The New Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction Page 8

  I went on, talking fast, checking with her about the layout of the house and the streets in the neighborhood.

  Finally, I said, “All right. That’s about all I needed to know. I think we can pull it off, but I want to work on it a little more. And I’ve still got to figure out a way to get you.”

  “And your diving equipment,” she said. “It’s still in the back of the car.”

  “I know,” I said. “I was just coming to that. There won’t be time to fool with it, either, when I come to get you, no matter what kind of plan we work out. Anyway, put that aqualung in a cardboard carton and tie it. Pack what clothes and toilet articles you can get into another carton, and put both of them in the trunk of your car. Around noon tomorrow call Broussard & Sons, the ship chandlers, and ask if they’ll deliver a couple of packages to the Ballerina, along with the stores. They will, of course. But don’t take them to Broussard’s yourself.

  “Take the car to the Cadillac agency for a supposed repair. As soon as you get inside on the service floor, call a parcel delivery service to come after the cartons. Whoever’s following you will be outside and won’t see the things come out of your car. If he did they’d be hot on the trail in nothing flat to see where they went. All straight?”

  “Yes. Now, when will I call you again?”

  “Saturday afternoon about five, unless something happens and you have to get in touch with me sooner.”

  It took the rest of the morning to check the gear on the sloop and make out a stores list. Broussard’s runner came down in the afternoon and picked it up. The yard closed at five. I drove the truck inside and parked it. The night watchman was another problem; as fast as I solved one I had two more to take its place. I had to get them aboard without his seeing them.

  I studied the layout of the yard. The driveway came in through the gate where the office and the shops were located, and went straight back to the pier running out at the end of the spit. The Ballerina, of course, would be out on the pier after I brought her back in from the shakedown. If I backed the truck up to the pier and left the lights on he wouldn’t be able to see them come out the rear doors.

  I cleaned the cabin of the boat that night and got a good night’s sleep.

  The Ballerina checked out beautifully the next morning and the yardwork was done. I paid the bill and spent the afternoon checking and stowing all the gear aboard her. Later, I bought a paper, but there was nothing about his body’s being found.

  With nothing to do, I began thinking of her again. I still hadn’t figured a way of getting her aboard. Finally I hit on an idea. If it worked, this time tomorrow we’d be at sea.

  11

  The stores came down in a truck at a little after nine. I looked quickly for the two cartons, took them aboard, and started checking stores with the driver. When he had it all on the end of the pier I wrote out a check and started carrying it aboard.

  I was still at it at eleven o’clock when two strange men came into the yard. They were dressed in seersucker suits and panama hats, and were smoking cigars. They started around the yard, talking to each of the workmen for a minute or two.

  Then they were coming toward me. I was just picking up a coil of line; I straightened, watching them. I’d never seen them before as far as I could tell. They showed me a photograph, questioned me briefly, and left.

  They worked fast. It couldn’t possibly have been more than a few hours since they’d found him, and already they had a picture. Not a picture, I thought. Probably dozens of them, being carried all over the waterfront. And it was a photograph of him as he was alive, not swollen and unrecognizable in death.

  Anybody but a fool would have known it, I thought. The pug would have a criminal record, and when they have records they have pictures. Maybe they had identified him from his fingerprints. But that made no difference now. The thing was that Christiansen would recognize him instantly.

  I shook it off. They’d still be looking for Manning, who had gone to New York. And we’d be gone from here in another twelve hours. I was still tense and uneasy. It was Saturday afternoon, and it grew worse as the afternoon wore along.

  It was exactly five o’clock when the telephone rang inside the booth at the gate.

  “Bill,” she said softly, “I’m getting really scared now. Are we all ready?”

  “We’re all ready,” I said. “Listen. I’ve got to get Macaulay first. They’re not sure where he is, and if it works right they won’t even know he’s gone. They won’t suspect anything’s happening. But when you disappear, everything’s going to hit the fan.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  I went on, “Tell him to dress in dark clothes and wear soft-soled shoes. He’s to come out the back door at around 9:10. That’ll give him plenty of time to get his eyes accustomed to the darkness and make sure there’s nobody in the alley itself. I don’t think there will be, because they’re too smart to be loitering where somebody might see them and call the police. They’re watching the ends of it, sitting in cars. I’ll come down Brandon Way and stop at the mouth of the alley at exactly 9:20—”

  “But, Bill, you can’t stop there. He’ll know what you’re doing. He’ll kill you.”

  “He’ll be busy,” I said. “I’ve got a diversion for him, and I think it’ll work. Now, the truck will be between him and the mouth of the alley. Tell Macaulay to come fast the minute the truck stops. And if anything goes wrong he’s to keep coming toward the truck. If he breaks and goes back he hasn’t got a chance. Tell him when he reaches it to stand a little behind the door and just put his hand up on the frame of the window, near the corner. He’s not to get in or open the door, until the truck starts moving. If he even puts his weight on the running board while it’s stopped, that guy may hear it. Got all that?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Then what?”

  “You’re next. Have you ever been to a drive-in movie?”

  “Yes. Several times.”

  “All right. As soon as he leaves the house at 9:10 you lock all the doors. Be standing right by the phone at 9:20. If you hear any commotion or gunshots, call the cops and hide, fast. A prowl car will get there before they can get to you. But if you don’t hear anything, you’ll know he got away. Leave the house at 9:30. Some of them will follow you, of course. Go to the Starlite drive-in, out near the beach on Centennial Avenue. Centennial runs north and south. Approach from the north, and try to time it so you get there at ten minutes before ten. If you look you’ll see a black panel truck parked somewhere in the last block before you get to the entrance. That’ll be me. Drive on in.

  “Now, all this is important. Be sure you get it right. This is Saturday night, so it’ll be pretty full. But you know how they’re laid out, fan-wise, spreading out from the screen, and there are always a few parking places along the edge because the angle’s poor out there. Enter one of the rows and drive across to the exit, slowly, looking for a good spot. But there aren’t any. So you wind up clear over at the end. Sit there twenty minutes, and then back out. You’ve decided you don’t like that, and there must be something better further back. So drop back a row and go back to the entrance side again. Park there for five or ten minutes, and then get out and walk down to the ladies’ room in the building where the projector is. Kill about five minutes and then come back to the car. The minute you get in, back out and drive toward the exit. Before you get to it, pull into one of the parking places along the edge, and step out, on the right-hand side. Don’t scream when a hand grabs your arm. It’ll be mine.”

  “Won’t they still be following me?”

  “Not any more,” I said. “By the time you come back from the ladies’ room I’ll know who he is.”

  “You think he’ll get out of his car too?”

  “Yes. It’s like this. There’ll probably be two cars trailing you. When they see you go into a drive-in theatre one man will follow you in to be sure it’s not a dodge for you to transfer to some other car. And the other bunch will stay outside near
the exit to pick you up coming out, because there’s a hellish jam of cars fighting for the exit when the movie breaks up and they could lose you if they both went inside. There’s just one thing more. If an intermission comes along, sit tight where you are. You’ve got to make those two moves and that trip to the powder room while the picture’s running and not many people are wandering around. It’s darker then too; nobody has his lights on.”

  “Yes, but how are you going to stop him from following me the second time? Bill, they’re dangerous.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “He won’t even see me. When he gets out to follow you on foot I’ll fix his ignition wires. By the time he tumbles to the fact his car’s not going to start, you’ll already be down at the other end of the row and in my truck. When the picture’s over, we just drive out, along with everybody else.”

  “All right. But you’ll be careful, won’t you?”

  “Why?” I asked. I couldn’t help it.

  “Couldn’t we put it this way – if anything happens to you we wouldn’t get away.”

  “We’ll call it that.”

  “Yes,” she said. Then she added, “That, at the very least.”

  She hung up.

  12

  I sweated it out. It was eight-fifty when I reached the neighborhood and cruised slowly to time it right. I was betting a lot on just a flashlight and a black panel truck. The thing was to give him just a little time to look it over, so I wouldn’t spring it on him too suddenly. He’d be able to see what I was doing, and as I passed under the street light at the intersection of Fontaine Drive he’d see the black sides of the truck. My headlights would cover the Louisiana license plate. At 9:18 I eased away from the curb.

  Switching on the flashlight, I held it in my left hand and shot the beam into dark places under the trees and back among the hedges as I came slowly down the street. After I crossed Fontaine I could see him. He was in the same place, facing this way. I flashed the light into another hedge.

  I had to calculate the angles fast now. I was well out in the center of the street, watching the mouth of the alley on his side. He was parked just beyond it. I stopped with my window opposite his, and at the same time I threw the light against the side of his car but not quite in his face.

  “You seen anything of a stray kid?” I asked, as casually as I could with that dryness in my mouth. “Boy, about four, carrying a pup—”

  It worked.

  I could feel the breath ooze out of me as a tough voice growled from just above the light. “Nah. I haven’t seen any kid.”

  “Okay. Thanks,” I said. I felt along the edge of the window frame in the opposite door. Hurry. For the love of God, hurry.

  My fingertips brushed across a hand. I inhaled again.

  I let the truck roll slowly ahead three or four feet, and said, “If you see a kid like that, call the station, will you? We’d thank you for it.”

  I moved the light away from him. He wouldn’t be able to see anything for twenty or thirty seconds, and Macaulay was on the far side of the truck, walking along with me. But he had to be in it before we hit the street below Fontaine, under the light. I slipped the clutch and hit the accelerator a couple of times, shooting the flashlight beam along the sidewalk. The door opened soundlessly, and he was sitting beside me. He closed it gently.

  There was no outcry behind us. I wanted to step on the gas. Not yet, I thought. Easy. I still hadn’t seen him at all. He was only a dark shadow beside me as we rolled on toward the intersection. Then a cigarette lighter flared.

  I jerked my face around, whispering fiercely. “Put that—”

  “It’s all right,” a smooth voice said. “Just turn at the corner and go around the block.”

  I saw a lean face, and tweed, and the gun held carelessly in his lap. It was Barclay.

  We turned. I was numb all over and there was nothing else to do.

  “Park at the mouth of the alley, and do it quietly,” Barclay said.

  “Mrs Macaulay?” I asked mechanically.

  “She’s in the house.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Yes.”

  I swung around the next corner, and we were on Fontaine, under the big, peaceful trees. “Then you finally killed him, didn’t you?”

  “Oh. Yes,” he replied, almost as if talking to himself. “Too bad.”

  There was no point in asking what he meant. I was too far behind now to catch up in a week. We parked at the mouth of the alley. Across the street I could see the red tip of a cigarette in the other car. Bitterness welled up in me. I’d fooled them, hadn’t I?

  Barclay opened the door on his side. “Go in. We’ll be leaving soon.”

  “Leave?”

  “Sail. Ballerina sleeps four, right?”

  He stepped aside in the darkness and followed closely behind me. My mind turned the parts of it over and over with no more comprehension than a washing-machine tumbling clothes. Sail? Four of us? Macaulay was already dead, that was what they’d wanted, wasn’t it?

  It was – unless she had been lying all the time. I tried to shove the thought out of my mind. It came back. How would they have known I was coming by in the truck unless she had told them?

  Maybe I could have got away from him in the alley, but I didn’t even try. The whole thing had fallen in on me, and I didn’t have anywhere to go. I wanted to see her, anyway. She had lied about it, or she hadn’t lied about it. I had to know.

  I had wanted to see Macaulay and when I finally saw him he was a corpse on the floor of his living room. He’d been dressed according to the instructions I’d given Shannon. She was there, shocked and speechless, barely able to keep herself together when Barclay escorted me in. Two of his friends were there, too. He gave his instructions tersely.

  “Very well. We’re finished here,” he said. “Who has the keys to her car?”

  “Here.” The big blond guy fished them from his pocket.

  “Give them to Carl,” Barclay directed crisply. “You’ll go with us in the truck.”

  He shifted his gaze to the other man. “Take the Cadillac downtown and park it. Meet us on the southeast corner of Second and Lindsay. We’ll be going east, in a black panel truck, Manning driving. Get in the front seat with him. When we go in the gate at the boat yard Manning will tell the watchman you’ve come along to drive the truck back to a garage. If Manning tries any tricks, don’t shoot him; kill the watchman. As soon as we’re all aboard the boat, take the truck to some all-night storage garage and leave it, under the name of Harold E. Burton, and pay six months’ storage charges in advance. Then pick up the Cadillac, drive it to the airport, and leave it. Take a plane to New York, and tell them we should be in Tampa in three weeks to a month. Tell them about Macaulay, but that we have her and it’s under control. You got that?”

  “Check,” Carl said. He took the keys and went out.

  I could see a little of it now. They were hanging it on her quite neatly. The police already wanted me, and they’d be after her now too, for killing Macaulay. I didn’t know what Barclay wanted with her, but he had her from every angle. There was nowhere we could run.

  13

  We boarded the Ballerina the way Barclay scheduled it and he used my loading plan perfectly. The watchman never suspected a thing. Carl drove the truck off the pier and that was it. I could have jumped over the side and possibly escaped, but he knew I wouldn’t. I had nowhere to go, with the police looking for me, and I couldn’t leave her. The big one helped her down into the cockpit.

  On deck, Barclay said, “Let’s sail.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “I’ll give you a course when we’re outside. Now, step on it.”

  “I’ll have to light the running lights first. Is that all right with you?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I just wanted to be sure I had your permission.”

  He sighed in the darkness. “This is no game, Manning. You and Mrs Macaulay are in a bad spot. What happens to
her depends on the way the two of you cooperate. Now, get this sloop away before the watchman hears us and comes snooping.”

  Getting the watchman killed would accomplish nothing. “All right,” I said. We moved slowly away from the pier, out toward the channel, going seaward. There was no other traffic.

  Barclay sat down across from me in the cockpit, smoking. “Very neat,” he congratulated himself above the noise of the engine.

  “I suppose so,” I said. “If killing people is your idea of neatness.”

  “Macaulay? We couldn’t help it.”

  “Of course,” I said coldly. “It was an accident.”

  “No. Not an accident. Call it calculated risk.” He paused for a moment, the cigarette glowing, and then he went on. “And speaking of that, here’s where you fit in. You’re also a calculated risk. I can handle small boats well enough to take this sloop across the Gulf, but I couldn’t find the place we’re looking for. We need you. We won’t kill you unless we have to. Score yourself a point.

  “But before you start anything, imagine a bullet-shattered knee, with gangrene, and only aspirin tablets or iodine to treat it. And figure what we could do to Mrs Macaulay if you don’t play ball.

  “One of us will be watching you every minute. Do as you’re told, and there’ll be no trouble. Is it all clear, Manning?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Except you keep telling me this is no game, so there must be some point to it. Would you mind telling me where you think you’re going, and what you’re after?”

  “Certainly. We’re looking for an airplane.”

  “You mean the one Macaulay crashed in? You’re going to try to find it after you’ve killed the one person on earth who knew where it is?”

  “She knows,” he said calmly. “Why do you think we brought her?”

  “Look,” I said. “He was alone in it when it crashed. How could she possibly know?”

  “He told her.”

  “You’ll never find it in a million years.”

  “We will. He knew where it was, and was certain he could go back to it, or he wouldn’t have hired you. So it has to be near some definite location, a reef or something. And if he knew, he could tell her. She’s already given me the general location. It’s to the westward of Scorpion Reef. You know the spot?”