Authors: Ron Renauld
“I’m glad you have a lot of friends to think about,” Eric said.
Sam looked at Eric thoughtfully.
“Say,” he said. “If’n you want to, you can sneak back here tonight and we can play some checkers. Would you like that?”
Eric smiled but shook his head.
“Another time, Sam.”
“Whatever you say, Eric, whatever you say,” Sam said. “Look, I got to go talk to Mr. Berger before I go on, so you take care, ya hear?”
“I will, Sam,” Eric said. “Thanks.”
Sam walked off and Eric continued outside.
Bart had his dune buggy revved up just past the gate, waiting for Richie, who was strolling down the loading ramp.
“Come on, man, let’s make it!” Bart called out over the roar of his engine. “We’re late.”
Richie picked up his pace. Eric bounded down the loading ramp after them.
“Hey, you guys!” he called out. “You owe me forty bucks.”
Richie stopped next to the dune buggy and looked back at Eric.
“For what?” he asked with feigned naïveté.
“The
Casablanca
bet, remember?” Eric jogged Richie’s memory. “Rick’s last name?”
Richie and Bart exchanged glances.
“Uh, no, Eric,” Richie told him. “We still have time for that.”
“ ’Til tomorrow,” Bart put in, grinning.
“Tomorrow was last week!” Eric complained. “I want my money.”
“Eric, forget it,” Richie said, starting to get into the car again. When Eric stood his ground, glaring at them, Richie turned and came back at him.
“What are you looking at?” Richie shoved Eric. “What are you looking at, ya creep?”
Eric backpedaled with the shove, but didn’t take his eyes off Richie.
Richie pointed a warning finger at him.
“Eric, you keep messing with me and I’m going to kick your ass!”
Eric worked his lower jaw, trying to come up with a retort. Richie went back to the buggy and hopped in.
Bart shouted at Eric, “Besides, Binford, anything you know ain’t worth the price of admission.”
Eric, seething with contempt, watched the car speed off. To hell with Dracula. He wished he was Hopalong Cassidy. Hoppy would know how to deal with guys like these . . . throw them over the bar, one at a time, into the mirrored wall. Maybe fill them full of lead. Anything but stand there and take it.
They were out of hearing range by the time Eric went after them with more trivia.
“I bet you didn’t know what Adolph Hitler’s favorite movie was . . .
Broadway Melody
. . . I bet you didn’t know that! And what about
Cry of Battle
and
War Is Hell?
. . . Where were they playing, huh? . . . At the Texas theatre where they caught Oswald the day he shot Kennedy! I bet you didn’t know that . . . you . . . it was a double bill!”
He spat the words out like blasts from a six-shooter, but without the effect.
The dune buggy turned the corner, leaving Eric behind, standing beaten humiliated.
And Angry.
CHAPTER •
19
The Pacific pitched foaming swells against the weathered uprights of Santa Monica Pier, which reached out into the bay like a road bound for Catalina until the money ran out.
It was night. Illuminated by strung lights and mounted lamps, the strip carried on in defiance of its passed prime as a must-see for tourists and residents. A long portion of the pier was lined on either side by attractions hard-pressed to match the megabuck thrills of the big-name theme parks elsewhere in the county.
Inside the old hall where Robert Redford first encountered Paul Newman in
The Sting,
children squealed in the saddles of hand-carved horses on a merry-go-round, accompanied by the redundant playing of a coin-fed calliope. Near the doorway to the hall, other youngsters squirmed in line before a photo booth, palms sweating around the quarters they would exchange for a chance to make four separate faces at an unseen camera.
Lovers walked past shopfronts closed for the night, staring whimsically through display windows at seashell sculptures, sharktooth necklaces, and other souvenirs. Some paid to ride the bumper cars they had seen in the opening credits to “Three’s Company.”
Further out, old and young fishermen fingered at their baits before casting them out into the bay and settling back to wait for a telling bend in their poles.
Richie and Bart walked past the games arcade to the clapboard booths where carnies tried to wheedle passersby into risking a few bits for a chance at a stuffed animal.
Richie heaved a volley of tennis balls at a pyramid of plastic milk bottles, knocking them all down. The carny, his brown teeth clamped around an unlit cigar, smiled and walked over to the rack of prizes.
“You win a piggie!” he announced proudly, handing Richie an orange swine the size of a football.
At the next booth, Bart went to one side and called over the hawker, a girl his age.
“How much is this one?” he asked her.
“Two balls for fifty cents,” she told him.
While Bart had her attention, Richie went to the other end of the booth and quickly leaned over, helping himself to a large panda on the winner’s rack. He hid the bear behind his back as he walked away.
“Two balls for fifty cents,” Bart said. “I’ll be right back.”
“All right, sure,” she said, turning her attention to another potential patron while Bart rejoined Richie and their new addition.
“Smooth, huh?” Bart said, taking the panda. “Look at all this stuff. Man, this is great!”
“Man, I don’t want to play these games all night,” Richie complained. “Don’t you wanna get laid?”
“Uh, sure.”
“I know a place that’s crawling with cooze,” Richie said. “Let’s check it out.”
“That’s what you said about this place, ya know?” Bart whined.
“You gonna bust my chops all night long?” Richie asked him irritably.
“I’m not gonna bust your chops, but, I mean, that’s what you said,” Bart put in. “The night is young. Let’s do it.”
“All right!”
They started back down the pier toward the city, carrying their plunder.
The only stray women on the pier were either too young or too old for them, and Richie got impatient just looking at them.
“Give me that thing, willya?” he said, grabbing the piggie and pitching it over the side of the pier. “We ain’t gonna pick nothing up with all this shit.”
“We won it,” Bart said. “What’d you do that for?”
Richie laughed. “That’s what I’d like to do to Binford,” he said. “The guy really bothers me.”
A shriveled transient made his way shakily toward the two youths, his black hair lacquered back with a coat or two of Wildroot.
“Hey, Jack,” Richie asked him. “Where you hiding all the pussy, man?”
The bum looked at them, grinning idiotically.
“Las Vegas,” he babbled. “I lived there for four years.”
“Las Vegas,” Richie scoffed. “We ain’t going to Las Vegas.”
Once past the old hall with the carousel, they climbed down the steps leading away from the pier and started down the back alley along the beach to where they’d parked the car.
“I feel like a moron carrying this teddy bear around,” Bart finally admitted.
Richie grinned at him. “Come on, man, the broads eat that kind of shit up.”
“If they eat this kind of shit up, then why don’t you carry it for awhile,” Bart retorted. “I mean, I notice you already got rid of the one you were carrying.”
“Hey, hey. Ease off, my man,” Richie told him. “We got to stick together if we plan on getting our dipsticks checked tonight, right?”
They cut through a littered corridor bathed in a surreal light that shone brightly on the fog that rolled across the pavement. The glistening wet flagstones and oddly angled shacks lining the alley heightened the ghostly atmosphere.
“Get a load of this layout, would you?” Richie marveled. “Looks like something out of
The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.”
“Don’t it, though,” Bart said. “Hey, what’s that noise anyway?”
It was coming toward them from the other end of the alley. Footsteps. Steady and measured, echoing loudly in the alley. A figure slowly materialized out of the fogbank, striding bowlegged and purposefully toward them. Against the heavy backlighting, the figure appeared in silhouette, wearing a cowboy hat with his arms bent out at his sides so that the fingers dangled over the pistols resting in his holster. He stood blocking Richie and Bart’s way to their car.
“Oh, my gosh,” Bart laughed. “Looks like someone’s celebrating Halloween a little early this year, eh?”
The figure’s face was hidden behind a mask, but Richie could finally make out the likeness as well as the outfit.
“Hey, no, man,” he said. “That’s William Boyd.”
“Friends of yours?” Bart asked.
“No, that’s Hopalong Cassidy, right?” Richie explained, looking to the figure for confirmation.
The cowboy stared at Richie but remained silent.
“I think he’s calling you out,” Bart said jokingly.
Hopalong slowly squatted down, withdrawing one of the six-shooters and sliding it across the pavement toward Richie.
“Oh, look at this,” Richie said, bending down to pick up the gun. “You want to play games, huh? This is some toy you got here, Hoppy.”
The figure drawled, his voice muffled by the mask, “Make your move, hombre.” He dropped his hand to his other pistol.
“I think he’s crazy,” Bart said warily.
Richie was amused. He hefted the gun in his hand and looked at Hopalong.
“You want to go a round?”
“Draw!” the cowboy ordered.
Smirking, Richie swung up his gun and fired off a cap, giving off a light pop and the smell of sulphur.
The figure matched his draw but did not pull the trigger.
“Start dancin’, cowboy,” he finally drawled, firing a .45 caliber bullet into the pavement near Richie’s feet. The shot reverberated like thunder in the passageway.
Richie dropped his gun and stumbled backward, stupefied. “Hey, come on, man! What are you doing?”
“Come on, Richie!” Bart shouted, breaking into a run away from the shadowed figure. “He’s crazy!”
“Hey man!” Richie continued to plead, facing the cowboy.
“Richie!” Bart called out once more before running out of sight.
“What are you, nuts, man?” Richie blurted at the gunman, staying in place, eyes fixed on the bore of the Colt.
“Say your prayers, pardner,” the cowboy said, taking a step forward.
“Hey, come on, wait a minute! What are you doing, man?” Richie entreated, a whine shaving the edge off his domineering tone. “Take it easy, would you?”
“On your knees!” the figure shouted, thrusting his gun forward so Richie could see down the barrel.
Richie dropped to one knee as if genuflecting, continuing to plead.
“Both knees!”
“Why are you doing this?” Richie cried. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Down!” the voice barked, “Down!”
Richie complied. An absolute fear had stripped him of his cocky bravado, leaving him helpless and broken.
The figure loomed over Richie, panting heavily until Eric’s voice came out, taunting, “How does it feel now, Richie?”
The hardness came into Richie’s voice long enough for him to call out, “Binf—”
Eric answered with five more blasts from his Colt, ripping wide holes in Richie’s chest, filling the alley with echoes that sounded long past the last shot. His face torn with an expression of profound confusion, Richie was propelled backward by the force of the gunfire. He landed in a limp sprawl on the pavement.
Eric stared down at the corpse, his head bent at a curious angle, like that of a puppy accosting a strange sound. His eyes were damp behind the mask, and he sobbed quietly. He slowly slipped his revolver back into his holster. Pivoting like an automaton, he walked off into the fog and shadow beyond the reach of the light.
CHAPTER •
20
Several days later, Eric and Bart left the Venice precinct station together. Bart was still shaken, but Eric seemed calm, in control.
“You think the cops suspect me of killing Richie?” Bart asked Eric. “You know I was his best friend!”
Eric shook his head solicitously.
“Cops are paid to suspect everybody and catch no one. Gallagher’s just another flatfoot.”
They started down the walk toward the curb, where Bart’s dune buggy was parked.
“What about that Moriarty character and his tests?” Bart went on.
Eric snorted, “Just a bunch of stupid questions.”
“They even had Mr. Berger in here last week and he’s a nervous wreck!” Bart sniveled. “And he’s got to go into the hospital next week for his operation.”
“What operation?”
“Bypass,” Bart said. “His heart’s worse, man!”
“I didn’t think he had one,” Eric said, smiling thinly.
“How are they gonna find Richie’s killer?” Bart demanded, his voice on the verge of hysteria.
“Bart,” Eric said nonchalantly, stopping to face him. “If you can’t identify him, who can?”
Bart paused, letting it sink in. His face was flushed and he was tired from a long string of restless nights. He was still torn between a guilt at having run after the first shot and an overpowering fear that the murderer was after him to make sure he didn’t talk. As he walked to his car, he scanned the street and rows of parked cars for suspicious figures. No one seemed to be watching him but Eric, who grinned and drew his hand slowly from his side like a handgun, making a popping sound with his mouth as he pulled on an imaginary trigger.
“That’s not funny, goddamn you, Binford!” Bart shouted. “You just don’t give a shit what happened to Richie.”
“Aw, quit your squealing,” Eric called back, imitating Richie. Bart stared at him a moment, then got into his car and drove off. Eric watched him off, then laughed like Tommy Udo.
You know what I do to squealers? he said to himself, reciting the lines from
Kiss of Death.
I let ’em have it in the belly, so they can roll around for a long time, thinking it over.
Getting on the Vespa, Eric started back to work, but then detoured when he came to Rose Avenue, parking his bike near Pioneer Bakery and walking the rest of the way to Marilyn’s.