Die Laughing 2: Five More Comic Crime Novels Page 40

  Monica Dorlander drove past me, went out the drive way and turned left. Damn. Not back the way she came. A new direction.

  That clinched it. I sprinted for my car. If the manager happened to be looking out the window he was gonna think I was weird, but I couldn’t help that. I hopped in and gunned the motor. Switched on the lights and pulled out.

  By the time I got out the driveway and hung a left there was no sign of her. Of course. I took off after her.

  It was tough going in the ice and snow. I was driving too fast for existing conditions, and a couple of times I came close to going off the road. If I had, the game would have been over. Snowbanks along the side were deep. Getting the car out of one of them would probably require a wrecker. Whether one could be found in the woods at that time of night was beyond me.

  So, I feared, was this fucking job.

  I’d gone about two miles and just about given up hope when I saw taillights. Thank god. If it’s her, of course. But somehow it had to be. We hadn’t passed any side roads that I could see for anyone to have pulled out behind her. And I couldn’t imagine her passing anyone, the road conditions being what they were.

  I slowed to a saner speed and crept up on the car. I got close enough to verify the fact that it was hers, then dropped back to a safer distance.

  We wound around down the mountain. I’d lose her tail lights on the curves, but pick ’em right up again. There was nothing to worry about. No chance of her losing me.

  Not unless during one of those momentary lapses when her taillights disappeared around a corner she suddenly pulled into a hidden driveway and killed the lights and motor.

  I worried about her doing that.

  She didn’t. She just drove slowly and steadily down to where the mountain road gave way to more level terrain. About half a mile further on she came to an intersection and hung a right. Oddly enough, I was turning right too.

  The road, though unmarked, seemed better traveled than the one we’d been on, more likely to exist on some highway map or other. It was wider and the snow was better cleared.

  It was straighter too, which was good in that I could drop back further and still keep her in sight, and bad in that my headlights would be in her mirror the whole time.

  In about two miles we started seeing signs of civilization. Houses. A store. A gas station.

  In a flash of panic I looked at the gauge. Still a quarter of a tank, thank god. But I’d have to get gas sometime. Where? When? How the hell would I do it?

  That’s not important right now. She’ll need to get gas too. Don’t think about it. This is a town. She’s here. She’s meeting someone. This is it. Don’t blow it.

  More lights, more houses, and suddenly we’re driving down a commercial strip.

  Her right blinker went on.

  I tensed. Eased up on gas. Slowed the car. Careful now. Don’t get too close. Don’t turn right on her tail. But don’t pass her by either. Easy.

  She slowed, pulled into the right-hand lane.

  And turned into a McDonald’s.

  I drove on by and pulled into the driveway of a used car lot, which was of course closed that time of night. I turned around in the lot, pointed my car back out at the road, and looked over at the McDonald’s next door.

  I was pissed. I mean it’s my first case, and I’m nervous about it, and I’m trying so hard, but nothing’s going my way. I mean, why the hell would Monica Dorlander, long legged, high-powered executive, get in the car and drive a hundred miles out into the middle of nowhere to go a McDonald’s?

  Well, probably because she was hungry.

  I looked over at the McDonald’s and, sure enough, there was Monica Dorlander’s car waiting in line at the drive up window. Yeah, she was hungry.

  I suddenly realized I was hungry too. Since breakfast, I’d had one slice of pizza, and that was hours ago. But I couldn’t get in line behind Monica Dorlander. She’d see me for sure. She wouldn’t think anything about it, but then she’d see me at the motel. And Marvin Nickleson had already accused me of letting her spot me.

  No I couldn’t go to McDonald’s.

  But right across the street from the McDonald’s was a Burger King. No surprise there. Where there’s a McDonald’s there’s always a Burger King, or vice versa. Or if not an actual restaurant, at least there’s a sign, indicating the rival restaurant is half a mile down the road.

  In this case, there was an actual restaurant. Shit. How many cars were in line there? I couldn’t tell. From where I was, it was on the other side. Should I risk it? Did I dare?

  Fuck it, I’m starving.

  I pulled out, crossed the road, drove around the back of the Burger King. I was in luck. Two cars ahead of me. I was third in line. She was fourth in hers. No sweat. Got it knocked.

  But the guy at the microphone was taking his own sweet time. Christ, how much can you say about a hamburger? The guy could be writing a book. Shit. That’s right. Burger King takes special orders. Have it your way. Christ, that’s an old ad, you’re dating yourself again. Screw that, the thing is, that means they aren’t ready to go, they have to cook ’em up. Which wipes out my three car to four advantage. Should I risk it? Do I still have time? Or should I say the hell with it and back up? Can’t, there’s a car behind me. Oh Christ.

  The guy finally shut up and drove around to the window. The next car moved up. This was my chance to make a break, to get out of line.

  Screw it. I’m hungry.

  The woman in the car ahead of me was fast. I pulled up to the microphone, ordered two bacon double-cheese burgers, a large order of fries, and a vanilla shake. I pulled out in a hurry, as if it mattered how long it took me to get to the takeout window with two cars still ahead of me.

  Bigmouth was still at the window, probably waiting for his double whopper with ketchup and onion, hold the pickle, hold the lettuce, hold it between your knees, Jack Nicholson rides again.

  Right. Jack Nicholson. I was supposed to feel like Jack Nicholson in Chinatown. I don’t remember, but I don’t think he ate at Burger King.

  Bigmouth got his order. So did the woman. Now me. Come on, come on, where is it? They’re waiting on the shake. Screw the shake. No, here it is.

  I paid the money, grabbed the bags and pulled out of the driveway, just as Monica Dorlander pulled out of hers.

  We drove straight back to the motel. Slow, steady, uneventful. Thank god. I needed that.

  I hung back when I saw the motel sign. I pulled over and gave her a minute or two to get inside. When I pulled into the parking lot, she’d parked her car and gone in.

  I parked my car and went in too. I put the bag of burgers down on the dresser and hung up my coat. Then I dragged the small table and chair over to the window. I got the bag and spread the burgers, fries and shake out on the table. I sat down, pushed the curtain aside so I could see the door to unit seven.

  And remembered that I hadn’t called Wendy/Janet.

  Shit. I cast a baleful glance at the useless phone on the stand next to the bed. Then I put my coat back on, went out, and climbed the glacier.

  I was in luck. Wendy was in and was obviously in the middle of something, probably with her boyfriend, because she didn’t try to argue, she just agreed to switch my cases, took down the information, and got me off the phone as quickly as possible. Minor triumphs and small consolations.

  I went back to my unit, sat down, pushed the curtain aside again, and proceeded to have dinner. Of course, by then the food was cold as ice, and it was all I could do to choke it down.

  I must say I was pretty dispirited. While I ate, I tried to build myself up, did my best to convince myself that I was a real detective on an important stakeout, conducting a skillful, clandestine surveillance of the subject.

  It didn’t help knowing I’d almost had a nervous breakdown just going to Burger King.

  12.

  HE SHOWED UP at ten-thirty.

  That’s an approximation of course, since I still didn’t have a watch, bu
t I had the TV on for company, and it was right in the middle of an L.A. Law rerun. I was lucky it was a rerun, ’cause if it was a new show I might have gotten interested in it and missed him. Though probably not, since the guy did me the favor of showing up during the commercial, most likely the midshow one, hence the ten-thirty approximation.

  I almost missed him anyway ’cause he came on foot. What I’d been watching for, of course, was a car to drive up. None did. But suddenly there was a man walking up to her door. Jesus Christ. Where did he come from? I hadn’t seen him cross the lot, but then as I say, I hadn’t been looking for him, I’d been looking for the lights of a car. Had he crossed the lot at all, or had he come walking down the row, perhaps from one of the other units? I didn’t know.

  And I couldn’t see his face. He wore a long trench coat with the collar up, and a hat pulled down over his eyes. Whether that was to conceal his identity or merely to protect him from the elements, I had no idea. At any rate, the coat was dark and the hat was a small-brimmed gray and white check affair, and that was all I could see.

  The man knocked on the door of unit seven. Seconds later it opened and he went in.

  Great. The ace detective strikes again. Monica Dorlander’s lover just called on her, and I don’t know who he is, where he came from, or what he looks like. The best I could log in my notebook was, an unidentified man of whom I had no description, materialized out of nowhere and entered her unit somewhere in the middle of a lawyer show.

  So what the hell did I do now? Marvin Nickleson said he wanted pictures. How the hell was I gonna get pictures? I guess if I were a real detective, when Monica Dorlander went out to McDonald’s I’d have picked the lock to her unit, and I’d be hiding in her closet right now with a flash camera waiting to hop out and say cheese.

  No, I wouldn’t. I’m confusing real detectives with movie detectives again. A real detective wouldn’t do that shit.

  But what would he do?

  I had no idea.

  I took a deep breath and blew it out again, recited, “I’m calm, I’m calm, I’m perfectly calm,” from A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.

  First calm thought: pictures will be a bonus, if you can get them at all. Your main job is to I.D. the man.

  I popped open my briefcase, pulled out my Canon Snappy 50 and slung it around my neck. I hopped back to the window, raised the camera and focused on the door to unit seven.

  Second calm thought: shots from here will be worthless—you have no telephoto lens, and from this distance through a pane of glass with no flash, it simply cannot work. You have to go outside.

  I didn’t want to do it. I’d been dressed for work—Richard’s work, that is—so I didn’t have a heavy overcoat, just a light topcoat thin enough to fit comfortably over my suit. It was perfectly fine for walking to and from the car in New York City, but not for something like this. And of course I had no boots, just street shoes.

  Schmuck. Literally getting cold feet? What you gonna do?

  My suit jacket was draped over the back of the chair. I pulled it on. I grabbed my topcoat off the hanger and pulled it on too. I checked my pocket to make sure I had my motel key, and slipped out the door.

  Cold? You don’t know from cold. For starters, the temperature must have been close to zero. Plus a cooling breeze had come up and was whipping down the mountain at something just short of gale force. I don’t know how they compute wind-chill factors, but it occurred to me that one way would be to stick a private detective outside and see how long it takes him to turn blue.

  Now that I was outside, I figured I had two options: walk up to the unit and try to listen through the door, or find a hiding place from which to shoot pix of the guy when he came out.

  I decided to go for both. Instead of cutting across the parking lot, I walked along the front of the units, trying to give the impression I was on my way to the office and the phone up front. I was staying under the shelter of the overhang of the roof in order to protect myself from the wind. On the one hand it was a hollow ruse, but on the other hand, no one seemed to be watching anyway.

  I slowed in front of unit seven, stopped, and leaned my ear toward the door. No good. With the wind whistling around me I couldn’t hear a thing.

  Two units farther down I stepped between two cars, walked out into the parking lot, and kept going till I was out of the light. I stopped, turned, and looked around for a place to hide. Nothing looked good. The cars parked in front of the units were bathed in light from the motel—no chance to crouch behind them. And the rest of the lot was wide open—no canister, no dumpster, no cars parked along the far side.

  Still, that was where the shadows were, the shadows from the overhanging trees on the hill. I backed up into them, slowly, grudgingly, not wanting to get too far from the motel, but still wanting them to swallow me up, to make me invisible to anyone coming out the door.

  My foot disappeared into a mound of snow. Shit. I’d backed all the way off the lot.

  I pulled my foot out. My shoe was full of snow. I couldn’t see taking it off and shaking it out, though.

  Damn. What did I do now? I couldn’t back up any further, and my head was still in the light.

  I crouched down. Brilliant idea. Now I was totally in the shadows. I was also squatting in a horrendously uncomfortable position with a shoe full of snow.

  I flopped forward onto my knees. I maneuvered my feet free and wiggled them, to try to get the circulation going. My left foot felt positively numb. My hands didn’t feel too hot either—I had no gloves. I rubbed my hands together, stuck ’em in my pockets.

  I knelt there looking at the door to unit seven wondering how long this guy was going to take, and what the fuck I was gonna do if the son of a bitch decided to spend the night.

  He was out in less than five minutes. Talk about quickies. This guy could have been up for the Premature Ejaculator of the Year award.

  If that’s what he was there for. Somehow I didn’t think so. Not with the long-limbed Monica Dorlander. It would take longer than that just to get her undressed.

  At any rate, he was so quick I wasn’t ready for him. The door opened and out he came, and I started and grabbed for my camera, only my hands were in my pockets and I had to get ’em untangled first, and when I did my fingers were still so numb I could hardly hold the damn thing, and by the time I got it up to my eye the guy was already walking away. I fired off three quick shots anyway, though in my heart of hearts I knew they wouldn’t be any good. Not at that distance, not in the dark, and not without a flash. It was small consolation to know that even if I had been ready, even if I’d clicked it off just as he got out the door, it still wouldn’t have done any good. ’Cause the guy had his hat on again, and as he walked away toward the front of the motel, and as I fired off the last of my futile pictures of his back, I realized I still hadn’t seen the guy’s face. Well, hell, pictures were a long shot anyway—no pun intended—the main thing is I.D. the guy.

  I got to my feet, no easy task. Even in that short time my muscles had cramped up in the chilling cold. Getting up required putting my hands down in the snow. I eased to my feet, swayed unsteadily for a moment, brushed the snow off my hands.

  The retreating figure hadn’t seen me. He hadn’t turned around or even broken stride. The door to unit seven was closed, so Monica Dorlander hadn’t seen me either.

  O.K. Go get him.

  I kept in the shadows, lurched off toward the front of the motel. The guy had stepped out into the lot, was walking along the rear of the parked cars. He kept on going, past the office and out the driveway. At the bottom of the drive he turned right, walked on down the road. As soon as he turned the corner, I followed.

  The light was on in the motel office. I hoped the Woodsman was watching “L.A. Law.” Or any show, for that matter, that would keep him from looking out the window.

  I hit the bottom of the drive and turned right. Shit. The guy was out of sight. There was no street light in that direction, jus
t the dark void that had swallowed him up.

  But he had to be there. There was no place he could go. So if he walked and I followed, eventually we’d come to the light and I’d spot him.

  Unless he heard me and turned back. Chilling-Thought-Number-409. Log it in the notebook under ‘paranoia’ or ‘prudence,’ depending on your mood.

  I gritted my teeth, forged ahead. I noticed I was limping slightly, favoring the snow-filled shoe. I wondered what the chance was of getting frostbite. “Private Detective Loses Toe: while conducting a routine surveillance of—”

  Stop it. No routines. This is important. Get it done.

  I limped on.

  There came a metallic click from ahead of me in the distance. I instinctively ducked. Then a small light. But not the flash of light from a bullet. It was the light that comes from a small bulb. Then a metallic slamming sound and the light went out. Moments later, a motor roared to life. Then more lights, two red dragon’s eyes gleaming at me. And two white lights shining on ahead.

  Shit. The son of a bitch parked in the road. He was too far ahead for me to see the license plate number or even the make of the car. He parked in the road and walked back, which means he must be as important as hell, and here he is getting away, Jesus fucking Christ.

  I turned and sprinted for the motel. Or at least my version of a sprint. I must have looked something like a gimpy flamingo, hobbling on stiff legs, topcoat flopping in the breeze.

  I negotiated the driveway, reached my car, fumbled for my keys. I hopped in, punched off the code alarm, started my car. I wheeled around, tore out of the parking lot, fishtailed coming out of the driveway, and sped off on what I knew would be a futile chase.

  It was. By the time I got back to the main roads there was no sign of him, and countless directions he could have gone. Picking any of them would have been stupid— nothing to choose from. And even if I found a car, there would be no way of knowing if it were his.