Summer Cool - A Jack Paine Mystery (Jack Paine Mysteries) (13 page)

"Why don't you just go away?" Quinones was saying. He sounded scared.

There was a laugh, which sounded like Bob Petty's. "Sure," was Petty's reply.

"I don't like it," Quinones said.

Petty laughed again, a sardonic sound. "What choice do you have? You always were piss-kneed, Quinones."

"That was all so long ago. . .

"To me, it seems like yesterday."

"I just want it all to go away."

"That's not an option, Quinones."

"Please—"

"Just do what I say."

"Tiny—"

Petty's voice grew angry. "Shut up."

"What about your friend?"

"I'll take care of that."

The two voices stopped. Paine heard footsteps approaching his door. A key rattled metallically in the lock, and the door opened. An outline stood there, in front of weak light. The door closed, leaving Paine and the figure in the darkness.

"You just don't know when to quit, do you, Jack?"

"You taught me, Bobby."

"Maybe I did."

Paine heard Petty feeling along the wall, and then a low-wattage light came on across the room. Everything looked sour yellow.

Petty came and stood over him. He was big and square, and looked more solid than ever. The sleeves of his shirt, a
dark green one unlike the ones Paine had found in his closet, were rolled up. He leaned down closer and Paine tried to look into his eyes. In the bad light it was like looking into a face of stone. The eyes were like flat marble in a marble face.

"I hope you quit after this, Jack," Petty said flatly, and then he hit Paine in the face with the hard front of his fist and then hit him again.

Paine tried to move, to get out of the way of the blows, but there was nowhere to go. Petty hit him expertly in the face and the ribs and kidneys. Paine felt like a slab of meat on a butcher's table. After a while, to dull the hurt, he tried to detach his mind, to think of himself as a dead block of meat that he was examining from a distance.

Petty didn't speak, but went about his work methodically. After what seemed like days, from a receding place, Paine
heard Petty grunting with exertion. Paine's left eye was nearly closed, but he looked up and saw that Petty was sweating. Petty paused for a moment to catch his breath before going to work again.

After what must have been years, Paine saw that the piece of meat on the butcher's block that was himself was in very bad shape, and he could no longer detach himself from that poor slab of beef and it became himself again and he heard himself cry out with each blow.

And then Petty stopped his work, and the heaving catch of breath and the crying that Paine had become was the only sound in the room, until he heard Petty say flatly, "I hope you realize I mean it now, Jack," before the room and the world got very dark and went away.

When Paine came back to consciousness there was a hint of light in the room from the next door. Daylight, perhaps, or a light on in a farther room. Paine managed to turn himself on the bed. His head, his body, hurt terribly. He lay on the mattress for a few moments, willing the throb in the slab of meat that was his body to subside, and finally it did to the point where he could move.

He tried to move into a sitting position but could not. Instead, he arched his back, grabbing his feet with his hands, and began to explore the knot Quinones had made.

It was good, but if he had remembered better, he would have put another loop into the truss that would have made it impossible for Paine to get out of it. But he didn't do that, and after a while Paine had loosened one noose around one foot enough to slip the foot out. The other foot followed. Fifteen more minutes and he had loosened his hands and rubbed blood back into them.

He sat up on the bed.

His body began to throb again. He sat perfectly still, letting the ache do its work.

Finally, he stood, again letting his head have its way, and walked to the door.

It was locked, but it was a cheap bathroom lock and a half minute with his penknife released it.

He eased the door open.

There was still night darkness in the house. The light
came through an open door at the far end of the room he had entered. It was a storage room, boxes of silver chains and clasps, plastic bags of turquoise stones. Boxes filled with white cardboard gift boxes.

Paine went into the outer room, slowly, delicately, painfully.

He was in the cellar of the house. Basement windows showed blackness from outside. There was a workshop, a lathe, a drill press, racks of jewelers' tools on pegboards hung on the walls. A single overhead bulb with a pull chain was on by the stairs.

Paine stepped on the stairs and smelled blood.

The door was open at the top; Paine saw more light in a hallway. As he approached the top the smell of blood was very strong.

An arm lay on the floor across the opening into the cellar, the hand palm up. It wasn't attached to anything.

Paine stepped over it, and saw that the hallway was littered with human limbs.

He found their heads in the living room of the house, the showroom. They were on the sales counter by the cash register, facing one another. The woman's long black hair had been carefully curled around the neck; her earrings did not dangle, two long ovals of turquoise on silver hangers resting on the counter. Quinones's head regarded her; it looked as though his left eye were staring at her earrings.

Paine went to the front door. It was open, warm desert night air filtering into the shop. The moon was up, waxing toward full
_;
the outside world looked nearly as dreamlike as the inside of the jewelry store.

Perhaps because it all looked like a dream, or perhaps because he was getting used to it, or getting angry, this time Paine did not vomit.

F
rom the elevator, Paine could tell that the door to his hotel room was open. He stepped back into the elevator car, waited for the doors to close, and pushed the button for the lobby. The elevator went down and let him off.

He went to the desk, smiled. The nightman smiled back, ignoring the battered face.

"Hi," Paine said. "I'm in 417. Could you tell me if my friend checked in yet? He's supposed to be in the room next to me, but I don't know if that's 415 or 419."

The nightman checked his book. "Would that be Mr. Chambers in 415?"

Paine frowned. "I thought for sure he said 419."

"Room 419 is vacant, sir. Would that be Mr. Chambers?"

"Sure," Paine said, moving away. "Thanks."

Paine went to the end of the lobby, pushed through the glass doors into the pool area, and went to the far end. An old man was in the pool, doing slow laps in dog paddle. He didn't look up as Paine went by.

Paine pushed through to the outside. His room was in the rear, facing the parking lot. The lot was empty.

Paine climbed the fire escape to the fourth floor. There were balconies, and he made his way to the balcony outside room 419.

There was a sliding glass door, which took Paine a few minutes to get through.

He went into the room, slid the door closed behind him. He walked to the bathroom, took a glass tumbler from its sterile wrapper, went into the bedroom and sat on the bed.

He put the glass open end to the wall over the bed and put
his ear to the other end.

There was silence in the room next door, then a yawn.

"Shit," someone said in a hard whisper.

"Be quiet," a second voice said. "You've been complaining for two hours."

"Doesn't this fucker ever sleep? I'm hungry."

"You'll eat when we're finished."

"I'm hungry now."

"You should have brought something."

"I ate it an hour ago."

"Just be fucking quiet."

"It's uncomfortable, too. These chairs are uncom
fortable."

The other one sighed loudly. "This is the last time I work
with you, Martin."

Martin laughed. "You think I complain too much? Tell
Gordon to transfer you. Fine with me, Sims."

"You did nothing but—"

"You hear something?" Martin said in a fierce whisper.

"I said shut up!"

There was silence
_;
Paine heard someone walk by in the
hallway outside, whistling. After a moment he heard the
elevator doors open and then close. The whistling went
away.

"Wasn't him," Martin said. "Where the hell is he?"

"Will you be quiet?"

"I told you I was hungry and uncomfortable. These chairs are uncomfortable."

Paine pulled the glass away from the wall, set it down on
the table next to the bed. He picked up the phone, dialed
room 417.

The phone rang awhile. Paine could imagine them arguing in the dark as to whether to pick it up or not. Finally, one of
them did.

"Sims?" he said purposefully. "Gordon told me to tell you
we've got him spotted across the street at the Marriott. Go downstairs. Tell Martin to wait outside the door, in the hallway. You hear me?"

Sims started to protest, but Paine said, "Gordon says now," and hung up the phone.

Paine went to the door and waited. There was a commotion next door, then the door opened and someone strode to the elevator, got on it, and was gone.

Paine opened the door, stepped out into the hallway, pretended to lock his own door. He walked quickly by Mar
tin, standing in the hallway, turned and punched Martin in the face.

"Hey!" Martin protested, but Paine pushed him back through the door into his hotel room, punched him again,
kicked the door closed behind him. Martin was feeling around his chest under his jacket, so Paine planted his fist in Martin's groin and Martin went down to the rug groaning. Paine pushed him back with his foot and went through Martin's jacket, coming up with a snub-nosed .38 in a shoulder holster. He put the gun to Martin's nose.

"Talk very clearly," Paine said, the adrenaline rush masking the pain that had flared when he'd punched Martin.

Martin was still groaning, so Paine made a deeper impression on Martin's nose with the barrel of the gun until Martin's eyes focused on him.

Paine said, "Are you FBI?"

Martin shook his head no.

"Who?"

"Bullshit," Paine said. He pushed the circle of steel harder into the side of Martin's nose. "Where's your ID?"

"Inside pocket, right side," Martin said.

Paine kept pressure on the gun, and reached into the jacket pocket opposite the holster. There was an ID there, identifying Raymond Martin, special agent, Drug Enforcement Agency.

"What the fuck are you doing in my hotel room?" Paine said. Martin became silent.

"Tell me or I'll put another fucking nostril in your nose," Paine said.

"Waiting to talk to you."

"About what?"

"You're obstructing a drug investigation."

Paine pressed the gun hard into Martin's nose, waiting for more.

"We're looking for Robert Petty."

"Why?"

Martin became silent again.

Paine was going to threaten him again when he saw Martin's eyes focus from Paine to something behind him, and Paine felt the end of the barrel of someone else's .38 in his neck.

"Drop the gun, get up, put your hands on your head," Sims's voice said behind Paine.

Paine did what he was told.

Martin got up and smiled at Sims, who was nearly as heavy as Martin but wore the weight better. He was balding and wore rimless glasses and didn't smile.

"Does this mean we can eat?" Martin said cheerfully, pulling Paine's hands down behind his back to handcuff them.

"Just shut up, okay?"

Martin finished with the cuffs then came around to stand next to Sims and look at Paine. "He said he was going to put another nostril in my nose," Martin said, looking hurt.