No Beast So Fierce (33 page)

The announcer gave my description, flashed a ten-year-old L.A.P.D. mug photo. I scarcely listened. Things were jumping through my mind. They'd known in advance; that meant one thing. Someone had fingered us, someone with partial information. Just one person had any information: Willy Darin.

He'd gotten a hint about “Beverly Hills” when we were in his garage. He'd known a black man was involved. He'd been taken into custody on the nalline test. He'd bartered what he knew for his freedom—probably proved he wasn't bullshitting by giving details of the market robbery. Now it was obvious why he'd gotten out in three days.

It was my fault, too. I'd boasted. So far it had cost Jerry his life; it would certainly cost Aaron the same—and almost equally certain was mine. (At that moment I didn't think of the policeman's life.) And I'd known that Willy was weak; I had seen him display weakness many times, especially when he'd run out on me so long ago.

I recalled the gifts I'd made him, the failures I'd forgiven, the friendship. Memories were fuel to my fury. He had to die. I'd take him somewhere in the wilderness, murder him, and bury the body. The police would know what had happened, but they'd never be able to prove it. Not that it mattered. The old cliché of murderers was true: they could only make me pay for one killing. After killing the policeman all the other killings were free.

Headlights bounced from the walls. I turned off the television and hurried to the window. Allison was turning into the carport. I unlatched the door and waited.

She came in quickly, carrying styrofoam cups of coffee and a white bag stained with grease.

“You did okay,” I said.

“The market was closed,” she said. “I found a café. There was a policeman there. He looked me over. I don't know if he was giving me the eye or was suspicious.”

“Did he say anything?”

“No, he just stared.”

“On the way back, did you drive down any dark streets to see if you were being followed?”

She was silent; that was full answer. I checked the Browning and started for the side door.

“Where are you going?” Allison asked.

“To look around.”

“Your sandwich'll get cold.”

There was no answer to that. I slipped outdoors, hugging the shadows as I moved around the bungalow and through a hole in the bushes to the trailer park. There were neat gravel paths between the rows of mobile homes. I walked casually toward the front. A thick barrier of bushes hid the trailer park from the highway. I ducked in, holding an arm over my face, and found a niche where I could peer out by lying down. The highway was visible for a mile in each direction. A few automobiles went by—even a highway patrol car. I was watching for milk trucks, telephone company trucks, inconspicuous vehicles. That was how they sneaked up to spring a trap. I saw none of these.

I wondered how long I could remain keyed to the paranoia necessary for survival. I'd known three men who'd killed police officers during crimes. Two of the three were killers by nature, unlike murderers, who generally are cowards. These killers were enraged, bitter, vicious. They awaited doom with the fury of wounded tigers, preferring death to capture. They'd been taken without resistance. One of the three had been executed; the other two were awaiting execution, lingering on appeal. I'd wondered how they'd allowed themselves to be taken alive. In my own case I saw a danger that I would arrive at a paralysis of despair through having too vivid an imagination. They hadn't had imaginative natures.

As I lay staring out at the highway, I realized what had happened. The mental preparation to die is not something that can be maintained every moment. One can key oneself up—as in a battle or on a caper—but the visceral readiness to throw life away disappears when one is relaxed or exhausted. I needed to stay mentally ready so they didn't come upon me when I was unprepared for death.

For a few seconds I imagined finding a police station and rushing in with the automatic rifle and cutting loose. I recognized the idea as fantasy while thinking of it. It was suicide and I wanted to live.

Half an hour later I went back to the motel bungalow. Allison had removed her stretch pants and sweater. She was wearing a half slip pulled up over her breasts as a shift. Lace panties peeked out beneath the hem, a provocative ensemble. She was sorting out our belongings on the bed, folding the clothes neatly.

“Where'd you go?” she asked.

“To make sure nobody followed you.”

“You had me scared to death. Please tell me when you're doing things … what you're doing. I'm with you all the way, but I'm scared to death. The sandwiches are getting cold—they are cold—and the coffee too.”

“Okay, I'll try not to scare you after this.”

The meal was on the nightstand, set carefully with napkins. She'd also turned down the bed and set out my shaving gear.

“I don't know what I'd do without you,” I said. I went up behind her, held her close, pressed my face in her hair. She started to cuddle back. The pistol in my waistband jammed into her hip. “Ouch,” she said, and laughed. “That's always between us, isn't it?”

While I finished gulping down the sandwich she finished arranging the clothes. “We must get some luggage,” she said.

“Tomorrow … Lots of things tomorrow. What's on TV?”

“A terrible movie.”

“Turn it on, unless you're sleepy.”

“Aren't you kind of … blasé or domestic … under the circumstances?”

“What else should I do? Rip my clothes and beat my head on the floor?”

“No … but … it just seems we should be acting differently.”

“Look around. There's a machine gun next to the window and a half-a-million in stolen diamonds on the chair—which we aren't even paying attention to. And I've got a pistol on me every moment. You eat and shit and breathe even when you've dusted a copper. Maybe not for very long, but for a while.”

“Do you have a chance to get away?”

“Nobody gets away. We all just get postponements.”

“That isn't the answer I want.”

“I really expect them to find me and kill me. If I last ninety days it'll be a minor miracle.”

Allison's brows drew down. “Whatever we have, we'll do the best we can. A dozen times today I've wondered how I got involved. Not doubt … not recriminations of you, darling”—she puckered her mouth in a silent kiss to show her feelings—“but to find something wrong in me, some flaw, some evil. I don't feel anything wrong. I know what society says, what they'll do to me for being with you. I feel more righteous in being loyal to you than anything I've ever done. My feelings aren't confused, but there's confusion in how I came to feel this way.” She smiled impishly. “Fuck it, huh?”

She made me laugh.

We watched the movie, a Japanese-made saga of giant sea monsters, atom-created mutants rising up to destroy cities. One thing led to another and we made love. It was especially tender and fulfilling, as if precariousness made us more aware of sharing warmth.

Allison went to sleep, but I stayed awake. Although my body was enervated, my mind refused to yield its exaggerated churnings. More than anything, I dwelt on being alive and the feel of life, the sensation of the air-conditioned coolness washing my bare torso, the taste and scent of my cigar, the pulse of heartbeat, the ache of tired muscles, and the endless working of my stomach. Once I stroked Allison's bare shoulder, wanting to feel other life. Life was precious. Life was all that mattered. Yet it meant nothing if you weren't living as you wanted.

There'd been many prison nights when I dwelt on death, trying to conceive it, feel the mystery, and for a solitary moment had imagined nothing, a terrifying moment, a sudden terror that one cannot look at for longer than one can look directly at the sun.

Now I'd killed another human being. He was a symbol of those whom I hated—though in truth I'd met policemen and guards who were decent human beings, whom I'd respected and liked. They were rare, however, individuals whom I thought of separately from those who'd fucked over me year after year. I felt nothing, certainly no remorse, for having killed him—though I didn't think about his wife and child. He'd murdered Jerry, more cold-bloodedly than my killing of him.

Actually, it wasn't unexpected that I'd kill. Many times in my life I'd decided to kill, locked my mind and refused to think of meaning or consequences. Once or twice I'd tried in an explosion of temper, but either there'd been no weapons available or the person got away. I'd never had qualms about killing. My system of values came from the jungle of reform school and prison. I'd never heard anyone denounce killing on moral grounds. Violence was deemed by some to be “uncool” or “stupid”, but never evil or wrong.

And tomorrow night I was going to kill Willy Darin, my bosom friend; Willy the Rat. I fell asleep meditating on how to do it.

4

W
E
woke to knocking. Even while springing from the bed naked, pistol in hand, I realized the police would have crashed through the door without knocking, or surrounded the motel and bellowed from bullhorns. My reflexive action showed that a hunted man learns to sleep like a beast, keyed to escape from it instantly.

The manager was outside. He told Allison through the door that it was almost noon. Coached by my whisper, she replied that she was staying another night.

The noon television news had reduced me to one line; the manhunt throughout Southern California was continuing for the suspected killer of the policeman.

During the rainy afternoon, using pliers borrowed from the motel's office, we wrenched diamonds from their settings. It was like shucking peas, and they became a glittering pile on the bedspread. The mangled gold was thrown on a newspaper, chaff to be buried. I counted them as if they were marbles—400 diamonds and two dozen rubies, emeralds, and pearls. Most of them went into Allison's purse. I took forty small diamonds in an envelope and put them in my pocket. If we were separated, if anything went wrong, I'd have running money—and if they got me they wouldn't get everything back.

We went through the classified ads in a Santa Ana newspaper, checking five-and six-year-old automobiles for sale by private parties. Allison began telephoning. When she was ready to leave, I told her that after she bought the automobile, she was to come back and move our belongings and drive to San Diego and register at the El Cortez hotel, that I would meet her there in the morning.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I've got some business.”

When she was gone (it was now dusk), I shaved my head in front and top, leaving the sides full. I grayed them and applied tanning lotion to the newly exposed flesh. Now I looked baldheaded. I put on glasses. The changes added twenty years to my appearance.

I took both the Browning and the .32 revolver. The smaller weapon would make less noise. By 10:30 I was driving past Willy's house, the first time quickly, checking the surroundings to see if the house was being watched. The second time I went by slowly, looking at the dwelling. The lights were on. Willy's car was in its usual place in the driveway.

Circling the block, I parked on the street behind Willy's. I crossed through a vacant lot toward Willy's back yard. Ankle-high grass was wet with the rain which had stopped but still threatened. I scrambled over a waist-high, sagging wire fence and stopped beneath a tree. Willy's house was twenty feet away. The night was cold and dark. Clouds blotted out illumination from the sky. Occasionally the sound of a passing vehicle wafted back from the road.

I waited motionless for several minutes, acclimating my senses, shivering with the chill. Doubts flickered to mind. It might seem unlikely that merely a cold night could dissuade a sincere murderer, but I was uncomfortable and nothing but my own decision was forcing me. Who'd know that I'd changed my mind? Who'd blame me? I erased the doubt by remembering Jerry's blood in the dirt, by imagining Aaron in a cell. Willy had caused all of it.

I was waiting for him to come out to the room beside the garage to pick up his outfit. All dope fiends take a fix before going to bed. If he failed to come out, I'd stalk through the back door, throw on the bedroom light, and shoot him down while he was in bed. It would be a gory scene, with Selma screaming, but if it was the only way …

Waiting in the cold was foolish. I moved along the fence, keeping low to present no silhouette, and ducked into the dark room. The outfit was in the same place. I waited beside a window, watching the back door.

It was after midnight when Willy came out, the sound of the back door slamming shut loud and hollow in the wet stillness. He didn't come toward the room but went around the house to the driveway.

Quickly I went after him. It wasn't until I'd turned the corner and was exposed in the driveway that I thought of the possibility that the house was under surveillance. It was too late to turn back.

Willy heard my footsteps and turned, startled. In the darkness it was impossible to see his face. I had the Browning out, but held low so he couldn't see it.

“Who's that?” he asked, tense, poised between flight and struggle.

“Shh,” I said. I hurried forward, wanting to get close to him.

“Max!” His voice was laden with consternation.

“Be quiet,” I snapped. “Take it easy. I need help.”

The words made him pause. I could see the confusion in his mind. He was thinking that I didn't know what he'd done. It was what I wanted him to think.

“Man, you're burning up. You shouldn't be here.”

“Where else can I go for help?”

“Jesus! They were at Mary's for hours this afternoon.”

“Did they question you?”

“No, but I've damn sure been expecting 'em.”

“I thought they might know we're friends. Come on. Let's get out of here. I don't want your kids around if they show up and there's shooting.”