Rafferty's Rules: A Rafferty P.I. Mystery Read online

  I went to the Dew Drop Inn anyway.

  Chapter 14

  “Oh, my God,” Fran said. The lighting inside the Dew Drop Inn was lousy, but it was good enough to see her face sag. “Poor Joe.”

  “Yeah, helluva shame,” I said. “Now let’s worry bout poor Fran.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Five, six hours ago. I got tied up with the cops for a while, and then I had arrangements to make, or I’d have been here sooner.”

  Chuck the bartender greased and slimed his way to our booth. He thought Fran looked thirsty again. I gave him a twenty and told him to stay away for half an hour. It was quicker than arguing.

  “Well,” Fran said, “I feel sick about Joe, but you’re going off the deep end. Why should I run away? Besides, if I left now, I’d get fired. What would I do for a job then?”

  She wore—or didn’t wear, depending on how you looked at it—her working clothes. She crossed her arms over her bare plastic breasts and hugged herself. “I’m cold,” she said.

  It wasn’t cold. I had my nylon windbreaker on, but not because of the temperature.

  “You’re not cold, you’re scared,” I said. “And you should be. Take a look out front. Don’t go outside, for God’s sake, just look.”

  Fran started to argue, then she went toward the front door. She wore higher heels than the first time I had seen her. The exaggerated heels made her legs look longer, and they gave her a ludicrous walk, like a parody of a street-corner hooker.

  She opened the door a foot or so and poked her head out. After thirty seconds, she carefully closed the door and came back. Her face was pale.

  “Oh, shit,” she said. “We’re fucked.”

  “No, we’re okay. Tell me what you saw.”

  “They’re across the street. Three of them.”

  “What are they doing now?”

  “Standing by their bikes,” she said. She gulped. “One of them waved at me.” She closed her eyes and pushed her hands into her lap. Her arms were rigid. “I don’t think I can take this.”

  “Sure you can. You have to. In a few minutes, we’ll walk out of here. It’ll be all right if you do what I tell you.”

  “That’s what you say. Why don’t we call the cops?” She laughed, bitterly. “I never thought I’d say that, but I sure like the idea now. Let’s call the cops.”

  “What could they do?”

  “Let me get the fuck out of here alive, that’s what they could do!”

  “True,” I said. “But they can’t arrest those goons across the street, because they haven’t done anything. Yet. So, afterward, after the cops leave, what will you do. Fran? Go home? Pull the covers over your head and pretend you don’t hear the motorcycles coming up the driveway?”

  After a long moment, she said, “You’re right. What do you want me to do?” She said it dully, as if escape was so improbable a struggle didn’t matter.

  “When you looked outside, did you see a blue Chevy parked on the right side of the lot? With a man in it?”

  “Yesss,” she said hesitantly. “He’s thin and wearing western clothes. And a big hat. The door is open and he’s sitting sideways behind the wheel, with his feet out the door. Drinking a beer.” Reciting the details seemed to comfort her.

  “He’s a friend, Fran. You’re not alone. In fact, when we go out there, everyone except the bikers will be either neutral or a friend. Remember that.”

  She nodded. “If you say so.”

  “I say so. Go get dressed now. We’ll leave when you get back.”

  She sat for a long time without moving. I thought she was going to refuse. Then, finally, she sighed and stood and walked toward the back of the big room. After three steps, she stopped and took off her hooker shoes. She carried them while she padded down the corridor and bumped a door open with her shoulder.

  She was back in six minutes, dressed in jeans and a thin, long-sleeved pink cotton pullover with a scoop neck. She wore leather sandals, the kind with a loop over the big toe, and she carried an outsized straw purse. She sat down.

  “Leave the sandals here,” I said. “We might have to run.”

  She took them off and dropped them into the straw bag. “I was thinking,” she said. “You don’t have to do this, do you?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “I mean, those guys murdered Joe tonight.”

  “Well, let’s be fair, Fran. We don’t know for certain they did it.”

  “You think they did, though, don’t you?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “So,” she said, “you came to get me out of here and it’s not even your fight.”

  “It’s my fight. I want them, don’t forget.”

  “You say that like it’s a … a regular job!”

  “It is. This sort of thing is part of what I do.”

  She shook her head. “Wow, I am really fucked up. Here I am, arguing with you, instead of being grateful. The truth is, Rafferty, I am scared to death. Really.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m scared, too. You’ll forget about it when—and if—things start to happen.”

  “Do you like it? Being scared and knowing there are people out there who might kill you and then going out there anyway? I read something about people like that. People who like it.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

  “Wow,” she said again. “You’re more fucked up than I am.”

  “We’ll go now, Fran. Walk on my left. One step behind. That’s important. No matter what I do, stay to my left and a little behind. And don’t touch me or grab me. Okay?”

  She nodded shortly. “Okay. Hoo-boy,” she said, blowing it out in a long loud breath. “Okay.”

  After that, there was nothing more to talk about, so we went out.

  I held the .45 behind my right thigh. When we cleared the door, I felt Fran move into position where I had told her.

  Off to our right, Cowboy drained his beer and tossed the bottle into the bed of the pickup. He stretched slowly, sleepily, then turned to face the wheel. He started the pickup. He didn’t close the door or switch on the lights.

  The three bikers spotted Fran. They swaggered across the street toward us. Fran’s description had been accurate and I recognized Turk as the one in the middle.

  Turk was a big son-of-a-bitch, six-four, at least. He wore a sleeveless denim vest and his arms were corded with long ropy muscles. He looked fit and dangerous. His bare scalp gleamed in the street light. He was clean, for a biker, and he stood out in his small crowd. The other two were over-weight and dirty.

  The biker on Turk’s left nudged him and guffawed. Turk smiled. It wasn’t what you’d call a friendly smile.

  When they stepped up onto the curb on our side of the street, I started forward. Fran came along, a half beat late. She whispered softly. Over and over, she said, “Oh shit.”

  The bikers were twenty yards away when Cowboy made his move.

  He popped the pickup into gear and slewed it across the parking lot in front of the bikers. The Chevy squawked to a stop. The open driver’s door creaked forward on its hinges. Cowboy slid across the seat and shoved a handgun with an absurdly long barrel out the passenger window. He pointed it at Turk and his play-mates.

  Out on the street, another pickup truck—a maroon F100—burned rubber and crashed into the three parked motorcycles. The bikes toppled like dominos, and the pickup, now in a stump-jumping low gear, roared and waddled up onto the pile.

  Mimi jumped out of the truck. She had her Browning 12-gauge pump and she held it on the bikers as she ran to our left. Her boot heels clunked rhythmically on the pavement. She carefully avoided Cowboy’s killing zone.

  I pulled Fran forward, down and across, under my gun arm, and shoved her toward Cowboy’s pickup. “Get in,” I said.

  It was going down according to plan; everything clicking into place, neat and orderly with the lubricant of organization and the hot sweet rush of adrenaline. What could be strange
about enjoying anything like that?

  It all went to hell when the other two bikers came out, one from each side of the Dew Drop Inn.

  They were afoot, running, converging on the pickup. Then the one with the machete swerved and ran toward Mimi.

  “On the right, Mimi. He’s yours,” I yelled.

  I turned and shot the other biker, the one with the shotgun, high in the chest. As he went down, his weapon fired. After the echoing bark of the .45, his shotgun sounded vague, like thunder in distant hills. A two-foot wide section of the Dew Drop Inn sign disappeared. White plastic fragments drifted down onto the parking lot.

  I turned again, with a vulnerable itchy feeling in the small of my back.

  I needn’t have worried. Mimi had the machete-waver faced down.

  Cowboy hadn't moved. The barrel of his hand-cannon pointed at Turk and company like the finger of an avenging angel. They didn’t move either.

  I butt-bumped Fran into the center of the Chevy’s bench seat and eased the pickup forward toward Mimi. The biker with the machete stood twenty feet away with his hands at his sides. He stared at Mimi and swore mechanically. “Fucking midget cunt,” he said.

  That was a cheap shot; Mimi wasn’t that short.

  I covered Mimi while she scrambled into the back of the truck.

  The biker ignored my .45. He glared at me. “You wasted Frog,” he said. “You’re next.” He turned and slowly walked away.

  “Kill him,” Cowboy said, without turning his head. The biker kept walking.

  “No,” I said, “we got the girl out. Let’s go. Ready?”

  “Making a mistake,” said Cowboy. “Ready.”

  “Go,” Mimi called from the back.

  I put the Chevy in gear and we left.

  Three blocks away, Fran began to cry. I patted her leg and made “there, there” noises.

  Cowboy sniffed. “Pretty dull. You and Mimi had all the fun.”

  “Hell, you made five hundred bucks. That’s not bad for thirty minutes’ work.”

  “True,” he said. “Lot of travel time, though. Especially for something this boring.”

  Mimi banged on the roof of the cab and shouted. I slowed down to hear her. “Biker coming up,” she said.

  It was Machete again, on a cut-down Harley. He pulled alongside and took a swipe at Mimi. The long blade screeched like fingernails on a blackboard as it scraped on the edge of the pickup bed. Then it clanged against the side of the cab.

  “You stupid man,” Mimi said two feet behind my head. Her Browning boomed. Machete and the bike went down in a low slow slide into a light pole.

  I got the pickup stopped halfway down the block and backed up. We all got out and stood under the street light around the wounded biker.

  Machete was draped face down over his Harley. It looked like someone had smeared red paint over a slimy gray hose, dropped the mess on the bike, then put him on top of it all.

  “Gut-shot,” Cowboy said. “Mimi shoots a little low sometimes.”

  “Sorry,” said Mimi contritely.

  Machete moaned and gargled and tried to move when I searched him. I found a greasy wallet in his hip pocket.

  Machete was William B. Becker. “Hey, Bad Bill,” I said, “you feeling baaad tonight?”

  “Goddam midget cunt shot me.” He coughed wetly. He twisted his head and looked up at me. His beard was shiny where blood flowed from the corner of his mouth.

  “You,” he croaked. “You offed Frog. Said I’d get you.”

  “Told you to kill him back there,” Cowboy said. “Some people never listen to the hired help.”

  “Shut up,” I said. “Bad Bill, tell me about your buddy Frog. He the same Frog from when you had the blonde college girl?”

  Becker coughed blood onto his bike. “Man, Frog sure did like to jump that mama,” he said dreamily. “Prime pussy, fer sure.”

  “You’ve been shot in the stomach with a twelve-gauge, Bill. You’re going to die. You know that, don’t you?”

  Becker gargled something that sounded like yes.

  “Does it hurt?” I said.

  “Yeah,” he gasped. “It’s bad, man. Real bad.”

  “Well,” I said, “I sure as hell am happy about that.”

  Chapter 15

  I drove the pickup to the shopping centre where I had left the Mustang. Fran and I got out. She stood silently while I unlocked the car. She let me hand her into the passenger seat, tucked her straw bag beside her feet, and stared straight ahead at the dark storefronts. I closed the door. Fran locked it.

  Mimi swaggered over and slapped me on the butt. “Good to see you, Rafferty,” she said. “Been too long. I almost forgot how big you are, you old poop.” She held her cheek up to be kissed. She stood on her tiptoes, so I didn’t have to bend over any farther than at the average drinking fountain.

  “Come on, Mimi. We got to go,” Cowboy called from behind the wheel of the pickup. “So long, Rafferty. Let us know, you need any more help.” He pronounced it hep.

  “Midnight Lady’s about to foal,” said Mimi in a low voice."‘You know how he is about the horses. Bye now.” She climbed into the pickup cab and waved as they pulled away.

  I lit my pipe while the Mustang wheezed and rattled and decided to keep running. Fran sat quietly. I tucked the .45 between my seat and the console. That seemed too melodramatic, so I put it in the glove compartment.

  Fran moved her knees out of the way and turned her head to face the window on her side.

  Ten blocks later, she was still studiously examining the blurred curb.

  “Why, hell, lady, it wasn’t anything at all,” I said. “There’s no need for you to thank me and carry on like that.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “Before you came along, I had a job. It wasn’t much, but I had a job. And a nice apartment. And people weren’t trying to kill me.”

  “When you live in a sewer, Fran, sooner or later you get shit on your shoes. Maybe not at first, but eventually.”

  “Oh, great! Now it’s all my fault, eh?”

  “No. Not entirely,” I said. “But don’t forget, I didn’t cause this mess. I’m only the guy trying to clean it up. Or should we let Turk and his pals find themselves another blonde?”

  “No. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Yeah, we could do that,” I said. “Maybe next time, they’ll buy a nun or a kindergarten teacher. You know, somebody who really deserves it.”

  “Stop it! You’re twisting things.”

  “The hell I am. You better face up to it, kid. It’s time to pay your dues. If you had started earlier, you might be finished by now. You didn’t. Okay. You’re working on it, though, and that’s good. And you’re lucky. You have me on your side and I think you’re going to make it.”

  “If I stay alive long enough.”

  “Trust me.”

  “What’s with you?” she said. “I mean; Christ, I thought bikers were mean, but … Except you don’t come on mean.”

  “Just a country boy trying to get along.”

  She sighed. “You’re not a country boy.”

  “True. But they say that out in the boonies and I kinda like the sound of it.”

  “Those people were country, weren’t they?”

  “Cowboy and Mimi? Yeah, they’re country. Nice couple,” I said.

  “He reminds me of somebody,” Fran said. “From an old cowboy movie, I think.”

  “James Coburn,” I said. “The Magnificent Seven. Coburn said about twenty words in the whole movie.”

  “Are they brother and sister or what?”

  “Married. She’s a lot younger, though.”

  She recognized something a few blocks from her apartment and realized where we were. “Hey, I thought you sai—”

  “Take it easy. I wouldn’t leave you here. Pack some clothes. Enough for three or four days.”

  I waited outside, sitting on the steps with the Colt in my hand. The gun smelled from when I had killed Frog. I wonder
ed whether I really needed it, but I wasn’t brave enough to leave it in the car.

  John Wayne would have thrown the .45 away and taken on the bad guys with his bare fists. Take that, pilgrim. And where’s the horse I’m supposed to kiss?

  Such day-dreaming was pure hoke. Turk and his pals weren’t likely to get organized so quickly.

  Still, no one ever got hurt by being prepared for the worst. So, I sat on the hard steps and cradled the gun in my hands and looked at the stars.

  Fran was fast. Inside ten minutes, she dropped a cardboard box of clothes on the landing, went back in and returned with a shopping bag, and a worn canvas hold-all. “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t have a suitcase.” She left her canary on Jamisons’ porch.

  We loaded her gear into the Mustang and left. She sat sideways on the seat and watched me drive. I took the Jefferson Boulevard Viaduct to Market, then turned right on Commerce. It was dark and quiet at the bottom of the concrete canyons. Peaceful.

  “Where are we going?” she asked eventually.

  “You’ll see.”

  Her voice tightened. “I get it. The big man wants his reward. I get dragged back to your cave and you jump on my bones for a day or two, right?”

  “No,” I said. “Your relatives might hire some bad-ass to hunt me down later. Who knows where it could end?”

  Hilda smiled sweetly at Fran. “Would you excuse us a moment? Rafferty, may I speak with you in the kitchen?”

  Hilda crashed around, filling the pot, throwing coffee into the basket. She plugged it in and leaned against the counter with her arms folded. “Now! What’s the idea dragging her in here in the middle of the night?”

  “Hil, babe, a lot has happened you don’t know about. I couldn’t dump her anywhere at this hour. And I feel like a bum because I couldn’t get here any sooner. Now will you please come out into the living room and let me tell you about it? After that, if you insist, we’ll toss her out on her ear. Promise.”

  “Rafferty … You don’t understand. I was feeling sexy and tender, waiting for you. I fell asleep thinking you’d wake me up and … And look at the place! It’s a mess. You shouldn’t have brought a woman around now.”