Last Shot (2006) (7 page)

Tim's eyes found the address beneath Ronald McDonald's grinning face an instant before Bernadette propelled him out through the door.

Chapter
10

The rusting horizontal slats groaned their displeasure as the metal door slid up, Walker's long shadow darkening a swath of the broad, garagelike interior. A generous space for a self-storage. He'd set up shop here at Parson Bros Stor-Yor-Self under a false name, paying the full term in cash so he could give all his tools and trinkets a home before reporting to serve his five years. The subdivided cinder-block depot sat on a throw of worthless real estate in the southern reaches of Antelope Valley. After what he'd come through, the barbed wire had been a breeze. No nighttime guard, no security cameras, nothing to distract the Parson boys from their apparent policy of considered inattentiveness.

Around the edges of Walker's unit, crates and cartons rose in the dimness. And among them, in smaller cases or folded in oilcloth, hid some of his favorite collectibles, items he'd picked up over the years at shows or smuggled back hidden in pallets sealed by diplomatic immunity. An antique musket. Flintlock dueling pistols. A stainless ten-gauge double-barreled shotgun pistol with teak handles he'd salvaged from the conning tower of a sunken U-boat. Electrical cords snaked underfoot, terminating in power strips. In the middle a patch of concrete floor remained bare, flanked by high benches.

His workshop.

He unzipped the outer pocket of a black duffel and tugged out a camo Mag-Lite. Just where he'd left it. He slid in two new C cells, gave the head a twist, and a beam hit the far wall. He jerked the combination lock from its dangle and yanked the door shut.

Walker had requisitioned a Toyota--an older model favorable to hotwiring--thoughtfully left at a gas station a jog from the San Pedro dump. A steady sixty up the 405, and he left the Camry in long-term parking near LAX. He'd picked up a newish red Accord, one of thousands in the city, from a metered spot on the street. A back window had been left down far enough for him to unlock the door, and then he'd popped the trunk and removed the tire-change kit. The ignition keyhole snapped off under pressure from the jackhandle, and then he'd jammed the flathead into the gap and twisted. Once the engine turned over, he'd made sure the pry bar had fooled the ignition system sufficiently to give him full range of the wheel, and then he'd made the drive north to the auto dealers around where Oxnard Boulevard meets Van Nuys. While the lingering salesman busied himself hawking minivans to an exasperated mother in the glow of the sole surviving overhead, Walker had removed two dealer tags from the outermost car on the lot. After dropping the old license plates down a storm drain and affixing the pleasingly blank new ones, he'd made the drive north to the 5 and hit the 14.

Aided now by the flashlight in the dark cave of his storage, he picked his way over a few cardboard boxes filled with military books and sat on the cowhide swivel stool before the U of the workbenches. He lit a hurricane lamp and the gas ministove beside it. The newfound light made visible the oilcloth bundle centered on the front bench. He slipped his hand into the stiff fabric, feeling the perfect fit of his weapon even before it emerged into view.

A Ruger Redhawk. Stainless steel. Double action. A classic six-shot, more compact and holster-friendly than its newer competitor, the Super Redhawk. A large-thread four-inch barrel increased the wall thickness where it entered the frame. Beefed-up support around the cylinder kept the specs tight even after heavy use. Not a gun lover's gun. A gun for someone who respects guns.

Even inside the drawer, his safety glasses had collected a film of dust, which he blew off before seating them on his face. He removed his necklace and let his pendant cross slide down the black cord and fall into a ceramic crucible, which he set on the gas stove. He adjusted the flame down to pure blue. Though the titanium didn't need to be alloyed, he added lead for mass and tin for castability and waited the requisite twenty minutes as the metal liquefied, becoming ready to flux. Tallow, beeswax, lubricant--he found the tiny jars with recovered instinct. He worked quickly, meticulously, and with the hands of a seasoned card dealer. The bullets that fell from the parted mold blocks were perfect sextuplets.

He repeated the process twice, then lined up the bullets on the workbench. He shot rarely and with precision and imagined that a Redhawk wheel charged with titanium bullets would serve his purpose, but it never hurt having a few spare speedloaders on hand. He filed the bullet edges and lubricated the grooves to prevent barrel leading, all the while picturing the ragged slugs of his melted cross shredding through the soft fiber of a heart.

Or several.

Prepping the cases took about a half hour and required the same exactness. He tumbled, resized, trimmed, and chamfered them. A hand's natural oil could deactivate the tiny primers, so he used tweezers and a swing-mount magnifying glass for the insertions. Next came charging the cases--his favorite part of the process. Dispensing measured allotments of powder from the hopper. The folding balance scale. The tiny aluminum funnel.

And last, cycling the press handle, firm against his palm as the rising ram seated a bullet into the perfect fit of the case mouth. It was a great deal of craft and a bit of art as well. Calming and fulfilling. All focus, devoid of thought and emotion.

He stood in the center of the clear space and stripped. When the door rolled back up, the cold bit at him. A handleless spigot by the building's corner, when cranked with his pliers, gave a steady gush. Squatting, he shoveled icy water up to his face, through his hair, under his arms. He returned to his storage space and changed into the least conspicuous clothes he found. An army-green T-shirt, tan cargo pants, white socks, black jungle boots.

He loaded his six dedicated bullets into his long-waiting Redhawk, relocked his unit, and headed into the night.

Chapter
11

Even at 12:21 A.M., cars lurched past the drive-through window. The manager, affable Ken Wade, had proved helpful to the point of oppression. He'd seated Tim and Bear at his prize corner booth, all the while peppering them nervously with details of his store's operation. To Tim's irritation, Bear encouraged the fast-food trivia, urging Ken to expound on everything from the introduction of the rib sandwich--"McRib, actually, and it was 1981"--to the proportion of treats to ice cream in a well-crafted McFlurry. Ken even offered them their choice from the menu, a proposal that paralyzed Bear with indecision between professionalism and carnal desire.

Ken had jumped ship after a three-year stint as a quality evaluator for KFC, a position of numerous considerations, Tim and Bear quickly learned, all of which led back to the acronym CHAMPS.

"Cleanliness, hospitality, accuracy, maintenance, product, and..." Ken's face reddened. "Product and..." His hands neatened the front napkin in the tabletop dispenser. "Maintenance, product, and..."

"Safety?" Bear offered.

"No." Ken dabbed at his neck with a handkerchief. "It's not safety."

"Sanitation?"

"No. That's certainly an industry value, but not one that's part of CHAMPS."

Tim again braved the magnetic field between Ken's pride and Bear's fascination, finally managing to steer the topic back to Freddy Campbell.

"He didn't show for work again yesterday or today," Ken said. "And we're busy Sunday evenings, as you can see." He wrinkled his nose prudishly. "We get the late-night crowd spillover."

"Maybe serenity?" Bear volunteered.

Tim shot an elbow into Bear's McRibs, not wanting to break his own line of inquiry. "You've had problems with his employment?"

"McDonald's Corporation is extremely active in supporting the community," Ken said, as if reading from a brochure. "We do our best to help parolees reenter society, but we need some help and accountability as well, you know?"

"Sure," Tim said, nodding him along.

"I've certainly broached the topic with Freddy on numerous occasions. Customers mistake him for a homeless guy. I mean, you have to give back, but I also got a business to run, you know?"

Tim knew.

"He did this two weeks ago, too. A no-show Saturday and Sunday. Cutting out at four forty-five Friday afternoon, leaving the rest of his team to cover those last fifteen minutes. He claimed to have gotten sick with the flu, but that's the shortest flu I ever heard of. I'm thinking he had the hungover flu, if you catch my drift."

Tim did indeed.

"Plus," Ken continued, with mounting outrage, "not even a phone call so I could cover the shift. I told him one more time and--"

"Two weeks ago," Tim interrupted. "He didn't come to work the weekend after the Friday he got paid. July twenty-seventh."

"Right, that's right."

"You pay biweekly."

"Correct. So when he doesn't call..." It took a moment for the quarter to drop, and then Ken's eyes widened, and he fussed with his polyester tie indignantly. "This is the weekend after a Friday payday also. A pattern. You think he goes on a binge of some sort? After getting paid?"

"I'm thinking precisely that." Tim slid his card across the table to Ken, who regarded it as if assessing the corporate logo. "Next time he comes in, please give us a call. Before you fire him and send him on his way."

They stood at the curb in the unseasonably crisp night air, staring out at the strip of Century Boulevard and its host of vivid signage advertising burrito shacks, banks, tattoo parlors, pubs, auto detailers, gentlemen's clubs, window tinters, and all order of strip-mall industry. Cars and LAX shuttles clogged the streets even at this hour--travelers who'd stumbled off red-eyes or bleary partiers chasing the last-call schedule all the way to the seedy after-hours joints by the airport. Bear munched a Big Mac, which he'd paid for himself; he'd shot Tim the evil eye as he'd slid the bills across the molded counter with his index finger.

"All right," Tim said. "It's payday Friday. You get your check. No autodeposit. You don't have a car. You're a binge drinker. Your home life is not altogether pleasant. Where do you go?"

Bear guided the last double-decker wedge of beef and patty into his mouth and pointed at the bus stop a few storefronts up before something made his jaw halt midchew. He made some sort of sound around the mouthful of Big Mac.

"What?"

Bear's Adam's apple jerked once, and then he said, "Four forty-five. Friday. That's when Freddy left."

"Right. What are you...?"

Bear gestured at the sign, barely in view above the bus-stop shelter: FIRST UNION. Freddy's bank. "He goes to cash his paycheck before the bank closes. He wants cash in hand right away to go to..." His finger drew an arc down the block, past an Irish pub, to a woman's neon silhouette blinking, beckoning: THE BACK NINE. 24 HRS. "The one reliable place a man who looks homeless can go to drink around the clock and get covered with the 'stank' of knockoff perfume."

It was at such moments that Tim remembered why he was lucky to have Bear, with his bachelor proclivities, as a partner. They were almost out of the parking lot when a shout turned them around. Ken scrambled toward them, trailing the strings of his McDonald's apron.

"Speed!" he cried triumphantly. "The s stands for speed."

"Right," Tim said, and gave a sincere thumbs-up.

Bear shook the manager's hand weightily. "Thank you, Mr. Wade." He looked down at his palm, surprised; he'd come away with Ken Wade's business card.

Ken was still breathing hard from his run, but he flashed Bear a smile. "Nice to meet you, Deputy Jowalski. And just so you know, there are a lot of opportunities in the hospitality sector should you ever be interested."

"Why, I think it's a fine idea," Tim said. "Fry Guy George Jowalski."

"You done yet?"

"You'd fill out the Grimace costume rather well."

"Still going, huh?"

"Plus, you could put your prior job skills to use..."

Pausing with both huge hands on the padded door of The Back Nine, Bear swung his tired eyes in Tim's direction, awaiting the punch line. "Get it over with."

"...taking down the Hamburglar."

Bear released a weary sigh and pushed into the strip club. The doorman rose from his barstool aggressively, but Tim fended him off with his badge. Brass, mirrors, and ice cubes bounced images off one another, endless reflected corridors in which to get lost. A scattering of the usual clientele around the usual four-tops. Three college guys were having more fun than seemed plausible--elbows on the catwalk, hoarse laughter, backward baseball caps. A comb-over-gone Al Pacino gangster behind oversize sunglasses ran a doughy hand up the thigh of a between-sets dancer delivering cocktails. A young lady announced as Pinch wrapped snakelike legs around the brass pole, her magenta hair skimming the creased singles littering the stage. A hall, lit purple by cloth-and-bead sconces out of a Gypsy catalog, led to the bathrooms and the optimistically titled private lounges.

Tim and Bear took a walk around the horseshoe of the runway. Despite Pinch's best efforts, their entrance put a chill on the festivities--they weren't the usual cops paid off so the booze could flow during restricted hours and the flesh could undulate closer than the state-mandated six inches. Ignoring the nervous eyes of the manager and bartender, they peeked into the private rooms, some ornamented with couches, others with tall aquarium windows blocked by metal shades. The men's room featured a urinal encased in a frame of crumbling drywall, and a doorless stall.