Blues in the Night (7 page)

The Mustang led him to Sunset Boulevard, where a traffic light stopped them just as, to their right, Hollywood High had ended its school day. A group of pierced, tattooed, spike-haired, tattered-bloused schoolgirls were thumbing a ride. They caught Mace staring at them and waved their hands. A female student with hair the color of flamingo feathers and a voluptuousness that seemed advanced for her years placed a hand under one partially-exposed breast as if offering it to him.

Just what I need, Mace thought, shifting his glare from the girl to the Mustang.

To distance himself further from the delights of statutory rape, he pressed on the Camry's dash panels, hoping to uncover the car's cigarette lighter. The Camry had its good points, chief among them being anonymity. At first glance it looked like half a dozen other charcoal gray sedans. And he liked the keyless ignition system and the hybrid engine's silence that allowed you to lurk unnoticed with the motor running. But there was a lot of crap he found unnecessary, like the LED monitor on the dash that kept a running tally of gas consumption. And the panels hiding necessities like ashtrays.

And the goddamned cigarette lighter.

A metal door flipped up, exposing a plug for a cellular phone and the lighter. He got a cigarette going, then punched on the radio and began scanning past the rap, rock and Spanish-speaking stations. The traffic opened up and as the Mustang made a turn on to Sunset, he settled on a shock-jock show.

It was stop-and-go along Sunset in the shadow of the giant ego stroking billboards. One of them, devoted to Jerry Monte, featured the superstar and blossoming poet standing on a windswept mountain top in tight black leather pants and a flowing open white silk shirt. The caption read: ‘The Legend Continues.'

On the radio, a female call-in was complaining that her husband ‘was lucky if he got it up twice a week.'

‘Maybe you should slip a little blue pill into his oatmeal, honey,' the jock suggested with a leer in his voice.

‘I tried that,' the caller said, whining now. ‘All it did was give him the added excuse of a headache.'

‘OK, then you gotta slip the dude a roofie, babe. I'm a big believer in love chemistry.'

‘Shit,' Mace grumbled and snapped off the radio.

He drove in angry silence, filling the car with cigarette smoke that the air conditioner battled but could not defeat. His discomfort and increasing depression almost made him miss the Mustang's sudden burst through an opening in the traffic.

Cautiously, he followed the yellow convertible's lead, squeaking through a changing traffic light.

The Mustang continued up Sunset past the Florian, past the Strip with its shops and bars and restaurants. Past Honest Abe's Coffee Empourium which looked dreary and deserted in the sunshine.

The traffic fell off as they cruised beside UCLA where students walked and jogged, evidence that there were still some pockets of normalcy in the city.

Crossing over the San Diego Freeway, Mace relaxed a little and tried the radio again, this time giving the FM band a spin. He settled on a jazz station broadcasting from Long Beach. He wasn't what you would call a jazz lover, but it served his mood as the drive continued.

Gliding easily along Sunset's snake-like turns, he tried to figure out how Angela Lowell had exited the drug store. She'd been coming from the direction of Schlesinger's Gun Shop. Were the two stores connected? He hoped so, because that meant she may have had business in both. If, on the other hand, she had gone out the back of the drug store and into Schlesinger's through its rear, that would suggest she'd spotted him tailing her and was now aware of his presence.

Even in the air-cooled car, he felt a drop in the outside temperature as they approached the ocean. The Mustang turned on to the Coast Highway, heading north.

Another few miles and both cars passed under the Malibu sign. Eventually they left the Coast Highway at Wildlife Road heading in the direction of a strand of beachfront mini-mansions in a gated community called Point Dume Estates.

The high-end homes had been built in the Eighties to fill the needs of the excessively wealthy, television and film folk in the main, who, for unspecified reasons, were unable to secure residency in The Colony. The Dume Estates crowd could rest assured that they were in the second most elite section of Malibu and that their ridiculous monthly mortgage payments were buying them privacy from the common herd, if not from fire, high tides, rodent infestation and septic tank malfunctions.

Mace followed the Mustang, staying what he thought was a safe distance behind. But he was caught off-guard by how close the Estates's security gate was, once you turned south off Wildlife on to Dolphin Way.

The Mustang was barely two car-lengths from him, stopped at a white booth with an orange roof that resembled the tile roofs on the beach front homes resting beyond and below. He braked, but it was too late. Angela Lowell may not have seen him. She could have had her eyes on the gate being raised and, that completed, the road ahead. But the guard standing just outside the booth was facing his way, giving him the Ray-Ban once-over.

That couldn't be helped.

Mace put the Camry into reverse and began engineering a U-turn away from the gate, conscious of the guard focusing on him and the car. He was a big man, black, wearing a brown uniform and a sea-green helmet. He said something and a second uniformed guard, this one white, appeared from behind the booth.

Mace had to blink to make sure he was seeing properly. The white guard seemed to be riding a big motorized two-wheel scooter, rolling his way at surprising speed.

The white guard yelled out, ‘Sir . . . ?'

Mace ignored him, as much as you can ignore a guy on a motor-driven scooter shouting at you. He straightened out and drove off, following Dolphin Way to Dume Drive. Making the turn, he took a final look back and saw the white guard, standing atop his scooter, turning it in a slow circle, eyeballing him.

ELEVEN

M
ace picked up a late portable lunch at The Malibu Country Mart, an upscale mall in the vicinity. He as heading for his car, scowling because he'd just paid fifteen dollars for a cup of coffee and a Swiss-cheese sandwich, when he saw a pack of paparazzi pressing in on a young brunette wearing big sunglasses and a tiny summer dress. Mace had no idea who the girl was, though he gathered her name was ‘Gigi,' since that was what the monkey-like photographers were shouting to catch her attention.

She didn't seem to be aware of their existence, but her bodyguard, a black mountain of muscle with a communication device screwed in his right ear, was struggling to keep from swatting the scruffy interlopers from their path. He looked hot and uncomfortable in his gray suit and he kept repeating, ‘Stand back, please,' as if it were a mantra that he didn't really believe in.

Part of the passing Malibu parade.

Mace carried his overpriced lunch to the Camry and returned to Wildlife Road, parking half a block before Dolphin Way where he could dine while observing the traffic leaving Point Dume Estates. He lowered the car's windows and took advantage of the cool ocean breeze.

For a while, he entertained himself by studying the sea birds as they rode the wind currents. But after nearly an hour their graceful glides began to have a hypnotic effect. His eyelids were at half-mast when he heard someone clear his throat with a pointed ‘A-hem!'

He jerked awake to see a man standing near the car, staring into his open window. The guy was in his forties, a British stereotype, complete with off-white silk suit, ascot and brush moustache. Smiling genially. Not at all threatening.

‘Help you?' Mace asked him.

‘My friends and I would love for you to join us.' A British accent, no surprise. He made a graceful gesture with a thin, pale hand, indicating a baby-shit-yellow limousine, the ugliest color Mace had ever seen, parked on the opposite side of the road.

‘It's hideous,' the Brit said, ‘but the interior amenities are excellent. And one has the advantage, while seated inside, of not being able to see very much of the exterior.'

The reflection of the sun on the limo's windows effectively kept Mace from getting a sense of who the Brit's friends were, exactly. The open rear door didn't show much more, other than a foot or so of dark brown rug and tan leather seat.

‘I'm pretty comfortable right here,' he said.

‘Aren't you the least bit curious?'

Mace was. But not enough to get into a limo with strangers, even if he'd had a gun, which he didn't. ‘You'll have to do better than that,' he said.

The Brit sighed. He stared up at the sun and winced. ‘We were wondering why you're parked here?'

‘Any reason why I shouldn't be?'

‘That remains to be seen,' the Brit said.

Mace reached out suddenly and pressed the Camry's starter. The car came alive almost immediately. But before he could move it into drive, he felt cold metal pressed against his neck.

‘Don't be rude,' the Brit said. ‘I must insist you join us.'

Mace turned off the engine.

The Brit hopped back to avoid the car door should Mace attempt to swing it into him. He held his weapon steady and professionally while Mace got out of the car. As the two of them walked across the road to the mustard limo, Mace was able to see enough of the back of the driver's head and neck to tell he was a black man wearing a white shirt, a black coat and sunglasses. He faced straight ahead as if his only interest was in the open road.

Before entering the vehicle, Mace looked in at the other passenger. He blinked, and then looked again. What he thought he was seeing was a huge cowboy hunched forward on the leather-covered rear seat as if in eager anticipation. But it wasn't the man's western gear – the well-worn Levis, boots, a battered and sweat-stained Stetson – that made him doubt his vision. The Hollywood cowboy's face was a duplicate of the twenty-something Elvis Presley's, complete with sleepy eyes, curled upper lip and droopy jaw.

As Mace got into the car, the Presley lookalike drew back, pushing as far away as possible. Then, with his lip curling even more contemptuously, he performed a smooth quick draw from his elaborately stitched holster.

Mace paused, staring at the six-gun pointed at his chest.

‘Holster your weapon, Timmie,' the Brit said.

‘Why should I?' The cowboy Elvis seemed to be mocking the man, imitating his accent. ‘You've got a gun.'

‘I'm the elder. That means you have to obey me.'

Timmie returned his six-gun to its holster and folded his arms, staring forward, pouting.

Mace sat, trying not to brush against him.

The Brit took the remaining seat and pulled the door shut. ‘All in, Sweets,' he shouted to the chauffeur.

Mace heard the locks engage. He saw no release buttons on the doors. It was probably why the Brit had put away his gun. As long as the driver was in control of the doors, Mace wasn't going anywhere.

Sweets put the limo in motion and the Brit asked Mace, ‘Might I take a peek at your billfold, old man?'

‘You boys have a very classy mugging style,' Mace said, handing over his wallet.

The Brit gave its contents a quick study. ‘Mr Mason is it? Do tell us what you find so alluring about this part of Southern California.'

‘What's not to like?'

‘We were thinking you may be interested in a resident of Point Dume Estates.'

‘Don't know a soul there,' Mace said.

The Elvis cowboy whipped his gun out again. ‘Liar, liar, pants on fire,' he said, and jammed its barrel into Mace's side. It hurt.

‘Timmie!' the Brit said. ‘Put the gun away.'

Timmie the Elvis cowboy glared at him. ‘He told a lie. You punish me when I tell a lie,' he said. Then, with an elaborate twirl of the gun he plopped it into its holster.

‘He's very intuitive,' the Brit said to Mace. ‘Of course, even I know you're lying.' He leaned forward and said loudly enough for the chauffeur to hear, ‘Sweets, plug in the name “David Mason”, Louisiana driver's license EQ3256987.'

He repeated the license number and returned the wallet to Mace who stuck it in his pocket without much thought. He was too intrigued by the chauffeur. The more he saw of him the more familiar he seemed. He shifted to get a better view, but the chauffeur turned his head away. His mouth was moving. Possibly mumbling to himself, but more likely taking to some distant party via a hidden device.

‘You could save us time and effort, Mr Mason, if you simply told us why you were parked where we found you.'

‘I was about to take a snooze,' Mace said.

The Brit sighed again. ‘Perhaps you could tell us the name of your employer?'

‘I'm self-employed. But I'm not working now. I'm on vacation.'

‘He-e's fib-bing,' Timmie said in sing-song. He leaned closer to Mace and whispered. ‘Do not lie to Thomas. My brother can be mean. He won't let me eat chocolate.'

Mace looked at the Brit whose name was apparently Thomas. ‘Timmie's your brother?'

For a moment Thomas's face seemed to soften. But only for a moment. ‘When Timmie was born, an attendant at the hospital made a mistake,' he said. ‘One thousand cc's of something or other, instead of one hundred. I was six at the time. Unaware of how that little mistake might affect both our lives.'

‘He good for anything besides comic relief,' Mace asked.

Timmie's huge right hand suddenly grabbed Mace's throat and began to squeeze.

Mace gasped and clutched at Timmie's fingers, trying to pry them free.

‘TIMMIE!' his brother shouted. ‘LET HIM GO!'

Timmie didn't obey.

His fingers were like iron, unyielding. Within seconds, Mace felt his strength and his life ebbing away.

Then, suddenly, the hand was gone and he slumped forward experiencing a hot flush as his blood started to circulate again. Timmie was happily playing with a Rubik's Cube that his brother had used to distract him. His large fingers, the same ones that had nearly choked Mace to death, were moving the sections of the Cube quickly and efficiently.