy's
dead," Mike said softly.
"Dead?"
Billy said, his face suddenly pale. Something in his voice suggested some
closeness to the victim. A lover, maybe? Or a relation? Maybe both. Dan had
heard rumors of Billy's varied sexual habits. "Who did it?"
"Buckingham,
from what we can gather," Mike said. "But whoever it was blasted our
contact, too, and may have been gunning for me."
"And you're
still in town?" Billy said, looking honestly awed.
"My old lady's
missing," Mike said. "The apartment got raided. I think by
Tinkertons."
Billy nodded. "I
heard they were in town asking questions about you. But none of us wanted to
take them on. Besides, if all they wanted was the girl, to hell with
them."
"We don't know
for sure if they have her," Dan put in. "Bobo was in apartment at the
time. He might have her for some reason. And Lance was with them, too. Seen any
sign of him?"
"The pacifist?
Sure."
"What?"
Mike exploded. "Where?"
"On the
Boulevard not five minutes ago."
"Park this
thing!" Mike commanded. "We've got to find him. Was he alone?"
"No," Billy
said, frowning as if in an effort to recall. "He was with some dark-haired
dude in a bush hat. I didn't get a close look. But the minute the pacifist saw
me, he darted off. He looked nervous about something." Billy grinned.
"The poor devil doesn't trust me much. He seems to think I want to fuck
his old lady."
"Don't
you?" asked Dan.
"Sure, why not.
Everybody else does."
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