Davidian Report (23 page)

“The bus is out,” Rube said. “I’ll have to fly now to make it.” He stretched out on the bed again. “I’ll catch another nap. I had one while I was waiting for you. Until your laundry came.”

Steve raised up cautiously. “My laundry?”

“In the chair.” A flat brown-paper parcel. “A shirt they forgot. The guy said he thought you might be needing it for Sunday.”

Steve was steady-voiced. “Who brought it? When?”

“Just before you got in. A hell of a time to be delivering the laundry.” Reuben laughed. “I think the little guy had been out on the town. With a bottle of vino.”

Two bottles. Steve opened the bundle just as if it weren’t important. As if it contained only a shirt. That was what it was, a shirt. A silk shirt, the white yellowed by time, not a very clean shirt. Covered every inch with what appeared to be a scroll pattern in black, but was infinitely small letters inscribed by an engraver’s fine hand.

Safe delivery. It wasn’t often that Steve loved his fellow man but for this single moment he loved Davidian. Steve, not the book of poems, was the bone flung to delay the wolves while Davidian completed safe delivery. It would be the devil’s own job to unravel the letters, possibly coded, probably in the little man’s own Rumanian tongue. There were trained men for such work. It wasn’t Steve’s worry.

And how else could Davidian have protected the report but by wearing it on his back when he fled from cave to cave? Where else was it safer than in a nest of dirty laundry when Davidian was trotting about the streets of Hollywood playing his little jokes?

Steve crumpled the paper and string into the waste basket. He opened his suitcase to put this shirt in with his clean ones, and felt something in the pocket. He drew out a fresh-minted ruble. He began to laugh, he couldn’t help it. The mark of authenticity, Davidian’s calling card.

Reuben said, “Something’s funny?”

Steve shook his head. “Delivering laundry at two
A.M.
! I was wondering what his boss would say!”

Reuben laughed with him. In his attic Davidian would be coughing until he choked with mirth.

You couldn’t tell time by the windows. But his watch read four when Steve rolled off the bed. Reuben was quick. “You can’t sleep either?”

“No use wasting any more time. I’m going to shower and change.”

Rube put on the light. “I never can sleep when I’m hungry. Wonder if there’s an all-night stand hereabouts.”

Steve was stripping off his clothes. “I could do with a cup of coffee myself.” He stopped midway to the bathroom. “Look, Rube, you want to do something for me?”

There was scarcely a hesitation. “Sure, Steve.”

“I had to leave the car last night. If you’d pick it up.” He dug out the key. “It’s on Franklin, around Wilcox. If you’ll bring it around, I can run you out to the airport.”

“You don’t need to—” Rube began.

Steve’s slow smile stopped the protest. “You’re doing me the favor, kid. I’ll even throw in a big breakfast.” He locked the door after Rube. He didn’t waste any time in the shower; he was dressed again when the soldier returned.

Rube said, “I parked it by the side door. Plenty of room this time of the day.” He took up his khaki bag.

Steve buttoned his topcoat over the book. They stopped at the desk. Steve said, “I’m not checking out. Just the soldier.” He left the room key. Nothing upstairs for anyone to find.

He didn’t care particularly if anyone followed, taking Rube to the airport was legitimate. He could get clear later. But there weren’t any signs of activity. No one got up this early in Hollywood.

The morning turned a pale gray as the car traveled through the sleeping streets. Steve swung over to Olympic at Fairfax. “We ought to find a place to eat somewhere along the way. Don’t know that the airport café would be open at this hour. You’re not in a rush, are you?”

“If you’re not, I’m not. I’ll probably have to wait around for a seat on a flight.”

Rube picked the place. It looked good and they were far enough from Hollywood not to worry about being interrupted. If they’d been going to run into interference it would have developed before now, or it would wait until after he’d dropped the soldier.

They sat at the counter, ordered big—orange juice, oatmeal, ham and eggs, stack of wheats, coffee. Steve knew he couldn’t touch half of it, not at this hour and with his stomach nerves like guitarstrings. But Rube could eat double. It was his good-by party.

There was a phone box hung on the wall the same as at Oriole’s. He didn’t have to have a booth. “I’m going to make a call.” He could dial the exchange he needed from this location. He held on while the line rang. The counterman was busy at the grill. Rube was watching the sizzle of the ham.

The voice came on the other end. “Hello.”

“Hello. Mack in?” It didn’t matter what he said. As long as the other party made the right answers.

“What number do you want?”

His mouth bit into the mouthpiece. “W-5.” He drew back, “Yeah, I’ll hold on.”

The answers were right now. He was memorizing instructions. “Okay, I’ll call later.”

He returned to the counter. Reuben asked no questions. He was eating. The counterman was reading the Sunday funnies.

Continuing on west they passed early churchgoers. At this hour there was no heavy traffic on Sepulveda, they were at the airport too soon. Steve didn’t waste a quarter on the robber barons who guarded the endless acres fenced in for parking. He drew the car to the curb in front of the terminal.

Reuben said, “Thanks for everything, Steve.” His handclasp was warm and strong. But things weren’t the same. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, kid.” He wanted to say a lot more. But all he said was, “Maybe we’ll run into each other again someday. If the big shots ever figure out that peace can pay bigger than war.”

Rube grinned. “I hope we don’t have to wait that long.” From the curb, he said, “Tell Janni good-by.”

The tall thin uniform, young and crumpled, walked away to the terminal. Steve drove off. Death in a ditch, death in a gutter, what difference? The fruits of war. Maybe Rube was a lucky one, maybe he’d come back with medals and the same easy grin, maybe he’d have a little house someday like any little house and a nice girl and a couple of kids. He could dream for Rube too.

Before heading over to the beach road, Steve took his gun from his pocket and locked it in the glove compartment. He didn’t want its weight on him all day. He made sure that there was no one following him on the beach road north. At this hour you could tell. The surf was tossing restlessly, the water was dull as the sky. He parked where he’d been told, above the canyon on the road to Malibu. He slid down the shallow incline to a strip of sand. The sun was watery, the air had not warmed up yet. But he stripped to the waist, made a pile of his clothes, lay on the sand. If there were California nuts who sunned without sun, he was okay. He was following orders.

He wasn’t there long before the surf fisherman showed up. The fisherman wasn’t cold; he was padded in a sheep-skin jacket and heavy whipcords, a peaked cap and wading boots. Steve waited a little longer before he spoke up. “Any luck?”

The fisherman turned his face, it was round and bland, his eyeglasses were rounder. His shaggy white eyebrows joggled. “Not yet.” He dropped his worn basket into the sand beside Steve. “You like fishing, son?”

“Haven’t the patience. Is there a lookout?”

“Yes. Have to get up early to be a good fisherman.” He babbled on like some Izaak Walton.

Neither man was conscious of the basket while Steve transferred the folded yellow shirt covered with its minute scrollwork. “There’s a book too which might be useful. Might not.” Another sleight of hand and it lay on the shirt. “He called it something to toss to the wolves. You can’t trust him.”

“Never could.”

“You can pick him up at Dr. Ormigon’s church this morning. He plays the organ for services. Maybe.”

“Maybe not.” The fisherman took off his cap to protect his pipe from the offshore breeze. He was bald as a seal.

“I’ll be at Oriole’s tonight at ten.”

“Rather early.”

“I’ve got a date after,” Steve grinned. “I’ll have friends there.”

“Don’t worry about that.” The old fellow had got the pipe glowing. It looked like a stove.

Steve began to button on his shirt. He was goose-pimples. “Think maybe I could manage a little vacation?”

“I can’t answer that one.”

“Where’s the report for me?”

“You’ll find it on the floor of your car. Take good care of it today.”

“Don’t worry.” Steve was standing now, buttoning his coat to the chin. A quart of hot coffee might thaw him. And a quart of brandy.

“You’d be smart to get lost today.”

“Yeah.” He pulled his hat over his forehead. “He killed Albion. He says.”

“Albion caught up with him?”

“He says with both of us.”

“He’s always been a liar. But it could be. Albion was clever.”

“Yes.” He waved a hand. “Good fishing, Pop.”

“Takes patience.” He cast his line into the surf.

The car was where he’d left it. Undisturbed. On the floor was the other report. He heeled it under the seat with the sludge and crumbs and chewing-gum papers. No one would look for it there. There wasn’t any sign of a lookout, just cars from the south driving towards the north, cars from the north driving to the south. The sun was clear, it was going to turn into a blue day. A day to take your girl to the beach, later on build a fire of driftwood, later still watch the stars come out, one times a million stars. Tomorrow. He and Janni would follow the coast of Baja tomorrow. It would be warmer and bluer and there’d be a million times a million stars to cover them.

Get lost. Pull into a motel, get some of that lost sleep before nightfall. Pass time easy. Keep away from Haig Armour. Run like hell from Schmidt’s boys.

He couldn’t take it easy. Not until he’d seen Haig. He drove back into Beverly Hills, up the bowered driveway of the swank hotel, parked the old crate. It looked worse than ever among the Cadillacs and palm trees.

He asked at the discreet desk for Haig Armour. The clerk couldn’t have been more courteous had Steve belonged knee-deep in carpet. He checked and then recalled cheerfully that Mr. Armour was at the pool.

It was warm around the pool. There were some pretty, bronze starlets sunning in beach chairs, some dark and virile athletes showing off on the high board. The rhythmic thud of a tennis ball on the adjoining courts was counterpoint to the splash of the shining water. Haig was resplendent in bathing trunks. He left the cluster of sun bathers when he saw Steve. “Were you looking for me?”

“Surprised?”

Haig drew a bright canvas chair up to one of the white-painted tables. He gestured Steve to another. “I am rather,” he admitted.

The sun was too hot in this protected area. “Why? Feather turn me in?” Steve shed his topcoat. “But you know more about me than she could tell you.”

“She says you attacked her.”

“Does she? You know more about her than I ever will.” Steve put his fist on the table. “Maybe she’ll move over to your side now. That’s all these kids are looking for, something to believe in, something to work for, and a little excitement thrown in. Why can’t you get them on your side?”

“Feather’s not the ordinary kid.”

“No, not exactly. Maybe she isn’t worth worrying about. But most of them are.”

Haig said tiredly, “We try. Maybe not hard enough.” A white-coated boy shadowed the table. Haig asked, “Too early for a drink?”

“Not a beer.”

“Two.” He waited until the shadow faded. He was casual. “I heard you’d blown town.”

“Without the report?” Steve smiled. “Reuben left. I told the hotel I’d be back. Your spies must be suspicious bastards.”

“They lost you after you left the airport. Have you found Davidian?”

Strange how you could be having the chills one hour, sweating it out the next. The beer was just right. “I’m still looking.” He asked it. “What was Albie after at F.B.I. headquarters?”

Haig said, “You don’t know?”

“I don’t.”

Haig studied him. “He might have been trying to make a deal. He might have been using that as a false face to find out if you’d made a deal. Who killed him?”

“I did. Radar.” It was hard to say what he’d come to say. “One thing I want you to know. Janni’s an innocent bystander.”

Haig didn’t say anything.

“That’s all she’s been in this whole business. She’s not mixed up in it in any way.”

Haig went on listening.

“Just because we knew each other a long time ago, don’t get the idea she’s on my side. She’s here clean. She wants to be a good American. That may sound corny to you, but that’s all she wants. She’s working for that.”

“It may sound corny to you,” Haig said. “Not to me.”

“Give her a chance. Leave her alone.”

“Maybe I can help her.”

Steve stilled the brutal pound of his heart. Sure, Haig could help her. She’d be valuable to Haig’s outfit, she knew the ropes. Haig could help her in too many ways. You couldn’t call a man a bastard when you were asking a favor. If tonight brought the ultimate danger, Janni would have someone to look out for her. Nothing was going to happen, not on an easy job like this.

“I just wanted you to know,” Steve said.

He walked away. He could get lost now.

He spent the afternoon on the public beach at Santa Monica. Beach kids all around him for safety. The report wrapped in his coat made a nice pillow. He might have caught a little nap, the rocking surf was soothing as a cradle.

He ate a good dinner in the canyon just off the beach. The next couple of hours he eliminated in a double-feature movie on Wilshire. When it was time to start for Hollywood, he took it easy.

There’d be a getaway car, he didn’t have to park too near Mr. Oriole’s. The old house looked quiet enough when he rolled by. But there were lights on behind the lace curtains and the shades were drawn. They were waiting for him.

He found a spot on a side street headed towards Sunset, left the car there. He walked back to Selma. The report was under his arm, the gun in the right-hand pocket of his jacket. He didn’t like to pack a gun but sometimes it was needed. When you were too rushed for a knife. He kept his fingers crossed that nothing had altered the schedule. He climbed the porch steps, hit the bell.