53- Mother load
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.
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