I heard liquid splashing, the sound swiftly followed by the harsh scent of gasoline. I made sure the two red rectangles bracketed the white line on the barrel. “I don’t want to have to shoot you, Ned.”
I made a face at myself. What the hell was I talking about? This man was about to turn Ed and me into charcoal briquettes. Under the circumstances, shooting his ass was the only appropriate course of action. The first trick was to guess whether he was standing to the left of the vent opening or to the right. The second trick was to catch him before he got out his handy-dandy lighter.
I had to do my calculations in an instant. I figured that since I was prone and aiming for the vent opening, I’d be shooting at an angle that placed the bullet’s trajectory somewhere between his left hip and his thigh. The bullet would also have to tear through the bungalow’s wood frame, moisture barrier, plaster, and exterior stucco. My magazine carried nine rounds of 9x19 mm Parabellum that I thought would do the job. I shifted my sights to the left of the opening and squeezed the trigger. The barrel bucked neatly, the brass leaped up, and the bang was so loud, I knew my ears would ring for a week. There was a certain jaunty aspect to the hot dancing brass, at least from my perspective. I brought the sights back to the right side of the opening, breathed in, breathed out, and fired again.
Ned shrieked like a girl. He must have been thumbing the striker on his pocket lighter, which he dropped when he was hit. I heard it clatter to the walk with a sharp metallic note. Through the opening, I caught a glimpse of him clutching his right thigh, which must have felt like it was on fire.
I squeezed the trigger and fired again. This time, I had no intention of hitting him. I just wanted him to know I was sincere. I was also hoping someone in the neighborhood would call the police with a report of shots fired. I heard Ned stumble down the walk between the two bungalows. His breathing sounded ragged and I could tell he was working hard to suppress his sobs. From his gait, it was clear he was limping badly, dragging one foot, and probably bleeding through his trouser leg. Moments later, I heard the distinct sound of a car starting up and peeling out with a chirp.
Meanwhile, the flame from the lighter must have made contact with the puddled gasoline because I heard the liquid catch fire with the dull sound of a stove burner as it whumped to life. A cloud of black smoke appeared and with it, the wavering aura created by flames.
Gun in hand, I made a mad scramble toward the vent on the opposite wall. I turned over on my back and shattered the trellis with two savage kicks. Then I pushed my way through the opening into fresh air. Ed materialized from the dark and, in his infinite feline wisdom, streaked out right behind me.
26
IRIS AND JOEY
Wednesday, September 27, 1989
On Wednesday evening Iris and Joey settled down on their tiny patio, which was just big enough for two wicker chairs with a small table between. Because their apartment building was set back from the street, traffic noise didn’t bother them. The lighted businesses stretching off from the intersection made the scene as changeable and engaging as a wood blaze crackling in a fireplace. They never tired of watching the passing cars, the pedestrians, neighbors walking their dogs. Joey topped up her wineglass and paused to light a cigarette for himself and then one for her.
When the phone rang, he leaned back and snagged the handset from the planning center. The cord had been stretched so often, the coil had flattened in places. “Hello?”
He sat up. “Oh hey, how’re you?” he said.
As Joey listened, he got up and walked around his chair to the patio door. He carried the long phone cord with him so it wouldn’t get hung up on anything. He made a point of maintaining eye contact with Iris, who was trying to gauge the caller’s identity from Joey’s responses. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and pantomimed “Fritz” so she’d know who he was talking to.
Iris could hear Fritz’s miniature voice, like an agitated buzzing sound, but not what he was saying.
Joey’s focus sharpened. “Really?”
It was clear Fritz was excited. She could tell by the pitch of his voice and the rapidity with which he was speaking. She heard him crow once, completely smitten with himself.
Joey said, “I don’t believe it. You’ve got to be kidding. Tell me again and slow down, for god’s sake.”
Joey was doing the big rolling-arm gesture, urging her to join him. Iris stubbed out her cigarette, jumped up, and eased into the living room, where she crossed to Joey’s side. Apparently, Fritz was repeating the news, whatever it was. Iris tilted her ear toward the receiver just as Joey said, “How’d you get your hands on twenty-five thousand bucks?”
“I didn’t say I had the money. I have a plan for getting it,” Fritz said. “It’s foolproof. Well, almost.”
“Oh, shit. What plan?”
“Don’t worry about it. Not an issue. I got it wired.”
“Is this legal or illegal?”
“Let’s say it’s semi-legal. Close enough at any rate,” Fritz said. “No concealed weapons are involved.” He laughed at himself, enjoying the momentary superiority of knowing more than Joey did.
Joey put a hand over the mouthpiece and he and Iris exchanged a look of disbelief. Iris rolled her eyes and opened her hands as if to say, What now? Joey turned his attention back to Fritz. “What happens when your parents find out?”
“They won’t until it’s too late. Once the money’s paid, that’s the end of it, right? So how can they complain?”
Joey ran a hand across the top of his head. “Dude, you’re scaring me.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m just looking after you, Fritz, so hear me out. Let’s say you have the cash in hand, now what?”
“That’s why I’m calling. He left a message on the answering machine. He’s picking me up at the corner of State and Aguilar. Noon on Friday. I should be set by then.”
“I can’t believe you’d agree to get in a car with some faceless unidentified stranger.”
“I didn’t agree to anything,” Fritz said. “I didn’t even talk to him. Those were the instructions he left.”
Joey gave Iris the thumbs-up, both of them amazed that the plan was working so well. “What if he turns around and holds you for ransom or something like that? You could be in way over your head.”
“Don’t be such a dick. If he looks like a badass, I’ll toss the money in the front seat and take off on foot. What’s he going to do, run me down?”
“But once you’ve seen him, doesn’t that make you a liability? He can’t afford to have you on the loose. You talk to the cops, look at mug shots . . .”
Hesitantly, Fritz said, “I’m thinking this could be Austin.”
“Really. Well, that’s a changeup. What brings you to that conclusion?”
“He said, ‘This is a voice from your past . . .’ Almost has to be him, don’t you think?”
“I thought you were convinced he was dead.”