Blue World (23 page)

“You just don’t want to go to the cops because you’re afraid they’ll pitch you into the nuthouse,” Gracie said, and the way the Green Falcon settled back against the seat told her she’d hit the target. She was silent for a moment, watching him. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said, because he knew it was. “I…” He hesitated, but they were listening and he decided to tell it as it had been, a long time ago. “I’ve spent some time in a sanatarium. Not recently. Back in the early fifties. I had a nervous breakdown. It… wasn’t a nice place.”

“You used to be somebody, for real?” Ques inquired.

“The Green Falcon. I starred in serials.” The kid’s face showed no recognition. “They used to show them on Saturday afternoons,” Cray went on. “Chapter by chapter. Well, I guess both of you are too young to remember.” He clasped his hands together in his lap, his back bowed. “Yes, I used to be somebody. For real.”

“So how come you went off your rocker?” Gracie asked. “If you were a star and all, I mean?”

He sighed softly. “When I was a young man I thought the whole world was one big Indiana. That’s where I’m from. Some talent scouts came through my town one day, and somebody told them about me. Big athlete, they said. Won all the medals you can think of. Outstanding young American and all that.” His mouth twitched into a bitter smile. “Corny, but I guess it was true. Heck, the world was pretty corny back then. But it wasn’t such a bad place. Anyway, I came to Hollywood and I started doing the serials. I had a little talent. But I saw things…” He shook his head. “Things they didn’t even know about in Indiana. It seemed as if I was on another world, and I was never going to find my way back home. And everything happened so fast… it just got away from me, I guess. I was a star--whatever that means--and I was working hard and making money, but… Cray Boomershine was dying. I could feel him dying, a little bit more every day. And I wanted to bring him back, but he was just an Indiana kid and I was a Hollywood star. The Green Falcon, I mean. Me. Cray Flint. Does that make any sense to you?”

“Not a bit,” Gracie said. “Hell, everybody wants to be a star! What was wrong with you?”

His fingers twined together, and the old knuckles worked. “They wanted me to do a public-relations tour. I said I would. So they sent me all across the country… dressed up like this. And the children came out to see me, and they touched my cape and they asked for my autograph and they said they wanted to grow up just like me. Those faces… they gave off such an innocent light.” He was silent, thinking, and he drew a deep breath and continued because he could not turn back. “It was in Watertown, South Dakota. April 26, 1951. I went onstage at the Watertown

Palace theater, right after they showed the tenth and final chapter of

Night Calls the Green Falcon.

That place was packed with kids, and all of them were laughing and happy.“ He closed his eyes, his hands gripped tightly together. ”There was a fire. It started in a storeroom in the basement.“ He smelled acrid smoke, felt the heat of flames on his face. ”It spread so fast.

And some of the kids… some of them even thought it was part of the show. Oh, God… oh, my God… the walls were on fire, and children were being crushed as they tried to get out… and I heard them screaming! ‘Green Falcon! Green Falcon!’“ His eyes opened, stared without seeing. ”But the Green Falcon couldn’t save them, and fourteen children died in that fire. He couldn’t save them. Couldn’t.“ He looked at Ques, then to Gracie, and back again, and his eyes were wet and sunken in the mask’s slits. ”When I came out of the sanatarium, the studio let me keep the costume. For a job well done, they said. But there weren’t going to be any more Green Falcon serials. Anyway, everybody was watching television, and that was that.“

Neither Ques nor Gracie spoke for a moment. Then Gracie said, “We’re going to take you home. Where do you live?”

“Please.” He put his hand over hers. “I can find the Fliptop Killer. I know I can.”

“You can’t.

Give it up.“

“What would it hurt?” Ques asked her. “Just to drive to that motel, I mean. Maybe he’s right.” He held up his hand before she could object.

“Maybe.

We could drive there and you could ask around, and then we’ll take him home. How about it?“

“It’s crazy,” she said. “And

I’m crazy.“ But then she pulled her leg back in and shut the door. ”Let’s try it.“

The Palmetto Motel was a broken-down stucco dump between Normandie and Mariposa, on the cheap end of Hollywood Boulevard. Ques pulled the cab into the trash-strewn parking lot, and he spoke his first impression: “Place is a crack gallery, folks.” He saw shadowy faces peering through the blinds of second-floor windows, and blue fire-light played across a wall. “Bullet holes in a door over there.” He motioned toward it. “From here on we watch our asses.” He stopped the cab next to a door marked office and cut the engine.

“It’s sure enough gone to hell since I worked here,” Gracie said. “Nothing like addicts to junk a place up.” Not far away stood the hulk of a car that looked as if it had been recently set afire. “Well, let’s see what we can see.” She got out, and so did the Green Falcon. Ques stayed behind the wheel, and when Gracie motioned him to come on, he said nervously, “I’ll give you moral support.”

“Thanks, jerkoff. Hey, hold on!” she said, because the Green Falcon was already striding toward the office door. He grasped the knob, turned it, and the door opened with a jingle of little bells. He stepped into a room where lights from the boulevard cut through slanted blinds, and the air was thick with the mingled odors of marijuana, a dirty carpet, and… What else was it?

Spoiled meat, he realized.

And that was when something stood up from a corner and bared its teeth.

The Green Falcon stopped. He was looking at a stocky black-and-white pit bull, its eyes bright with the prospect of violence.

“Oh, shit,” Gracie whispered.

Soundlessly the pit bull leapt at the Green Falcon, its jaws opened for a bone-crushing bite.

The Watchman

The Green Falcon stepped back, colliding with Gracie. The pit bull’s body came flying toward him, reached the end of its chain, and its teeth clacked together where a vital member of the Green Falcon’s anatomy had been a second before. Then the dog was yanked back to the wall, but it immediately regained its balance and lunged again. The Green Falcon stood in front of Gracie, picked up a chair to ward the beast off, but again the chain stopped the pit bull short of contact. As the animal thrashed against its collar, a figure rose up from behind the counter and pulled back the trigger on a double-barreled shotgun.

“Put it down,” the man told the Green Falcon. He motioned with the shotgun. “Do it or I swear to God I’ll blow your head off.” The man’s voice was high and nervous, and the Green Falcon slowly put the chair down. The pit bull was battling with its chain, trying to slide its head out of the collar. “Ain’t nobody gonna rob me again,” the man behind the counter vowed. Sweat glistened on his gaunt face. “You punks gonna learn some respect, you hear me?”

“Lester?” Gracie said. The man’s frightened eyes ticked toward her. “Lester Dent? It’s me.” She took a careful step forward, where the light could show him who she was. “Sabra Jones.” The Green Falcon stared at her. She said, “You remember me, don’t you, Lester?”

“Sabra? That really you?” The man blinked, reached into a drawer, and brought out a pair of round-lensed spectacles. He put them on, and the tension on his face immediately eased. “Sabra! Well, why didn’t you say so?” He uncocked the shotgun and said, “Down, Bucky!” to the pit bull. The animal stopped its thrashing, but it still regarded the Green Falcon with hungry eyes.

“This is a friend of mine, Lester. The Green Falcon.” She said it with all seriousness.

“Hi.” Lester lowered the shotgun and leaned it behind the counter. “Sorry I’m a little jumpy. Things have changed around here since you left. Lot of freaks in the neighborhood, and you can’t be too careful.”

“I guess not.” Gracie glanced at a couple of bullet holes in the wall. Flies were buzzing around the scraps of hamburger in Bucky’s feed bowl. “Used to be a decent joint. How come you’re still hanging around here?”

Lester shrugged. He was a small man, weighed maybe a hundred and thirty pounds, and he wore a Captain America T-shirt. “I crave excitement. What can I say?” He looked her up and down with true appreciation. “Life’s being pretty good to you, huh?”

“I can’t complain. Much. Lester, my friend and I are looking for somebody who used to hang around here.” She described the man. “I remember he used to like Dolly Winslow. Do you know the guy I mean?”

“I think I do, but I’m not sure. I’ve seen a lot of ‘em.”

“Yeah, I know, but this is important. Do you have any idea what the guy’s name might have been, or have you seen him around here lately?”

“No, I haven’t seen him for a while, but I know what his name was.” He grinned, gap-toothed. “John Smith. That’s what all their names were.” He glanced at the Green Falcon. “Can you breathe inside that thing?”

“The man we’re looking for is the Fliptop Killer,” the Green Falcon said, and Lester’s grin cracked. “Do you know where we can find Dolly Winslow?”

“She went to Vegas,” Gracie told him. “Changed her name, the last I heard. No telling where she is now.”

“You’re lookin‘ for the Fliptop Killer?” Lester asked. “You a cop or somethin’?”

“No. I’ve got… a personal interest.”

Lester drummed his fingers on the scarred countertop and thought for a moment. “The Fliptop, huh? Guy’s a mean one. I wouldn’t want to cross his path, no sir.”

“Anybody still around who used to hang out here?” Gracie asked. “Like Jellyroll? Or that weird guy who played the flute?”

“That weird guy who played the flute just signed a million-dollar contract at Capitol Records,” Lester said. “We should all be so weird. Jellyroll’s living uptown somewhere. Pearly’s got a boutique on the Strip, makin‘ money hand over fist. Bobby just drifted away.” He shook his head. “We had us a regular club here, didn’t we?”

“So everybody’s cleared out?”

“Well… not everybody. There’s me, and the Watch-man.

“The Watchman?” The Green Falcon came forward, and the pit bull glowered at him but didn’t attack. “Who’s that?”

“Crazy old guy, lives down in the basement,” Lester said. “Been here since the place was new. You won’t get anything out of him, though.”

“Why not?”

“The Watchman doesn’t speak. Never has, as far as I know. He goes out and walks, day and night, but he won’t tell you where he’s been. You remember him, don’t you, Sabra?”

“Yeah. Dolly told me she saw him walking over on the beach at Santa Monica one day, and Bobby saw him in downtown L.A. All he does is walk.”

“Can he speak?” the Green Falcon asked.

“No telling,” Lester said. “Whenever I’ve tried talkin‘ to him, he just sits like a wall.”

“So why do you call him the Watchman?”

“You know the way, Sabra.” Lester motioned toward the door. “Why don’t you show him?”

“You don’t want to see the Watchman,” she said. “Forget it. He’s out of his mind. Like me for getting into this. See you around, Lester.” She started out, and Lester said, “Don’t be such a stranger.”

Outside, Gracie continued walking to the cab. The Green Falcon caught up with her. “I’d like to see the Watchman. What would it hurt?”

“It would waste my time and yours. Besides, he’s probably not even here. Like I said, he walks all the time.” She reached the cab, where Ques was waiting nervously behind the wheel.

“Let’s go,” Ques said. “Cars have been going in and out Looks like a major deal’s about to go down.”

“Hold it.” The Green Falcon placed his hand against the door before she could open it. “If the Watchman’s been here so long, he might know something about the man we’re looking for. It’s worth asking, isn’t it?”

“No. He doesn’t speak to anybody.

Nobody knows where he came from, or who he is, and he likes it that way.“ She glanced around, saw several figures standing in a second-floor doorway. Others were walking across the lot toward a black Mercedes. ”I don’t like the smell around here. The faster we get out, the better.“

The Green Falcon stepped back and let her get into the cab. But he didn’t go around to the other door. “I’m going to talk to the Watchman,” he said. “How do I get to the basement?”

She paused, her eyelids at half-mast. “You’re a stubborn fool, aren’t you? There’s the way down.” She pointed at a door near the office. “You go through there, you’re on your own.”

“We shouldn’t leave him here,” Ques said. “We ought to stay--”

“Shut up, cueball. Lot of bad dudes around here, and I’m not getting shot for anybody.” She smiled grimly. “Not even the Green Falcon. Good luck.”

“Thanks for your help. I hope you--”

“Can it,” she interrupted. “Move out, Ques.”

He said, “Sorry,” to the Green Falcon, put the cab into reverse, and backed out of the lot. Turned left across the boulevard and headed west.

And the Green Falcon stood alone.

He waited, hoping they’d come back. They didn’t. Finally he turned and walked to the door that led to the Palmetto Motel’s basement, and he reached for the knob.

But somebody came out of another room before he could open the door, and the Green Falcon saw the flash of metal.

“Hey, amigo,”

the man said, and flame shot from the barrel of the small pistol he’d just drawn.

Yours Truly

The Hispanic man lit his cigarette with the flame, then put the pistol-shaped lighter back into his pocket. “What kinda party you dressed up fir?”

The Green Falcon didn’t answer. His nerves were still jangling, and he wasn’t sure he could speak even if he tried.

“You lookin‘ for a score or not?” the man persisted.

“I’m… looking for the Watchman,” he managed to say.

“Oh. Yeah, I should’ve figured you were. Didn’t know the old creep had any friends.”

Somebody called out, “Paco! Get your ass over here now!”

The man sneered. “When I’m ready!” and then he sauntered toward the group of others who stood around the Mercedes.