Metzgers dog, p.21
Metzger's Dog, page 21
GRIJALVAS AND HIS TWO COMPANIONS scrambled through the bushes above the aerial tramway station. They would stay on the rocky ridges all the way up the road until they managed to find the car that was waiting for them, and then come in on both sides of it. The ambushers would never expect to be attacked. They’d be waiting for the Lincoln Continental to appear on the road with the money in it. But the Continental had been abandoned, and the money was on its way down a mountain trail miles from here. It would be safely in the back of the pickup truck in another half hour, guarded by some of Grijalvas’s best men. Morrison was dead, and in a few minutes the ambushers would be dead. Grijalvas had no doubt there would be ambushers. He had chosen this place because it invited Morrison to arrange a trap. It was the best way to ensure that Morrison would bring the money; Morrison wouldn’t want to take the chance that the blackmailers would sense the trap and escape to reveal whatever it was they knew about him.
Grijalvas led his companions up the hillside a few yards and studied the shapes of the dark ridges to see which would make the best trail. There was no reason to make this an evening of bruised shins and twisted ankles.
Suddenly the narrow valley was bathed in light. Floodlights blinked on and long cones of blinding brightness pierced the air, moving about erratically. The nearest was no more than a hundred feet from where Grijalvas stood. He tapped Joachim’s arm and scrambled over the ridge to the slope beyond. The three moved quickly, putting as much distance between them and the road as they could. After they had gone a half mile, Grijalvas heard the rattle of an automatic weapon in the distance.
He said, “It’s all wrong. There are too many of them. They’re too organized.”
His companions said nothing, only followed him over the broken ground, Joachim carrying the briefcase containing the three Ingraham automatic rifles, and Jesus carrying the extra ammunition clips.
A few hundred yards farther and Grijalvas swung to the left in a path parallel to the road. There could be no question of attacking the men waiting to block the road—there could be twenty of them, all heavily armed. It was all wrong. Even a man like Morrison couldn’t arrange this. He must have called the FBI. There was an army around that tram station. Grijalvas broke into a run, and the two men followed. They seemed to have no trouble staying within a pace of him even with the heavy metal they carried. Grijalvas’s lungs ached after three hundred yards and his breath came in gasps, but Joachim and Jesus seemed to run easily and tirelessly. Finally Grijalvas tripped on a jagged rock and fell to his knees. The two ran on for twenty feet, then stopped to wait while he staggered to catch up.
They walked in silence for a time, then Grijalvas managed a trot. After five minutes Grijalvas’s wind gave out again and they walked until they came to a low rise and could see the cars passing on the highway into Palm Springs. Far to the left Grijalvas could see the yellow glow of the sodium lamps at the aerial tramway station and the brighter white beams that swept the land around it.
It was important not to let himself get too confident now that they were out of the immediate vicinity of Morrison’s trap. In a short time they would begin searching the highway in cars, and that would bring other problems. He was glad he’d heard the firing of automatic weapons near the station. The police wouldn’t fire aimlessly into the underbrush because three men who might not even be armed had gone into it. They’d shout something through a bullhorn and then fire, so it wasn’t the police. He hoped they had some way of learning that Morrison was dead and the money was gone. If they weren’t police they would have no reason to keep searching this area. Instead they’d make a futile attempt to catch up with Juan and the others, because they had the money.
He walked toward Palm Springs, keeping as far from the highway as possible without losing his bearings. Joachim and Jesus followed without speaking. It took an hour before they crossed the first road on the edge of the town. From here on it would be difficult. There would be lights now and soon sidewalks, and buildings that would block their movement but wouldn’t give them a place to hide.
He stopped on the shoulder of the road beside a high chain link fence. “Let me think about this for a second.”
Joachim said, “We could steal a car.”
“Maybe,” Grijalvas agreed, “but by the time we get far enough into town to find one that’s parked, we’d be risking a lot for nothing. The car Figueroa left for us is what we need.” He stared at the fence. “This looks like a golf course.” He shielded his eyes from the glare of the streetlamp and peered through the fence into the darkness. He could see a thick stand of trees and a gentle rise in the ground beyond that looked as though it couldn’t be natural. He set the toe of his shoe in the fence and lifted himself up. From there he could see that the top of the mound was flat. “It is a golf course. Come on.”
Joachim pulled himself up and stared at the mound. “Are you sure? I don’t see a flag.”
“Maybe they take them in at night.”
They climbed the fence, the two younger men pushing Grijalvas over with difficulty. At the top he caught the tail of his coat and managed to disentangle it only by tearing the bottom seam. When they were on the ground beyond, they walked among the trees and skirted the open fairway. The quiet of the night air was broken only by the distant swish of cars passing on the main highway. Sometimes they could see the headlights, tiny and dim at first, then growing brighter as the car approached, then gone again, leaving only the red taillights diminishing in the darkness.
They went through another stand of trees and then past sand traps and across a wooden bridge over a narrow pond of still, greasy water. Finally they stood on a green, and at the end of the long, straight fairway they could see the lights of the clubhouse. Grijalvas said, “I guess we’d better get the guns out now. That’s where the gate will be, and it looks as though they must have a restaurant or something open. Keep the guns under your coats and let me talk if anybody stops us.”
Joachim opened the case and handed two of the short, heavy weapons to the others. He wiped off the case with his handkerchief and ran with it back to the pond. When he returned, the three walked up the edge of the fairway toward the building. As they approached they could see people through the large, lighted windows, sitting at tables. As Grijalvas watched, a man at one of the tables stood up, holding a stemmed glass high, and spoke for a few seconds, then sat down again. To my friend Mr. Gordon, Grijalvas thought. The man to whom I owe my five million dollars.
They turned left at the tee below the clubhouse and walked up the path to the parking lot. A young man in a tight red jacket rushed up and said, “Can I bring your car up for you, sir?”
“No, thank you,” said Grijalvas. “It’s parked down the road.” As he walked on he surveyed the parking lot. All of these cars—fifty or more—would have their keys in the ignition or under the sun visor on the driver’s side. It was something to keep in mind, but his own car wasn’t far off now, and it wouldn’t be a good idea to let his tired feet make the decision for him. They moved down the driveway to the street.
There was a sidewalk now, and after five minutes they passed another pedestrian, an elderly man in a tight red jogging suit who was walking a small, fluffy white dog that stopped to sniff each tree, each fence post, then scurried on to the next with nervous excitement. When they overtook him the dog yapped twice and the man jerked the leash, turning the little dog around to face him. “Cut it out, Nancy.”
Grijalvas could see the place where the car was parked. He could recognize it because there was a dessert shop called Mamie’s across the street that was always full and always seemed to have a line of people waiting outside the door. He could see the queue stretching down the steps and nearly to the door of the jewelry store in the other half of the building. There must have been ten people waiting to get in. There was very little to do in Palm Springs at night, he thought.
As they approached the restaurant, Joachim saw the car first. He quickened the pace, but Grijalvas didn’t stop him. It was late and they’d walked a long distance and with all the people waiting to eat pies and cakes at Mamie’s they wouldn’t attract attention.
When Grijalvas reached the car Joachim had the doors open and was starting the engine. As Grijalvas slipped into the back seat he glanced across the street again at Mamie’s. At that moment the man at the head of the line stepped aside to speak to another man, and Grijalvas saw the sign in the window: “Closed.”
“Get going fast,” he shouted.
Joachim pulled the car away from the curb just as a bullet punched through the rear window and whined out the open side window behind Grijalvas’s head. There were more shots, but Grijalvas was lying on the back seat as Joachim accelerated down the empty city street. Grijalvas lifted his head cautiously to peer through the spidery cracks in the rear window, and he could see a line of six or seven men strung out across the street, firing at the speeding car. Twice he heard bullets thump into the trunk, but the car squealed along a curve in the road and then he couldn’t see the men.
He said, “As fast as you can, Joachim. They don’t seem to want to give up.” He watched the speedometer over Joachim’s shoulder as the needle reached the one-hundred mark, then devoted his attention to checking the load of the Ingraham he held on his lap. Out the rear window there was only darkness now. The car seemed to sway with each touch on the steering wheel and to swoop down the gentle inclines. The broken white lines on the road had merged into a single smear.
Minutes passed, and still there was no sign of another set of headlights. They had moved into the desert now, and when they roared onto Route 10, Joachim swung into the westbound lane without slowing. When they shot past the sign for Banning, Grijalvas could hardly read it. He said, “Slow down now. There might be police from here on.”
After they’d passed Banning, Grijalvas began to feel more comfortable. It wouldn’t be long before they came to Redlands, where he knew a man who could hide the car and give him another. From there East Los Angeles was only about an hour away.
All three noticed the lights at once. There was a red and yellow flashing, and rose-colored flares were burning on the road. As they drew near they could see that the lights were at the entrance to the Dinosaur Memorial. The burning flares lit the gigantic scaly torso of the life-sized tyrannosaur and made his glass eyes glitter with red. There were two white tow trucks, one parked beside the belly of the brontosaur, and the other blocking the right lane of the road. The flashing lights made the cluster of dinosaur effigies look as though they were moving.
Jesus said, “It looks weird. Way out here in the middle of nowhere.”
Joachim said, “The only thing that’s weird is you. It’s for kids. There must be an accident.”
As they watched, the second tow truck pulled out and blocked the left lane, and a man with a flashlight ran in front of them and started waving it.
Grijalvas said, “Can you get around them?”
“No. There’s a steep drop off the shoulder on both sides. The tow trucks are probably here to pull somebody else out.”
The man with the flashlight waved them into the entrance of the Dinosaur Memorial. They drove into the parking lot and saw that there were two other cars ahead of them, moving slowly toward the exit that led back to the highway. “Just a little detour,” said Joachim.
When the first car reached the exit gate it stopped. The second car pulled up behind Joachim and stopped. Joachim honked his horn. The first car’s lights went out. He leaned on the horn. Suddenly the doors of the front car opened and men started to jump out of it. Joachim saw the first one out kneel and level a pistol in his direction. The car behind Joachim moved up and pushed Joachim’s into the car ahead and held it there, its motor whining and the tires spinning.
Grijalvas reacted instantly. He swung the Ingraham to the rear window and fired it, blowing out the remaining glass and demolishing the windshield of the car behind. He could see the two men in the car; their bodies were covered with blood and tiny nuggets of shattered glass. He yelled, “Put it in reverse,” but he turned to see that Joachim had opened his door and was struggling to get out of the car. Joachim sprang out away from the car and took two steps, firing a burst toward the front car. Grijalvas saw the kneeling man kicked backward, and Joachim pivoted to return. He dived toward the open door, but a bullet seemed to turn his head in the air, and his body crashed against the side of the car, making it rock. Jesus fired wildly from the window at the car in front.
“Take the wheel,” Grijalvas shouted, but Jesus seemed not to hear. Grijalvas climbed through the gaping space where the rear window had been and rolled off the trunk to the ground. He looked around him and could see the two pickup trucks blocking the road behind, and the car blocking the exit. Above loomed the bulbous bellies of the gigantic dinosaur statues.
As he looked, a burst of fire caught Jesus from somewhere on the other side of the car. His dead hand hung out the window above Grijalvas’s head.
Grijalvas took a deep breath, then blew it out of his lungs. He crawled quickly toward the front car. When he reached the trunk of the car he stood up and fired a burst into the interior. Suddenly he realized there was no one inside. He opened the door and climbed in, sliding toward the driver’s seat. He had his hand on the key when the man crouching in front of the car stood up. For an instant Grijalvas thought he might somehow be able to start the car and run over the man in time, but the man was already taking aim while he was thinking, and then he knew it was too late. He started to raise his hands, but the gun flashed. He carried with him into the darkness the sight of the man, and far over his head, the long neck of the brontosaur moving outward into the clear sky, and the tiny head with its little mouth gaping in surprise.
32 It was three-thirty on Monday morning when Porterfield first noticed the car. He heard the idling engine at the end of the street as he was sitting alone in the darkened living room. He pushed the curtain aside and looked out to see the car move down the street as slowly as a man’s walk and then stop, its headlights out. After a few seconds a man emerged wearing a dark sweat shirt and a knitted watch cap that was pulled down to his eyebrows. After he was out he bent over and picked up something from the back seat, then walked up the sidewalk with it. As he passed under the streetlamp, Porterfield released the curtain and made his way to the bedroom. The man had been carrying a thick stack of newspapers.
On Tuesday afternoon Porterfield left the Seyell Foundation office an hour early. That was the second time he noticed the car. When he turned the corner onto the street, the car was stopped in the same place. As he approached, the driver started the dusty brown Ford Galaxie and moved slowly down to the next corner and turned out of sight. There was no question in his mind that it was the same car. The ticking sound of the unbalanced fan when the engine idled was the sound he’d heard the night before.
Porterfield said to Alice, “Do you know if our paperboy—I guess I should say paperman—lives around here?”
“I see him quite often, but I’ve never spoken to him,” said Alice. “Isn’t that terrible? He’s such a sweet-looking little boy, but there’s something about seeing someone at five o’clock every morning in your bathrobe. The only way you can tolerate it is to avoid conversation.”
Porterfield nodded. He was thinking about hunting turkeys. An old farmer had once told him the way he hunted wild turkeys was to take a walk in early summer to a clearing in the forest carrying a broom handle painted dark gray. He’d prop the broom handle on a fallen log or in the low branches of a bush and leave it there. The turkeys would get used to seeing it so that soon they’d strut within a few yards of it. By fall it would be so familiar to them that they didn’t seem to see it anymore. On the first day of the turkey season the farmer would sit in the clearing. He swore the turkeys never noticed that the broom handle had been replaced by the barrel of a shotgun.
On Wednesday at three-thirty in the morning Porterfield heard the car’s ticking fan as it turned the corner onto the street. It was easier to hear on Wednesday because Porterfield was sitting in the lawn chair on his neighbor’s patio, and the redwood fence did nothing to muffle the sound in the still night air.
Porterfield stood up and looked between two boards of the fence. As usual, the man got out of his car and then reached back in for his stack of newspapers. This time when the man passed under the streetlamp Porterfield squinted to see his face. The watch cap was pulled down low over his brows, but Porterfield could see the small, dark eyes and the wide mouth under the bristling blond moustache.
The man walked up the sidewalk of Porterfield’s house, then walked around to the window beside the driveway. Next he moved across the front lawn to a clump of bushes at the corner of the neighboring house. Porterfield watched him walk from house to house, examining shrubbery, standing under windows, and sighting angles and distances.
When the man turned and walked up the driveway toward Porterfield’s garage, Porterfield slipped through the gate of the redwood fence and along his neighbor’s hedge to the street.
It was nearly ten minutes before the man returned to his car. He opened the door and placed his stack of newspapers on the front seat, then slid into the seat beside them. He started the car and let it drift quietly down the street to the corner before he turned on his headlights.
Porterfield said, “Make much extra money peddling papers, Lester?”
The man jerked in his seat and half turned to gape over his shoulder. “Porterfield.” After a second he seemed to collect himself. He steered around the corner and accelerated. “Not much money in papers these days, Ben.”
“You’re supposed to be in Guatemala, Viglione.”
Viglione turned his head to the side and said, “No, you’re wrong. Special assignment, temporary duty.”
Porterfield chuckled. “Lester, when I heard we might be having this kind of trouble, I thought about who might show up, but I didn’t think it would be you. I guess I should have. It’s your specialty. But I didn’t think anybody would take the chance of letting you in on it. You came to see me. Is someone at the Director’s house?”
