Hollywood Buzz (28 page)

His movement and the taunting tone he used in saying her name, unnerved me a little, but my gun remained steady, fixed on its target. “He told Cardillac this?”

“She’d returned to the office for her house keys. He’d just figured it out.” Tazio smiled. “She offered him a cup of tea.”

“He drank it?”

“She’d brought her stiletto along.”

I struggled to keep my voice even. “So why’d you come here? What you’re really after is at Fort Roach.”

Tazio laughed. “Vinciguerra told me you were in the dressing room. Didn’t want to believe you’d seen the film cans.
We
suspected differently.” Facing me, he took a couple more cautious sidesteps in the direction of the living room. “
Questa è la guerra
. This is the war. Why did I come here?” He waved the Walther. “You mean besides to give our friend his fix? His final fix? And now I have a bonus—I can take care of you…”

Moving ever so slowly, keeping his gun level with my heart, Tazio crept closer to the L-shaped sofa. My finger itched against the break-top’s trigger as I watched, helpless to do anything. I could fire, but a reflexive return volley might also mean my end. He shook his head. “Too bad the paper balls did not do their trick.”

I felt a hot flush as anger seized me. “Stop where you are.”

The force in my voice seemed to rouse Sam. He moaned. At the sound, Tazio, gracefully bending at the knees, reached his free hand under the sofa cushion and pulled up a large manila envelope.

“What is that?”

“A piece of the bigger plot to help our side.” His mouth stretched into a smarmy smile. “We’d been counting on the photographs Sam took. He’d also agreed to be our liaison with the sub commander. Our drug fan speaks Japanese, did you know?” For the first time since intruding on the scene, Tazio acknowledged Sam’s presence with a flicked glance. “Shame he changed stripes after learning the truth behind his girl’s crash. Tried to trick us with stock film. Of the Rhine…” Tazio waved the envelope. “Not these.”

So Sam had been playing with fire. Now it was my turn. Where was my break? Where was Gunnar? Had Ilka called him? Would he know to come to Sam’s house?

Tazio’s brash manner, his superior smile, were wearing thin. But I needed to keep stalling.

“So you’ve outmaneuvered Sam. But who’ll be your go-between with the Japanese now?”

“Sam has been under guard. But tonight I—
we
—discovered a new attraction at the Santa Monica Pier.” Tazio stared at me with a sly smile. “It is why I wasn’t here to greet you when you arrived.”

Then Sam lunged for Tazio, a human-chair projectile.

I heard a whistle of air and then the crack of gunfire as the Walther fired wildly. Sam hit the floor near Tazio’s feet, striking his ankles, crashing him to the floor and separating him from his gun.

Sam was out cold, his head at an odd angle, his cheek flat against the area rug. Nearby, Tazio was sprawled in a semi-seated position, his chin against his chest, his back against the sofa.

Gun straight out in front of me, I moved toward him. He rolled sideways. I wasn’t expecting his punch to my stomach. I reeled toward the coffee table, dropping my gun. Doubled over, I held the table’s edge, gasping for air. A hand grabbed my neck firmly from behind. The fingers dug in hard as another hand came around from my left.

My combat training kicked in
.
Fired by pain and adrenaline, I let loose a scream that rose from my depths and echoed off the walls. “A
HHHHH
…You killed my friend, you bastard!”

My hand closed over the marble Samurai warrior, swinging it upwards with a force I hadn’t known was in me. One moment, I saw the point of the Samurai’s sword and Tazio’s icy blue glass eye. The next, heavy marble met flesh and bone. The dull crunching sound of the impact paralyzed me.

With a cry, Tazio fell to his knees.

Shattered glass glittered around Tazio’s collapsed socket, spurting blood. Shards pierced his torn skin. A red stream poured from a thin slit between the collapsed lids. Pulses of crimson carried tiny slivers down his cheek. One jagged piece poked grotesquely through his upper lid.

Tazio was screeching, curled like a baby, writhing in anguish on the floor. His bloody hands clutched at his face. No longer sleek and handsome, he had the twisted visage of a horror creature straight out of a Lugosi picture.

My stomach roiling, I forced myself to search out the guns. When I heard rapid footsteps coming through the kitchen, I grabbed the Walther. A muted male voice called, “
Pucci!”

It was Gunnar.

“Pucci, are you all right?” His gorgeous gray-blue eyes were filled with concern; above them, his eyebrows were scrunched into a V at the center.

“I’m fine. But they’re not so hot.” I nodded to the two figures on the floor. “One of them’s the big fish you’re after.”

Gunnar glanced at Tazio, then where the bloodied Samurai rested. He lifted an eyebrow and there was something admiring in his glance.

He knelt down. Turning Tazio slightly and carefully pulling a hand from his ruined face, he felt for a pulse. He shook his head. “Gone.”

My knees gave way. I slid to the floor and sat, leaning against Gunnar. My body trembled uncontrollably. “I-I killed h-him.”

Gunnar put his arm around my shoulder, waiting until the trembling subsided. “That’s one for Frankie.”

I’d never killed anyone before. I glanced at Tazio and immediately looked away. “He’s a Fascist…conspiring with Cardillac to take out Douglas…FMPU.” My words, hesitant at first grew stronger. “They murdered Brody, Frankie. Tried to kill us!”

“Good. Get it out, Pucci. This is war. War on the home front. You’ve just helped even out the scales of justice.” He squeezed my shoulder.

Sam, his eyes closed, his cheek plastered against the rug, remained secured to the chair. Gunnar went over to him, gently lifting an eyelid. “He won’t be going anywhere for awhile.”

I still had unfinished business to attend to. I scrambled to me feet.

“Cardillac—she must have the doll, who knows what else. She’s going to meet the Japanese.” In a rush, I told Gunnar about the reconnaissance photos and what Tazio had said about having made contact with their Axis counterparts.

Gunnar stayed calm. “Pucci, I’ve got to call my office. Get help here, incognito, on the double. We’re gonna keep things quiet until we can sort it all out, but you’ve got my assurance. Forget about that sub. The coastline is secure. Also, Winwar’s in custody. He picked up the film and our team nabbed him. Winwar or your pal there”—he gestured in Tazio’s direction—“will lead us to Myra…or Cardillac, if that’s who Myra really is.”

“But the doll. She must have the Hungarian doll.”

“I know about the doll.”

“It’s got something in it. Probably jewels. Diamonds. If Cardillac has the doll, she needs to captured before she meets up with the Japs. I promised Frankie I would get her and I’m not about to let Frankie down!”

“You won’t, Pucci. Listen…”

Chapter Twenty-two

Gunnar convinced me that there was nothing more I could do for Frankie at the moment. Ilka and Lugosi should be outside Sam’s house waiting in a separate car, at his request.

“They’ll take you to Lugosi’s house.” Worry clouded Gunnar’s dusk-blue eyes. “I’ll feel better knowing you’re together, out of harm’s way.”

My .38 at the ready, I stood guard in the living room while he phoned for help in the kitchen. Returning almost immediately, he glanced at the motionless figures on the floor before walking me to the front door. Lugosi’s sleek silver Lincoln Coupe was parked at the curb. Gunnar signaled with a wave, then lifted my chin till I met his gaze.

He smiled. “Frankie would be proud. I am.” He ran his fingers down the side of my face. The light caress, the tenderness in his eyes, made my heart pound. “How will I ever be able to thank you?”

I gingerly rubbed my bruised stomach and smiled at his suggestive tone. “Once they’re all behind bars and we’ve caught up with Cardillac, how about I let you take me to dinner?”

“You got it.”

“Oh, and maybe you’d like to volunteer for our Victory short? Work with Novara?”

He wasn’t looking so flirty now. But he laughed and shook his head. “I’ll consider it.”

Lugosi locked the back of the driver’s seat into position again after helping me inside. “Comfortable?”

Ilka was in front, riding shotgun. Roza was in back. Her broken-toothed smile greeted me as I squeezed in. She radiated mischief, dark eyes twinkling.

“Grandmamma sees in you a comrade in danger.”

Roza had been impressed to learn that I was a U.S. secret agent. She understood that I helped bring down those strong-arming her into aiding the Nazis. She had specifically asked Ilka to convey her gratitude to me.

“But you are all right?” Ilka was alarmed that I sank back in my seat.

Cardillac was at large. I had killed a man in there; I had nearly been killed myself. I was wrung out, depressed, and unable to hide it. “I’ll be fine.”

“Poo-chi, vee are completely with puff-chests to have you in the car. You have slain the evil beasts—” He paused for dramatic effect. “They vil ne-ver rise again.”

Anticipating his audience’s reaction, his gaze flicked to the rearview mirror. I stared back. The dashboard lights gave his handsome, slightly bloated features a sinister appearance. Perfect for the comical delivery of the menacing lines. I should have laughed. But it was no good. Melancholy held me in a firm grip. I sighed. Looking out into the traffic snarl along Santa Monica Boulevard, I knew I would never regain my peace of mind if I failed to avenge Frankie.

We passed a street sign that triggered something Tazio had said. In a blinding flash, I knew where Cardillac was going to meet the sub.

“Mr. Lugosi, the Santa Monica Pier, please. And step on it. I’m after a Nazi agent.”

He needed no further urging. At the next corner, he spun onto a deserted street and hit the gas. “Do not vorry.” Lugosi hunched over the wheel, his hands tight. “A getaway route I know vell.”

He drove with precision and a faultless sense of timing, hurtling through the night, careening along a twisty westerly backstreet route, away from the Hollywood Hills and toward the ocean. I explained who we were trying to chase down and why. Next to me, Roza didn’t understand a word, yet she loved the chase after Cardillac. It was written all over her dark, wizened face.

Lugosi attacked the Pacific Coast Highway at high speed. We passengers hung on with frozen smiles and a collective silence.

“There it is!” Ilka sounded as relieved as she was excited, pointing to the illuminated archway at the pier’s entrance.

I scooted to the center of the seat for a panoramic view as Lugosi, tapping lightly on the brake, swung the Lincoln onto the entry ramp and drove beneath the grand signage:

***

We motored alone along the paved path leading to the pier’s end. The lampposts were lit at wide intervals, but the arcade entrance was strung with lights. The pavement ended abruptly, the Lincoln’s tires bit into wooden planks, and our ride got a little rougher. But it was not the time or place to speed. We crawled along, passing gift shops, food stands, and cafés, looking for signs of our mark among the pedestrians, couples smooching, and individuals looking over the pier’s railing.

We were coming up on a vast white structure.

“The La Monica Ballroom,” Ilka whispered, interrupting our silence. I was mesmerized by the grandeur of the freshly painted building.

Rolling the two side windows down, we surveilled the passing scene to the rhythm of tires softly thumping against uneven wood.

The pier was not just a recreational mecca. It also serviced Santa Monica’s mackerel fleet, sustaining the nation’s war effort. Our headlamps picked up a fisherman enjoying a cigarette leaning with his back against the railing, his pole at attention by his side. He turned away, adjusting the floppy brim of his hat and flicking his smoke to the ground as we slowly cruised past.

I felt a quick spasm of recognition
.
That’s no fisherman.
His face was too smooth, and an earring—a swastika earring?

“Stop!”

Lugosi stood on the brake.

Leaping out, he shoved forward the driver’s seat, extended a graceful hand. I eagerly grasped it.

I panned the shadowy area where I’d seen the fisher
woman
. The pole was there, but she had vanished. A dim street lamp showed an opening in the railing near where she had been standing. I squinted into the dark, sick with panic. That had been Cardillac. I wasn’t losing her this time.

I pounded down the wooden planks. Behind me, the harsh sounds of heated Hungarian grew fainter as I tore away from my friends.

At the edge, I surveyed an expansive railed deck below. A boom and rigging for moving cargo and small boats jutted from the far end of the pier. Just short of the tall boom, I found an opening that gave me access to the water. “You won’t get away,” I vowed clambering down a short metal stairway. “Not this time.”

I leapt off the bottom step. The deck was not lit—moonlight was not enough. A thick iron ring caught my toe. I belly-flopped to the deck. Pain smashed through my knee.

“Pooo-chi,” Lugosi called, his feet clunking heavily as he started carefully down the stairs. Behind him, Ilka’s voice carried loudly. “We are coming.”

Either my body was adapting to physical abuse or I had less air left to expel. In the hush that followed, my ears picked up the starting sound of a small outboard motor. Seized with adrenaline, I stumbled upright and charged from the platform, bolting down a gangplank to a small floating dock. A line of thick rope was thrown carelessly along the dock’s edge, but the puttering motor was gone. I stared into the shadowy moonlit expanse straining to see the boat, appalled and helpless as a dinghy, manned by a passenger in a floppy hat and oversized life vest, churned out to sea.

It was like watching the final scene of a gripping movie and knowing the director had chosen the wrong ending. I wanted to rewind the scene playing out before me, return the boat here, to the dock, apply the skills I’d absorbed from Sam, rewrite the scene, put in the proper ending. Cameras rolling, I’d make it to the pier on time.

The dock rocked with the motion of the water. I
could
change the ending. I drew my gun.

“Cardillac!” I shouted with all the force in me.

She faced out to sea, gripping the outboard motor’s handle. At my shout, the boat veered leeward. She turned and looked toward shore.

“Pucci!” Her voice was recognizable even at a distance. “Come to see me off?”

A lilting laugh I’d once considered charming tinkled through the cool night air. Like chalk on a blackboard, it raked my spine, raising goose bumps along my shoulders.

I shot, shot again, and again.

No luck. The boat continued its course.

Outside the breakwater, a powerful beam flicked on, illuminating Cardillac. A mighty engine roared. The ominous black outline of a large cruiser powered in on the path of the dinghy. The deep rumbling increased.

The spotlight remained on my mark. Cutting the dinghy’s motor, she stood. A breeze stole the hat away. The hair, the smirk, made me grind my teeth.

She waved a festively dressed doll at me before stuffing it in her life vest then she pulled a Walther. “You’ll never catch me!”

Now or never. Steadying my .38, as best I could on Cardillac, I pulled the trigger. She reeled and fell overboard with a splash.