Eats to Die For! (25 page)

Peripherally I could see Louie pushing the wheelchair containing Palmer Hanley past the other side of the truck.

“All the stages are that way,” growled the driver growled, a burly, Teamstery looking guy with sunglasses and a ball cap, and arms of such size and thickness that I hoped I wasn't making him too angry.

“That way?” I pointed aimlessly.

“
That
way!” he shouted.

I was already sprinting away when I shouted, “Okay, thanks!”

As soon as I saw him face forward again in the truck cab, I darted around behind and grabbed onto the wooden-slat gate over the end of the bed and held on as the driver threw the truck into gear again. I was praying that Louie had been able to get over the gate and had managed to get Hanley in, when I noticed their faces peeking out from between the potted trees.

I had to wait until the driver had stopped at the gate before I was able to completely pull myself up and over, and join them.

“I had to pick him up out of the wheelchair and lift him over the tailgate,” Louie whispered. “It's a good thing I work out.”

Yeah, great
, my nose said.

Moments later the truck was cleared to leave and we were out of the studio. As we bumped down Santa Monica Boulevard Louie asked: “Now what? Where do you think we are going?”

“I don't know,” I replied, “but as soon as it's convenient, we'll get out.”

That convenience came about three minutes later when the truck stopped at an intersection that I knew from experience had very long lights.

Rushing to the back, I leapt over the gate, careful not to land on the car that was stopped directly behind us.

“Hi,” I said, smiling and waving to that car's driver. Louie brought Palmer Hanley to the back and between the two of us we lifted him up, down and out, after which Louie easily vaulted over the gate.

Weaving our way through the stopped cars, and carrying Palmer between us, we got to the sidewalk a full minute before the light changed and the greens truck drove off to its destination, wherever that was, its driver completely oblivious that he had facilitated the escape of three wanted fugitives from a cult.

“Whoo-ee!” Palmer Hanley exclaimed, looking exhausted, but also beaming. “That's the most action I've had in three decades. But I need to rest before the next lap. Can we find a place where I can get something to drink?”

“You mean a bar?” I asked.

“Just water. Or maybe some coffee.”

With Louie on one side of him and me on the other, we managed to get him to a fifties-style diner that was a half-block up the street.

Seated at a table away from a window, just in case, we looked over the menus, while Palmer Hanley drained the glass of ice water the waitress had brought for him.

“That's better,” he sighed. “When you get to be my age, a little bit of excitement goes a long way.”

“Leaping in and out of a truck isn't exactly commonplace for me, either,” I told him.

The waitress returned and took an order for coffee and a piece of strawberry pie from Hanley, an ice tea from me, and a kind of
cerveza
called Victoria from Louie.

“I've earned it,” she said.

Surreptitiously inspecting the wad of cash I had lifted from the unconscious lab technician back at the studio, I was gratified to see that I could afford anything on the menu.

The Temple must pay their drug cookers well. I had even stopped worrying about getting in trouble over the theft, having realized that the victims' statements to the police would be,
Yes, officer, I was minding my own business at the meth lab like usual when these three broke in…

After our drinks and Palmer Hanley's pie arrived Louie took a long swig of her beer and said, “I have to hand it to you, Dave, we're out. So what's next?”

“I'd say we get word to someone to come and get us. We need to get hold of a phone, since ours are still back in the studio-prison, along with our ID.”

“Who would you call?”

“Detective Dane Colfax in robbery-homicide.”

“Why him?”

“Because I trust him.”

Sure, Colfax tended to play things a bit aloof, to the point where it was hard to imagine him in any kind of personal relationship, but I did trust him.

“I'm not as trusting when it comes to the police,” Louie said, looking behind us. “But I think I've solved the phone problem.”

Sliding out from the booth and taking off her lab coat, which she deposited on the seat, she straightened the shirt of the Temple uniform and headed straight for a young Chicano busboy.

Walking to him she started talking in Spanish, which I did not understand, but there was no mistaking her body language. It read,
I'm in trouble and I need your help, please oh please oh please oh pleeeease
!

Now grinning broadly, the busboy pulled his cell phone from his pocket and handed it over to her. Louie smiled back, making me suddenly wonder what the Spanish word for “dimples” was, and kissed him on his cheek, which made the kid blush.

Then she ran back to our booth.

“You're shameless,” I told her.

“Hey, you do what you have to do to get the story,” she said, punching a number into the phone.

After a second, she said, “I need to talk to Z, it's Louie Sandoval.”

It appeared to take no time at all for Zareh Zarian to come on the line.

“Z! Yeah, it's me. I'm fine. Safe. Dave Beauchamp is here with me and you're not going to believe who else. I'm not going to tell you until I'm guaranteed a cover.”

I could hear yelling coming from the other end of the line, and saw Louie smile triumphantly.

“I've got the story of the decade,” she went on, “maybe the quarter-century. But right now we have to get to you, and we have no means of doing so. You have to come get us. We're in a diner on Santa Monica Boulevard. No, I don't know the address.”

Holding the phone away, she asked: “What's the address here?”

Getting up and trotting to the front window, I peered out and took note of the cross-street. Coming back, I said, “Corner of Santa Monica and Ogden Drive.”

She repeated that into the phone, then repeated: “Yes, we're fine. I told you.”

“Can I talk to him?” I asked, and Louie handed the cell phone over.

“Hi, Zarian? This is Beauchamp. Everything Louie told you is true. This really is the story of the quarter-century. But we're kind of in trouble, too, so if you could call Detective Dane Colfax at the LAPD, he's in the robbery-homicide division, and a good guy. Just let him know that I need to talk to him as soon as I can. No, I don't have his number, but his office is downtown at Parker Center. Yeah. Okay, thanks.”

I held the phone out to Louie but Palmer Hanley said, “Wait, if he's rescuing us, I want to talk to him, too.”

After exchanging glances and shrugs with Louie, I gave him the phone. “Hurry up, I don't have unlimited time!” the old man said, and then handed the phone over.

“Who was that? It's a long story,” Louie told her editor. “See you soon.”

She cut off the call slid out of the booth again, returning it to her new friend.

When she came back, I asked: “How long will it take for Zarian to get here?”

“It's in his best interest to get here as soon as possible,” she replied.

“As long as we're stuck here waiting,” Hanley said, “how about ordering me another slice of pie?”

I wouldn't have believed it, but the former actor turned phony religious guru was on his third piece of strawberry pie when Zareh Zarian walked into the diner.

Making a bee-line for our table, he lifted Louie out of her seat and bear-hugged her. “Goddamn, girl, you don't know how worried I was about you!” he said.

“Z, how many times do I have to tell you that I can take care of myself.”

I helped a
little
, don't you think
? a voice said inside my head, and it was
my
voice, but I decided to leave it where it was.

“Hi, Beauchamp,” Zarian said when he was through groping Louie. “What the hell happened to your face?”

“Like Louie said, she can take care of herself.”

“Christ, you hit him? What'd he do to you?”

“We had to stage a little pretense for our captors, and it had to look convincing,” she replied.

“It's going to keep looking convincing for about a week. Does it hurt, Beauchamp?”

“Oh, only when I breathe,” I said.

“But look who else we brought with us,” Louie went on, ignoring my battered nose and instead turning Zarian's attention to the other person seated in the booth.

The editor's face betrayed confusion for a few seconds, then the fog lifted.

“Holy shit, Sandoval,” he said, “are you telling me this is—”

“Palmer Hanley,” the old man said, spraying pie crust crumbs across the table.

“I don't believe it.”

“They were so desperate to get my research information,” she went on, “but look what I took from them. This is better than any reporter's notes.”

“But you still have the notes, right?” Zarian asked.

“Safely hidden.”

“As we need to be,” I broke in. “When we were guests of the Temple they emptied our pockets. Wallets, IDs, cell phones, keys, everything was taken from us. Even if I can get back to my apartment or office, I have no way of getting in, not that it matters, most likely, since I'm sure both are being watched by members of the Temple. The same probably goes for Louie's place.”

Across the table, Louie suddenly tensed. “They're here, too,” she said, nodding toward the front of the diner. “They've found us.”

Cheating a look back, I saw two strapping men in the quasi-military uniforms of the Temple guard standing in the doorway and looking around. “I don't think they've spotted us yet, but it's only a matter of time.”

“Is there a back way out of here?” Zarian asked quietly.

“There must be,” Louie said.

“Then you three go find it and get out. I'll pay the bill and meet you outside, somewhere. I'll cover your exit. Go.”

It'll never work
, a voice said in my head, and I didn't even care who it was. That line had been spoken in so many movies by so many actors and actresses that it hardly mattered. What mattered was that I fully agreed with the speaker, this plan was doomed to failure.

Unfortunately, I didn't have a better idea at present. As Zareh Zarian stood up, keeping his back to the door of the restaurant, Louie and I slid out from the table, pulling Palmer Hanley with us, and crouched our way to the restrooms.

“I wasn't finished,” the old man protested, but we ignored him. If we didn't get out of here, we'd all be finished.

“There,” Louie said, pointing to the emergency exit at the end hallway in which the bathrooms were located. “Let's hope it's not alarmed.”

“Even if it is, that's too bad,” I said, rushing to the door and pushing it open. No sirens or bells when off, so we ran outside into the parking lot.

“What do we do now?” Louie asked.

“Wait for Zarian, I guess, and hope nobody from the Temple shows up.”

“Bastards,” Hanley muttered. “All of 'em.”

For some reason that made me laugh, a reaction I attempted unsuccessfully to stifle.

“Don't get hysterical on me, Dave,” Louie cautioned.

“I'm not hysterical, it's just that. All of a sudden this seems kind of funny.”

I was still chuckling when I saw Louie tense again.

“Uniform coming up behind you,” she whispered.

Then I heard a voice at my back say: “Okay, let's go.”

I stopped laughing then, and concentrated my efforts on trying not to wet myself.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Slowly I turned around, and when I saw the short Hispanic man in the parking attendant's uniform, which in Louie's defense did resemble a Temple of Theotologic's guard uniform fairly closely, my legs nearly buckled.

“Come on, buddy, let's go, I've got other customers waiting,” he said. “Give me your ticket and I'll give you your keys.”

“I don't have a ticket,” I exhaled. “We're not parked here.”

“Just here for the scenery, huh?”

“No, my…uh…father suddenly felt ill, so we came out here for some air.”

“Who's father?” Palmer Hanley said.

I silently mouthed
senile
to the attendant, whose demeanor suddenly changed to one of concern. “Is he okay? You need me to call an ambulance?”

“No, but if there's somewhere to sit down…”

“Yeah, sure, come to the booth.”

As I half-dragged the still-oblivious Palmer Hanley to the guard booth, which had two chairs inside, another customer came up waiving his ticket at the guard.

“Hold on,” the guy said, “this is an emergency.” Ushering us in, he said, “He can sit there. I'll be back.”

After the guard had gone to deal with his impatient customer, Hanley asked, “What's going on, anyway?”

“We're hiding,” I told him.

He looked around at the well-lighted, windowed guard booth.

“Not too well, we're not.”

He had me there.

Then I heard a car horn and through the window of the booth spotted a beat-up looking minivan on the street, with Louie Sandoval hanging out of the window, beckoning us.

Grabbing the old man up again, I dashed toward the vehicle as the guard called out behind us. I ignored him. Practically throwing Hanley inside the minivan, I jumped in after him and Zareh Zarian peeled away from the curb and onto the street.

“You know, Dave Beauchamp,” Hanley said, “being chucked around like a sack of potatoes is getting a little old. How come I couldn't keep that wheelchair? I kinda liked traveling that way.”