Grimhaven, page 15
Patsy shrugged and closed the door. “God, you’re a stubborn sonofabitch! At least wait here. I’ll be back in a moment.” Patsy hurried down the hall with her heels clicking on the polished hardwood floor, took the second door to her right, and disappeared.
Hoke lit his cigarette and opened the door to the left of the foyer. It was a small, crowded room used as a combined study and trophy room. There were an old-fashioned wooden rolltop desk, a faded Bokhara carpet on the floor, and a wall with shelves holding a dozen or more silver athletic trophies. The wall above the desk was filled with photographs in black wooden frames. Most of them were in black and white, but a few were in color, and they all had grinning images of Curly Peterson in various baseball uniforms. And he was definitely a black man with a nose almost as broad as his wide smile. Nevertheless, according to the photos, every person he met wanted to shake his hand.
Hoke went to the desk, rolled back the top, picked up a two-edged brass letter-opener, and slid it into the back pocket of his jumpsuit. He swiveled the desk chair around to face the doorway and sat in it. There were no ashtrays in the room, so he flicked his ashes on the carpet. He finished his cigarette and dropped it into a silver two-handled loving cup. He stood up, walked to the window and looked across the unmowed lawn and through the tall eucalyptus trees on the median. Downtown Glendale was down there somewhere, but the smoky haze started a hundred yards or so down the steep hill, and he couldn’t see any of the downtown buildings. From this vantage point high above the city, it was like looking down on clouds as seen from an airplane. Perhaps, Hoke thought, part of the cost of a house like this came from being above the smog line, but he still didn’t believe that an old wooden house like this one was worth five or six hundred thousand dollars.
Patsy appeared in the doorway holding an opened can of Lucky Lager.
“I brought you a beer. They’ll all be leaving in a few minutes, Hoke. If you’ll just wait in here with the door closed, Curly and I will both talk to you.”
“Thanks,” Hoke said taking the can of beer. “My mouth’s a little dry. How long did you say?”
“Not long. Just a few minutes. Please, Hoke.” She backed into the foyer and closed the door.
Hoke went back to the window. He took a swig from the can, placed it on the window ledge, and lit another Lucky. There were four more cigarettes in the pack and after they were gone, he was going to quit smoking again. He would have to quit because smoking in prison is considered a privilege; and privileges can be taken away from a man at the whim of a corrections officer. If he could break the habit again, and he knew he could because he had already proved it to himself, he would no longer need the so-called privilege of smoking. When there’s no need, no loss is involved.
He could hear the guests talking outside in the foyer. As Hoke watched from the window, pulling the lace curtain to one side for a better view, he saw a bulky black man wearing a blue serge suit and a gray fedora, and a small blonde woman get into the Mark IV. The black man drove away and the little blonde woman waved good-bye to Patsy from the front seat. Patsy held the hand of a husky six-foot white man, who was wearing tennis shorts, a white polo shirt, and carrying a white, long-sleeved sweater in his left hand. She walked him to the pink Jeepster. He kissed Patsy on the cheek, jumped behind the wheel of the Jeepster, and spun the wheels as he tore down the driveway. He turned downhill on Eucalyptus Avenue without looking either way for traffic. Fortunately for the dumb bastard, Hoke thought, there was no traffic on the divided road. An odd mix of guests, Hoke thought, especially when he added himself to the list. The Jeepster driver was probably a ball player, too and the formal old black guy with the paunch and the blonde was probably Curly Peterson’s manager, or lawyer—or possibly, his father. At any rate, he had enough money to buy a Mark IV and a small blonde.
Hoke finished his beer, but his mouth was still dry. He tossed the empty can into the wastebasket by the desk, and then flattened his back against the wall by the doorway. His hands were perspiring, so he wrapped his bandanna handkerchief around the flat handle of the brass letter opener and then held the letter opener point down against his right leg.
The door opened. Patsy walked into the room, followed by Curly Peterson. Peterson was six-four, at least 220 pounds and his bare brown legs beneath his red-and-blue plaid Bermuda shorts were completely hairless. He was wearing white tennis shoes without socks and a powder-blue T-shirt. His thick wrists were almost as large as his upper arms at the biceps. His thick curly black hair sprouted in a wild, tangled foot-long mass from his round head. His skin was the color of coffee heavily diluted with canned milk and he was not nearly as black in person as he appeared to be in the photographs on the wall.
When she didn’t see Hoke, Patsy turned around with a puzzled expression, but before Curly could turn too, Hoke lunged and with an upward sweep of his arm, tried to stick the point of the letter opener into the back of Curly Peterson’s thick neck. But the blunt, unsharpened point merely gouged a quarter-sized chunk of meat out of Curly’s muscular neck. Hoke hadn’t expected the ball player’s reflexes to be so fast, knowing that he held the advantage of surprise, but a moment later, before Hoke could get in another stab, his right wrist was gripped so hard by Curly’s right hand that his paralyzed fingers opened and the letter opener dropped silently to the carpet. Curly then hit Hoke in the solar plexus with a short left jab, releasing his wrist at same time. Hoke sat down hard, unable to breathe for a long moment. Gasping, he clutched his stomach, leaned forward, and as his breath returned, vomited most of his Blue Plate Special between his spread legs.
Curly backhanded Patsy sharply across her face. Red marks from his fingers rose into mottled welts on her powdered cheek.
“Why didn’t you tell me the crazy mother-fucker had a knife?” Curly asked.
Patsy rubbed her cheek, which was swelling rapidly. She pointed to the letter opener and Hoke’s bandanna on the carpet. “He didn’t have a knife. That’s your letter opener.”
Curly picked up the letter opener and the bandanna. He pressed the handkerchief against the hole gouged in his neck. The wound was bleeding profusely, so he held the handkerchief on it, turned, and kicked Hoke in the face with the toe of his right foot. Hoke’s upper plate was knocked out of his mouth and it skittered across the carpet.
“What were you trying to do, you crazy redneck, kill me?” Curly said. “Hell, I don’t even know you!”
“Don’t hurt him, Curly,” Patsy said. “Can’t you see how pitiful he is?” She touched Curly lightly on his left arm. She crossed the room, picked the upper plate up from the floor and handed it to Hoke. Hoke regained his breath and walked on his knees to the swivel chair. His mouth was bleeding, but he managed to get into the chair. He shoved the plate into his bloody mouth and adjusted it.
“I said, why did you try and cut me, man?” Curly said. “I don’t know you from Adam’s house cat, for Christ’s sake! Will you explain what’s going down? I’d like to—”
“Calm down,” Patsy said. “Take it easy—”
“What d’you mean, take it easy? You bitch! For all I know you set me up for this cracker!”
“You know better than that, Curly. I tried to get rid of him, but he wouldn’t leave. I told you that. I didn’t know he was going to stab you. But you aren’t hurt. If you calm down a little, I’ll get a bandaid and stop the bleeding.”
“This ain’t no little thing, girl. It burns like a sonofabitch and I want to get to the bottom of it.”
Hoke felt dizzy. He put his head between his legs, leaned forward, and when his head cleared, he sat erect. He held up his right hand.
“It’s because of the pellets,” Hoke explained. “The gas pellets. Florida still uses the electric chair, you see, and I thought if I got tried in California, I could get gassed instead of electrocuted, that’s all. It just didn’t work out right. Maybe I wasn’t thinking straight. My shotgun was in my truck, you see, when it was stolen. But then the cop offered me a ride up here, and I figured I could improvise. For a man as big as you, you move awfully fast. I should’ve waited and got another vehicle and shotgun.”
Curly shook his head and looked at Patsy. “What the fuck’s he rambling about, anyway?”
Patsy shrugged. “He said somebody stole his shotgun. He was going to kill you with the shotgun, but after it was stolen he decided to stab you instead.”
“I heard what he said,” Curly said. “But what does he mean? I never did anything to this crazy bastard, so why would he want to kill me with a shotgun?”
“It isn’t important anymore,” Hoke said. “You can call the police if you like, but from now on I stand on my rights to remain silent.”
“Shall I call the police, Curly?” Patsy asked.
“Are you crazy? How d’you think it would look in the papers? Your ex-husband trying to kill me? You’ve been divorced from this fucker for ten years, but reporters would eat this shit up like candy, for Christ’s sake!”
There were three peremptory knocks on the front door.
Patsy looked at Curly. “Should I answer it?”
Curly nodded glumly and glared at Hoke. His thick fingers clenched and unclenched. “Go ahead. See who it is.”
Patsy left the study, closing the door behind her.
Hoke was breathing normally again. There were blood splatters down the front of his jumpsuit and trickles at the corners of his mouth. He looked down at his jumpsuit and shook his head. “My other jumpsuit was in the truck. I don’t know whether I can wash the blood out of this one or not. I’ll probably have to buy another jumpsuit.”
“Look, Moseley,” Curly Peterson said quietly after Patsy closed the door, “I’m going to turn you loose. But I want you to get the hell out of town. You can go back to Florida or wherever you came from, but I don’t want you in L.A., d’you understand? I’ve got friends and we’ll be looking for you. And if we find you in L.A. two hours from now, your white ass has had it. D’you understand what I’m saying, Cracker?”
“You don’t have to worry. I had my chance and I blew it. I’ll leave just as—“
Patsy opened the study door. “The policeman found your truck,” she said, looking at Hoke.
“In that case,” Hoke said, getting to his feet, “I’ll be leaving now.”
Curly Peterson stood between Hoke and the door and he didn’t move. Hoke made a sidling circle around Curly as he walked to the door. Patsy stepped to one side and followed Hoke into the foyer. The front door was standing open and the tall, rangy cop, smiling, was standing on the porch.
“Found it at Carl’s, just like I said. Some joyrider took it, that’s all, and there’s still gas in the tank.”
“Thanks,” Hoke said. “That’s damned fine police work. Could you give me a ride down the hill?”
“I’ll take you to the garage.”
The moment Hoke stepped onto the porch, Patsy slammed the door behind him. The cop took in the blood on Hoke’s jumpsuit and grinned.
“You all right?”
“The big fucker hit me in the mouth.”
The policeman laughed as they walked down the driveway to the squad car, which he had parked at the curb. “What did you expect?”
“Not that, but at least I can say I tried.”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” the policeman said, as they got into the car. “You look okay, but your ignition was all fucked up. I had the truck towed to the garage across from Carl’s. The mechanic’s a friend of mine and he should have it fixed by the time we get there. It’s a little steep, I know, to pay twenty-five bucks to have your vehicle towed less than two hundred yards, but towing’s a flat fee. He won’t overcharge you on the ignition job. Besides, I figured you’d be happy to get your truck back.”
“I am, I am,” Hoke said. “I’d’ve had to have the ignition fixed anyway. I appreciate the favor.”
“’Then you can do a favor for me. When we reach the garage, pay your bill, get in your fucking truck and then get the hell out of Glendale. We’ve got a quiet little town here, d’you understand?”
“I understand perfectly.” Hoke nodded. “By the way, is Arthur your first name or last name?”
“Both.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Chapter Sixteen
THE TRUCK WASN’T READY YET. While he waited, Hoke changed into his clean jumpsuit in the men’s room of the garage and washed his face and hands. His upper and lower gums were cut and bruised, but the bleeding had stopped. It could have been much worse, he knew, if Curly had been wearing leather shoes instead of tennis shoes.
Hoke’s toilet articles and extra clothing were still in the truck, but the shotgun and the AM-FM radio were missing. Hoke concluded that the thief took the radio (although he hadn’t ripped out the speakers), but he suspected that Officer Arthur Arthur had appropriated the shotgun. Otherwise, the officer’s attitude toward Hoke wouldn’t have changed so radically. When Hoke told Arthur that everything was there except the radio, he had merely grinned, and said:
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. And all my car papers are still in the glove compartment.”
“If I had your luck,” the cop said, “I’d carry them in my wallet.”
Arthur drove away and Hoke went into the office to pay his bill. The bill for parts, labor and towing was $91.57. Hoke charged the rip-off to his father’s credit card.
As Hoke drove West on Santa Monica Boulevard toward the beaches he tried to put the botched assassination attempt out of his mind. At least it had been nice to see old Patsy again and to see her looking so well. Except for losing ten or twelve pounds, she hadn’t changed all that much in the last ten years. She could still pass easily for twenty-nine instead of thirty-nine, but the heavy make-up she wore made her look a little harder than he had remembered. But, as a businesswoman selling real estate in Vero Beach, she had had to be hard to survive in a highly competitive racket. If Patsy thought Curly Peterson was going to marry her, however, she had another think coming. She was living in a dream world. But then, women were like that; when all was said and done, they couldn’t face up to reality the way men could.
In Santa Monica, Hoke parked in the J.C. Penney lot, went inside, and bought a khaki poplin suit off the rack. He bought a blue shirt, a black knit tie, black silk socks, and a pair of black winged-tipped shoes to go with the suit. He paid for the clothing in cash, and returned to his truck, carrying his purchases in two plastic J.C. Penney sacks. He still had plenty of cash left, although he hadn’t expected to pay $158.00 for a cheap poplin suit. But he would need the suit when the police picked him up. Very few cops would rough up a man wearing a suit and tie, whereas a man in well-worn work-clothes simply had to take his chances.
Hoke thought that Santa Monica was too crowded for his purposes, so he turned South on U.S. 101 toward San Diego. He drove slowly through the beach towns, looking for a motel on the ocean side of the highway where he could go swimming without having to cross the busy highway. He saw a perfect motel in Redondo Beach, but he didn’t stop because it was Redondo Beach. He shuddered. Every cop in America had heard about Redondo Beach. Hoke didn’t find what he wanted until he reached Seal Beach.
He checked into the Seal Beach Grotto Motel and asked for the last unit on the row. He signed in using his father’s MasterCard and then asked the old lady behind the desk where he could get some decent seafood.
She put down her Enquirer, and sucked her teeth for a moment. “You like sand dabs?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever eaten sand dabs.”
“Well, I can recommend the dabs at the Seaview, ‘bout two miles down, but not the abalone steaks. They charge you sixteen-fifty for abalone and the little piece they give you ain’t no bigger around than that—“ She made a circle with her thumb and forefinger. “But if you like sand dabs, you can get a whole plateful of dabs and fries for only six-ninety-five.”
“Sounds good. Thanks.”
“But you can’t go in like that. You gotta wear a jacket. It don’t make no sense, because I’ve seen women in there in hot shorts, but they still want men to wear jackets.”
“It’s the double-standard.”
“It’s something, I guess.”
Hoke took his room key, got back in his truck, drove to the end cabin and backed into the carport. He took his new clothes and toilet articles inside and dumped them on the bed. He opened the vertical venetian blinds on the window facing the ocean. The sun had gone down, but there was still enough filtered light left to see the narrow beach and the dark water below his window. The cabin was on the edge of a rocky and fairly steep cliff, but there was a rough discernible path down through the rocks to the beach. The jagged, barnacle-encrusted boulders in the water were huge and incoming waves swirled through them in a lacy froth.
Hoke undressed, slipped into his trunks, and picked his way down through the rocks to the beach. He waded into the surf, plunged in, then got quickly to his feet and scrambled back to shore as fast as he could wade through the receding waves. The water had frozen him to the marrow and he couldn’t stop shivering, even when he returned to his room. The water temperature had to be somewhere in the low fifties, he surmised, and this was in July! Perhaps, tomorrow, when the sun was out, he would try it again, but he knew he could never enjoy swimming in water that cold. But it would have to do, because the Seal Beach Grotto Motel didn’t have a pool.
Hoke took a shower and put on his new shirt and suit, but not the tie. The wing-tipped dress shoes were heavy and made him feel clumsy after wearing his light Nikes for so many weeks, but he left them on, knowing he would have to break them in some before they became comfortable. He drove down U.S. 101 to the Seaview and got a window table at the pier restaurant overlooking the Pacific. The tide was coming in strong and he could feel its strength as it crashed around the pilings beneath the plank floor.
Hoke ordered the sand dabs and fries. The sand dabs were preceded by a cup of Manhattan clam chowder and a small Caesar salad. Hoke enjoyed the sand dabs and finished his dinner by ordering a piece of hot apple pie. He would have preferred Key Lime pie, but knew better than to ask for it.
