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TIKI NOIR ~ The next installment

The Captain

One of the Regulars
TIKI NOIR ~ Part VI

TIKI NOIR ~ Part VI RGCardella 2004

“Let’s take my wheels, Spider. It’s a convertible day if ever I saw one.” I went back into my bedroom and picked up my .45 and stuck it in my waistband. There are those that like to carry a piece in the small of their back, but I always felt too clumsy trying to pull it out. Spider carried his that way. I guess you do what works best for you. We went out the front door. I checked to make sure that it was locked. We walked around to the one-car garage that was adjacent to the bungalow. I opened the doors and got my first look of the day at my pride and joy. I had bought my 1955 Buick convertible when I got out of The Corps. I couldn’t afford it, but I had to have it. The nose and deck had been shaved and filled and a local artist had given it a sedate stripe job. The exhaust system now had two pipes instead of one and the manifold sported two carburetors. It steered like a truck, but I loved it.
It was a short cruise down to the beach from my place. We really could have walked the distance, but when you love your ride, love the sunshine and live in California, you drive, no matter how short the trip. We slid into the parking lot by The Hut and I silenced the engine. A lone seagull glided in slow, lazy circles over head and, as we exited the car, crapped on the Buick’s warm hood. Spider started to laugh hysterically while I tried to keep from throwing a round in his direction. The seagulls and Spider’s. I walked around to the trunk, opened it and removed a chamois and a small, plastic bottle. I walked over to the outside shower that beachgoers use and filled it with water, then went back and cleaned up the hood. Glancing at the sky for any more bombers, we went into the building.
It was dark, cool and smelled like stale beer and salt water. On the jukebox the Martin Denny Quartet was playing Return to Paradise. We removed our sunglasses and went up to the empty bar. The barkeep, a twenty-something kid named Gizmo was leaning over the bar reading a surf magazine. He looked up and said, “Well, if it ain’t Nip and Tuck! Haven’t seen you guys together in a while. Must be a year or two.” Gizmo was a good kid. He always had a smile on his face and a kind word for you. He would never be rich, but he was happy. Maybe that’s all that really matters.
“Hey, Giz, how’s it hangin’?, Spider said. “Couldn’t be better, Spider! I’m going to the islands in two weeks to surf some big waves. Wanna come?” Spider looked for a moment like he would say yes, but said, “No can do, Giz. I’m sorta into something at the moment. That’s really why we’re here. I’m sure you heard about Bonnie getting whacked yesterday. Well, we were wondering what the talk on the beach has been. Everyone that comes in here must have a theory. Talk to me.” Gizmo walked over to the tap and drew two glasses of beer with perfect heads. He came back to where we were standing and placed them in front of us. It was only nine o’clock in the morning, a little early for me to have a beer, so I asked Gizmo for a can of tomato juice, opened it and poured some into the glass of beer. Now it was a “breakfast drink”.
“Sure, there’s been talk, a lot of it. Everyone that thought Bonnie should have had a stake hammered into her heart long ago thinks it was pay back for her hosing someone in one of her deals. She was a heavy gambler or didn’t you know that?” Gizmo paused for a moment and popped the top on a bottle of Pepsi and took a long pull. The ceiling fan was squeaking in time to the music. “She was always a big winner or a big loser. The way they figure it, someone either didn’t want to pay off or was pissed because she didn’t pay her debt quick enough. Either way works for that crowd. Then there’s the bunch that think that it wasn’t her that the guy was aiming at – they think it was one of you guys!” Now there was a theory that hadn’t reared its’ ugly head. Me, the target? I could see Spider tweaking some dame’s husband, but who would want to ice this sweet Italian guy? No one that I could think of at the moment. Sure, I haven’t been a choirboy, but I couldn’t think of anyone who wanted me dead. We finished our beer with talk of the waves at Waimea Bay, the Banzai Pipeline and sharks and then said goodbye to Gizmo. As we left the bar, the strains of Arthur Lyman’s Sea Breeze followed us out the door.
“What now, Kimosabe”, said Spider as we climbed into the Buick. I sat there and stared out of the windshield at the Pacific. The sky was so blue and cloudless that the sea and sky seemed to blend at the horizon into one. There was a group of teenagers playing volleyball just down the beach and their yells and laughter carried to us on the slight southerly breeze. I suddenly felt like crap. Was someone really out to punch my ticket? I didn’t know, but I did know what would make me feel better. “I need a swim”, I said.
We drove up the beach to the parking lot next to Bonnie’s. There were several vehicles parked facing out to sea. Three Ford woodies, a Mercury two-door sedan and a Plymouth station wagon, all with surfboards protruding from their rear ends. Usually these boards and their owners would be working the shore break, but not today. A group of people were sitting on the sand in front of Bonnie’s, their backs turned to the yellow crime scene tape that fluttered in the morning breeze. A portable radio was on and Sam Cooke was singing Wonderful World. As I slid the Buick into the lot a few spaces away from the crowd, their faces turned towards us and the whispers started. They could have been talking about how cool my car was, but I didn’t think so. Spider and I got out of the car, he walking over to squat on the sand and say hello to the group, me going around to the trunk, opening it and retrieving a pair of trunks from a small, nylon bag with the U. S. Marine Corps emblem on it. I went to the passenger side of the car and got a large towel from the back seat and wrapped it around me, pulled off my boots and pants and proceeded to put on my trunks. I removed my Snidley Whiplash shirt and, folding it carefully, placed it in the back seat. The .45 and the Beretta went into the glove compartment. I locked it and as I stepped out onto the warm sand, tossed the keys to Spider.
“If you’re not back in a day or two, I’ll call the Coast Guard”, he said with a grin. “You’re all heart kid”, I said as I walked across the white sand towards the surf line. I walked out as far as I could and then dove under a wave. The water was cool and clear and I swam beneath the surface until my lungs told me it was either them or me. I surfaced and started to swim with long, deliberate strokes towards Hawaii. About a hundred yards out, I stopped and looked back. It was beautiful. A few thunderheads were forming out over the desert far to the east. The palms, that were de rigueur in any California coastal town, were swaying gently in the morning breeze. A little splash and kerplunk about three feet from me broke the moment. Before I could dwell on what caused the sound, another splash erupted, this one not a foot away. I didn’t need a third to know that somebody was shooting at me. I quickly looked towards the beach, but saw no one. I looked north towards the pier that jutted out into the ocean and saw two fishermen, their poles jammed into holders, with their backs towards me. That left the open sea. I spun around in the water and saw a small outboard maybe a hundred and fifty yards out. The lone occupant was lying down in the boat with a rifle protruding over the port gunwale. He was waiting for a lull in the waves for another shot at me. I dove like a porpoise and started kicking towards the pier. As I did, another round split the surface and, with a trail of bubbles following it, headed for the bottom. I could see the encrusted pilings of the pier in the distance and made for them as fast as I could. My lungs were on fire as I neared the pier. I knew that if I wasn’t careful I could be sliced and diced by the barnacles and other sharp-shelled sea life that had attached themselves to the massive timbers. I hugged the bottom and carefully made my way into the maze of pilings. The scene reminded me of being in a forest on a very foggy day; A forest that had schools of fish swirling through the air. I surfaced and filled my searing lungs with air. It was too much for me and I started to choke. After a few hacking coughs that were worthy of a TB ward, I settled down. I cautiously looked around the pilings in the direction of the shooter only to see the outboard powering south at a fast clip. By the time I could get back to shore, whoever it was would be long gone.
Spider looked up from the group of beach-bunnies he was regaling and saw me walking down the beach towards him. “Have a nice swim, Rico?”, he said. “Oh, yeah, just wonderful. The sun, the salt air, the sparkling water the… ********** BULLETS! Why, when you know that we are both candidates for body bags, didn’t you keep your eyes on me? There was some son-of-a-bitch out in a boat shooting at me, for Christ sakes, and you were here working on your tan!” The hurt puppy look came over his face. I had a moment where I started to feel sorry for him, then it dawned on me that he could probably turn the look on and off. “Don’t give me that crap, Spider. Either get on the same page as I am or I’m closing the book on this relationship. When it comes to matters of life or death, I ‘m all business – especially if that death could be mine.”
We left the beach and drove downtown to see Leone. He listened to my story patiently and then said, “You don’t give me much to work on, Rico. I could probably count off at least a dozen citizens who would rejoice at your passing, but I don’t know of any who have the stones to try to help you along.” He turned his gaze towards Spider and said, “You’re another story. You have a knack for pissing people off.” Spider started to protest, but Leone raised a hand to stop him and continued. “Maybe it’s because of your daddy’s money, or maybe it’s because you always look too -- perfect -- like you never sweat or crap or any of the other things the rest of us poor mortals do. I know that that isn’t a shooting offence, but, like I said, you piss people off.” Spider almost got his “hurt puppy” look, but his spine stiffened, he looked Leone in the eyes and said, “ Jealous is one thing, trying to snuff me is another. Besides, assuming that the bullet Bonnie took yesterday was meant for me, what about the guy that was shooting at Rico? I’m sure that it isn’t just a coincidence. Who is he after? Rico, me or both of us?” There was silence in the room. Well, I mean no one said anything. The room was far from silent. Telephones were ringing in the squad room and they mingled with the talking, yelling, swearing and occasional scream. Leone finally broke the silence. “I don’t have a clue as to what’s happening here. Until we – all of us – can get a handle on the situation, I think that you both better keep an extremely low profile. The guy in the boat didn’t just happen to be out there when you decided to go for a swim, he had to know you were going out in the water. He must have been following you guys when you went to the beach. He’s stalking you.”

To Be Continued
 

The Captain

One of the Regulars
TIKI NOIR ~ Part VII

TIKI NOIR ~ Part VII

There wasn’t much talk during the drive back to my place; Spider and I had our own thoughts to keep us company. The downtown streets were filled with tourists, all eager to plunk down cash for a memento of their beachside vacation, and the shops that catered to them were doing a good business. As we passed the throngs, I wondered if one of them was the shooter. I stopped at a red light and glanced in the Buick’s rearview mirror. There was a black coupe several cars back in my lane. I couldn’t tell the make or year and there are mucho black cars around, but when you feel you’re being stalked, a little paranoia is all right. As soon as the light turned green, I made a right turn. This wouldn’t have caused any confusion had I been in the right lane. Turning as I did from the left lane, the honking horns, the swearing, and the finger waves were to be expected. I floored the Buick, roared to the next corner and made a controlled, sliding left turn. The street led down to the beach. I got on the accelerator once again and the speedometer was hovering near sixty miles an hour by the time we reached the bottom of the hill. Spider was wide-eyed and a little pale as I stood on the brakes and attempted to slow the Buick to a speed that would allow us to negotiate the sweeper that led to one of the beachside parking lots. As I brought the Buick to a stop between a ’57 Ford Fairlane and a ’34 Ford coupe, I glanced up at the road that runs across the bluff above the beach. Sure as s**t, there was a black Ford coupe slowly cruising by. Coincidence? Maybe, but in my present frame of mind I just knew it was the Angel of Death looking for me. Screw this, I thought, I’m the hunter around here, not the hunted and shoved the lever into reverse. We shot backwards, tires smoking on the sand-covered blacktop. As soon as I cleared the Fairlane I crammed the transmission into drive, twisted the steering wheel and floored it. The Buick’s rear end swung around and I missed hitting the ’34 by one coat of paint. Spider was trying to be cool, but his tan had evaporated and he was starting to look a little like Bela Lugosi in Dracula. We reached the top of the hill in near-record time and I turned onto the bluff top road. Traffic was heavy with tourists and teenage cruisers and I could not do more than twenty-five. No way was I going to catch up to the coupe. It could be anywhere. I pulled over to the curb and shut the Buick down. Spider, who evidently had not seen the coupe in the first place, looked at me and said, “What the hell are you doing! My cheeks have been biting holes in the upholstery for the last ten minutes while you do your Roger Ward imitation.” I just looked at him for a long moment.
“In the first place, Ward and all the rest of those Indy racers just make left turns. If you were paying attention, you’d have noticed that I threw in a couple of rights and one reverse. Capisce”? His eyes narrowed and he said, “Don’t give me that dago crap, Rico! You scared the hell out of me back there and I want to know why.” OK, so my answer to his question was a bit flippant. I guess that I was just trying to relieve some of the pressure I was feeling. “ I’m sorry Spider. I thought you saw that black coupe behind us. First, I was taking some evasive action, then I decided to go on the offensive.” He looked at me, smiled and shook his head. “First it was the wop talk and now you go into Marine Corps mode. What’s next?” I laughed. He was right. I tend to dredge up the lingo of the Corps whenever I describe my actions. Having dinner? It’s “chow time”. Going to bed? It’s “hit the rack. And having to kick some ass? It’s “go on the offensive.”
I reached over and turned on the radio. A local station was playing a Martin Denny song, Quiet Village. Not too apropos for the last few days, I thought. We sat there for a while listening to the music and watching the sunburned touristas strolling by, trying their best to look like locals. Maybe if the men would refrain from wearing black socks with their flip-flops, it would help. I reached over, turned the key, brought the Buick to life and pulled out into the traffic. It was a short cruise to Hal’s Drive-in. I entered the lot, backed into my favorite spot in the back row and killed the engine. Sharon, a red-haired, freckle-faced teenager came out to take our order.
“Hi, Rico, Spider, what can I get for you guys today?” I ordered a chilidog, fries and a Coke, Spider, a cheeseburger and a chocolate malt. Sharon melted away between the cars in the row in front of us and headed to the building to place our order. She never made it. As she crossed the last bit of blacktop that surrounded the building, a black ’40 Ford coupe swung in off the street, clipped her and sent her slamming into the grill of a ’55 Oldsmobile. She folded into a pile in front of the car as the Ford slid around the first row and entered the row that we were in. Spider didn’t miss seeing the car this time. We both filled our hands with blue steel at the same time, opened the doors of the Buick and slid out of the car. The driver of the Ford must have seen us because he – she – slammed on the brakes and screeched to a halt near the end of the row. A hand appeared out of the driver’s window and the gun that was in it erupted into flame. The first round creased the Buick’s hood and ended up buried in the door of the Chevy parked next to me. Round two entered the corner of the Buick’s windshield and then disappeared into the upholstery where I had been sitting moments ago. Spider and I both rose up from behind our respective doors and were just about to return fire, when the Ford went into reverse. With tires smoking, the car backed into the alley that ran behind the drive-in. In a move that would have made any moonshine-runner proud, the driver dropped the car into first gear without coming to a stop and threw a rooster tail of gravel skyward as the car disappeared down the alley. My first impulse was to pursue the shooter, but as soon as the coupe was out of site, half the vehicles in the drive-in’s lot came to life and, with horns honking, tried to exit the small parking area. I couldn’t have gotten out in time to see which way the Ford had gone. Spider and I ran between cars and joined the crowd that was standing around Sharon’s limp form. It never ceases to amaze me how most people are stunned into inaction by a crisis. No one was attempting to ascertain her condition, they were just standing there gaping. I kneeled down, checked her pulse and found it weak, but steady. Spider ran back to the Buick, got the beach towel from the back seat, returned and placed it over her. We didn’t move her for fear of making any of her injuries worse. The owner of the drive-in, Hal, had called the boys-in-blue when he saw Sharon go down and we could hear sirens in the distance. An ambulance and the police arrived at the same time. After Sharon was placed on a wooden backboard and packaged for transport to the hospital, we sat in the Buick and waited our turn to be interviewed by the uniformed officer that was first on the scene. We sat there, with the lot encircled by yellow crime scene tape, and watched as the people who hadn’t boogied were questioned. Most probably had ducked at the first shot and I couldn’t blame them. Leone arrived and ducked under the tape barrier. He made a bee-line to the Buick. He wasn’t smiling.
“You’re like a plague, Rico”, he began, “You never know who’s going to die next, but sure as s**t some body is going to take a dirt nap”. I started to say that it wasn’t my fault that some nutcase was gunning for me, but I had a gnawing thought that it might be because of something I had done. Hey, I have tried to live a life that I could be proud of, but in my chosen line of work things happen. Leone took a pencil out of an inner pocket and shoved it through the bullet hole in the Buick’s windshield. He backed off and sighted down the pencil.
“Would have got you right in the balls, Rico, lucky you weren’t sitting there”. Very funny, asshole, I thought. I bit my tongue and didn’t say it, because I wanted to stay on Leone’s good side. Well, as good as “a plague” could be. We told him of our suspicions that the shooter had been following us since we left his office earlier in the day. His response was predictable
“Well, Sherlock, maybe that’s why I told you to keep a low profile! Parked here in broad daylight isn’t low profile”! I wanted to tell him that we were just getting a bite to eat and then it was straight home and barricade the freakin’ doors, but again, I just gave him Spider’s hang-dog look. He listened quietly as I recounted my seeing the black coupe after leaving his office, my attempt at losing it, and my decision to stop at Hal’s to get something to eat before I scurried off to my nest like some feral creature. Neither one of us was happy.
“Go home, Rico, it’s the safest place for you at the moment. Lock the doors, pull the shades and leave this to me.” Right. I’m going to hide from this nutcase. That’ll solve everything.
“OK, Leone, I’ll do as you ask, but here’s the deal. One more round comes my way and it will be ‘search and destroy’ as far as I’m concerned. I’ll find this puke one way or another.” He just looked at me. I started the Buick and motored slowly up to the yellow tape, which was lifted by one of this city’s finest. He was young – real young – and looked like he should be delivering newspapers instead of packing a .38. It flashed on me that this is what is going to protect me from whoever it is that’s trying to kill me. Geez, I’m a dead man.

To Be Continued ~RGC~
 

The Captain

One of the Regulars
TIKI NOIR ~ Part VIII ~ "Home Invasion"

TIKI NOIR ~ Part VIII

I drove back to my bungalow taking the scenic route. By that I mean that I made a lot of lefts and rights, doubled back on myself and spent a lot of time looking in the rearview mirror. It was three-thirty by the time Spider and I pulled into my driveway. He got out, opened the garage and I put my poor bullet-scarred baby inside. I would get her repaired later. Right now, all I wanted was to get my hands on the puke that had caused me all this trouble.
We entered the house and the first thing I did was check all the windows and the back door for signs of anyone trying to get in. I didn’t find anything amiss. Spider flopped down on the couch, got a pained look on his face, reached around to his back removed his .38 and laid it on the steamer trunk in front of him.
“We never did get anything to eat, Rico. I’m starved. All I’ve had today is a bear claw and a beer. Not exactly what a growing boy needs.” He was right. My stomach had been growling for a while too.
“How does some bacon and eggs, toast and coffee, sound? I think I can manage that.” He gave me a thumbs up and I went out to the kitchen. My line of work keeps me away from home much of the time, so my refrigerator isn’t exactly overflowing. I’m not a fan of milk that’s past its’ “pull date” or pastrami that has taken on a green tinge. For that reason I usually shop for groceries most every day that I’m going to be at home for a meal. Breakfast items like bacon and eggs keep for a while and who cares if the bread is a little stale if you’re going to toast it? I put six strips of bacon in the skillet and lit the burner. Soon the aroma of sliced swine filled the kitchen air. Spider turned on the television set and found an early news show. The news anchor was talking about the shooting at the drive-in. Our names were mentioned as the targets of the shooting and I could hear Spider cringe when he was referred to as, “Homer”. Sometimes parents don’t seem to have a clue how a certain name will affect their offspring. Maybe there should be a board that hears your parent’s proposal for a name, and then rules if that name is going to cause you any grief or embarrassment down the line. My name is Richard, but I’ve always been “Rico” to all of my friends. Either one works for me. The newsman said that the teenager, Sharon, who had been struck by the coupe was in serious, but stable condition with a broken left arm, several cracked ribs and a concussion. I made a silent vow that if I found out who did this, and if he wasn’t killed in our first encounter, I was going to hurt the son-of-bitch really bad. As I moved the bacon strips around in the pan, my imagination was in high gear. All the things that you can do to a body to cause pain were visualized. I finished with the bacon, fried the eggs – over easy for me, sunny-side up for Spider – popped the toast in the toaster and yelled, “Chow time”. Spider got up and headed for the kitchen, turning off the TV as he came. We ate our food in silence.
It had been an interesting day, all things considered. We had been stalked, shot at, and yelled at by the cops. Sometimes it doesn’t get any better than that. We finished eating and I told Spider that I would clean up. I suggested that he find a comfortable spot and think about this whole situation. Maybe he could conjure up the name of someone who had it in for both of us. Someone who would go to the extremes this guy had. These broad daylight attacks were a little too bold. They screamed “nutcase”.
I finished washing and drying the dishes and went into the front room. Spider was sitting on the couch, head resting on the back, and sound asleep. I didn’t wake him, I just flopped down in an old, but comfortable armchair and stared at the ceiling. The next thing I knew, my eyes opened to a totally black room. I glanced up at the neon Chevrolet clock that hung in the kitchen and saw that it was eight-thirty. I was just about to reach over and turn on a lamp, when I heard a metallic, kind of clicking sound. I froze. As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I could see that Spider had slumped over and had his head resting on the arm of the couch. The only noise that he was making was a soft, snoring sound. I sat perfectly still and tried to focus my hearing on the sound. It became apparent that it was coming from the kitchen. I reached for my .45 and then remembered that it was lying on the kitchen counter, next to the sink; I had removed it from my waistband when I did the dishes. The clicking sound grew louder. I slid down out of the chair and, on hands and knees, started to inch my way toward the door that led from the front room to the kitchen. As I neared the door it dawned on me just what was making the sound. Someone was trying to jimmy the back door! The clicking sound was the doorknob being twisted back and forth. I stayed low and crawled into the kitchen, staying in the shadow of the counter. Just as I was about to reach up and palm my .45, the back door yielded, swung open and the dim light that came from my neighbors back porch light, washed over me. I tightened every muscle and, as the figure of a man appeared in the entrance, I sprang on him like a defensive guard sacking a quarterback.

TO BE CONTINUED ~RGC~
 

The Captain

One of the Regulars
TIKI NOIR ~ Part IX ~ "Just Deserts"

TIKI NOIR ~ Part IX ~ "Just Deserts"

The initial impact was hard. Hard enough to propel both of us out into the back yard – airborne -- without touching the stairs. Our meeting with the backyard turf was both bone jarring and teeth rattling. I was glad that I was the one on top, but that feeling didn’t last long. We no sooner had hit the ground than the intruder started to roll and before you can say “Oh, s**t”, I was on the bottom. A hard right fist plowed into my left cheek and the coppery taste of blood exploded in my mouth. When I was in The Corps I was trained in self-defense methods that ranged from the classic Oriental to plain, old street fighting. Why is it when you really need to remember stuff like that, your mind rebels and all you do is flail and kick? I blocked his next punch and, raising a knee up hard into his groin, propelled him over my head and onto his stomach. I sat up, did a quick tuck and roll to place some distance between us, and came up in a crouching position. The distance wasn’t enough. He was very quick. Something flashed in the dim light and I felt a searing pain in my left shoulder. Before he could recover from the momentum of his first swipe at me and do it again, I nailed him with a kick to his midsection that produced a loud grunt. The kick sent him flying backwards and he landed heavily at the base of a Phoenix roebelenii. OK, a palm tree. I started to approach him, with the intent of stomping him to death, when he sprang up and headed for the rear of my neighbors house. Evidently he had lost his weapon in the meeting with the tree, and without it he was a lot less prepared to face me. I made up my mind that no matter what, he wasn’t going to get away from me. I could hear him somewhere in front of me thrashing through the rose bushes that lined Mrs. Steven’s back yard. I hoped that when I got there he had made a hole in them for me. The Steven’s dog, a black and white Border Collie named Scooter, let out a yelp and, seeing an intruder boring down on the house he was born to protect, went on the offensive. He crossed the distance from his spot on the back porch in a blur. I caught my foot on a root and fell flat on my face. I crawled on through the bushes as the thorns tore little streaks of red on my face and arms. I looked up just in time to see Scooter make his move. If the guy hadn’t stumbled over a garden gnome he might have been able to fend off Scooter’s attack, but as he fell the dog jaws snapped shut, not on a leg, but on the bastards left ear! Talk about screaming like a schoolgirl, I wouldn’t doubt it if they could hear his pathetic yells clear down in San Diego. He saw me coming and did a very stupid thing: He grabbed Scooter with both hands and shoved the dog away at the same time as he jerked his head. The ear separated from his head in a kind of snapping, crunching, crackling sound. Scooter hit the ground pretty hard, but seemed to be satisfied that he had won the battle. He started to shake the ear vigorously back and forth like I had seen him do with an old, stuffed toy that he played with. The guy, blood streaming down the side of his face, sprinted towards the front of the Steven’s house with me in hot pursuit. He crossed the street and headed for the darkness on the other side. I could smell the pungent aroma of wood smoke and marijuana wafting up from a beach party down on the sand, some fifty feet below the street. There was a chain that ran along the top of the bluff with warning signs hanging on it. In the darkness, he didn’t see the chain and, as he turned to see how close I was to him, he hit it in full stride. It caught him just below his waist and flipped him out into space. Do you remember those cartoons that showed some poor sap running off of a cliff and then trying to walk on air? It can’t be done. He made a gasping, whimpering sound as he fell into the night. Just as I arrived at the spot where he went over, a shower of sparks and a chorus of screams erupted from the beach far below. I cautiously made my way over to the edge and peered down. What I saw was both revolting and satisfying at the same time. The guy had fallen, face first, into a very large bonfire. The dope-smoking, wine-drinking revelers were sprinting down the beach as fast as their wobbly legs could carry them. The smell of burning flesh hit my nose and I involuntarily recoiled. Gee, I thought, I hope he lived long enough to feel some of the pain that he had inflicted on Bonnie and Sharon. I turned around and headed back towards my house. The moon had just cleared the horizon and a warm breeze was tilting in from the south. Nice night for a stroll, I thought.
I walked the long way around to my house; I didn’t want to interrupt Scooter and his new chew toy and I wanted to give – whoever he was – a little more time to roast. When I got to the house, I walked around to the back door. It was still open and the house was dark. Inside I found Spider still sawing logs on the couch. I turned on some lights, and went out into the back yard to search for the guys weapons. There, where we had first hit the ground, I found a .38 snub nosed revolver. Over by my palm tree was a switchblade, open and with blood on it. I never touched either weapon, just made note where they were. I went back into the house, went into the bathroom and looked at my face. OUCH! I looked like crap. My left cheek was lacerated and there were scratches everywhere. What made me the maddest was the bloodstains and slice in my Snidley Whiplash sweatshirt. The cut on my left arm was minor, but it hurt like hell. I returned to the front room, picked up the phone and called the cops. Leone was just going out the door when I called. I gave him a quick rundown of the events and he said he would be over to see me as soon as they could get the body, or what was left of it, off of the beach.
I went back to the bathroom, took off my Snidley shirt - maybe a good soaking in cold water and then a hand wash would make it salvageable - and started to cleanse the wounds I had sustained in the brawl. Spider woke up, heard me swearing every time I daubed a little antiseptic on an open wound, and strolled into the bathroom stifling a huge yawn. He did a great Lou Costello double take when he saw me.
“What the hell happened to you”, he said. I stared at his reflection in my mirror. I thought about telling him the whole story, but he could wait until Leone arrived and hear it then. I went into the bedroom, pulled off my boots and found my .22 Berretta still snuggled down in its’ holster. I had completely forgotten about it in my frantic pursuit of – whoever he is. I tossed my Levis in the hamper, got some clean ones out of the closet, put on a clean T-shirt and walked back to the front room. Spider was just sitting there looking perplexed. I told him to have some patience.
A few minutes later I heard Mrs. Steven call Scooter and when he trotted up onto her back porch I heard her say, “What’s that thing you got there, boy?” Old Scooter must have dropped the chunk of bloody flesh and cartilage at her feet, because the next thing I heard was a scream. Spider started for the back door, but I motioned him back to the couch, all the while enjoying the mental picture of her terror. The old busybody deserved it.
After an hour or so, I heard a vehicle pull into my driveway and a few seconds later Leone rang the bell. I let him in and offered him a drink, which he readily accepted. I figured I could use one too. A double Jack Daniels, neat, was poured for both of us. Spider declined. When Leone had poured about half of his drink down his throat, he started talking.
“You guys don’t know how lucky you are. That fried egg we just hauled off of the beach was one bad dude. There isn’t enough of his face left to I.D. him that way, but his prints – well, at least on the one hand that wasn’t in the fire, were quite clear. Does the name Cletus Hawes mean anything to you?” Spider and I both shook our heads. Leone continued. “How about Marvin Hawes, Rico, you should remember him, you blew him away about two years ago down in front of Bonnie’s place. Cletus was Marvin’s brother. He just got out of prison a week ago after spending a nickel for a string of B and Es. We always thought that he was behind some rather vicious attacks on some of our local working girls too, but we never could catch him in the act and the girls wouldn’t drop a dime on him. Anyway, evidently all of this was just payback for his brother; Bonnie and Sharon were just incidental casualties. Oh, by the way, I checked on Sharon before I came here and the doctor says she’s out of the woods. It’s going to be a long recovery, but she’ll be OK.”
I just looked at him for a long moment and let this all sink in. Because I shot some scumbag two years ago, two innocent people were impacted – one fatally. I had a moment where I started to question my occupation, but it passed as quickly as it surfaced. This is how I make my living and if it means that somebody dies in the process – well, I’m sorry.
“Did you find the coupe he’s been driving? He had to have it stashed somewhere in the neighborhood”, I asked. Leone shook his head. “Not as yet, Rico, but we will.” I hope so, I thought. For all we know, Cletus Hawes wasn’t working alone and if that is true, this caper isn’t over by a long shot. An image of The Grim Reaper driving a black ’40 Ford coupe flashed in my mind.

I know that I started this story with “The Dragon Lady” and that’s where it will end; Just not now. I need a break from this, so make me another Mai Tai, spin me an Arthur Lyman platter and turn up the air conditioner. It’s going to get hot.

To Be Continued?

RGCardella ~ 2004
 

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