Dead Ringer Read online

  Dead Ringer

  Ken Douglas

  Ken Douglas

  Dead Ringer

  Chapter One

  Horace Nighthyde stood at the bus stop on Atlantic in front of Sammy’s Bagels, a trendy new bakery in Downtown Long Beach. He checked his Timex. Five to twelve. Five minutes before he was supposed to kill a man. He heard the drone of a small plane, looked up. A Cessna was on a straight out over the harbor. He sighed. He had his own Cessna. Flying soothed him, Mozart on the CD player, the ocean below, like he was God looking down on his creation.

  The sky had just cleared. It had been raining earlier, the kind of hot rain that’s common in the south, but rare in California. He heard the hiss of Striker’s tires against the steamy pavement before he saw his black BMW. He took a last, quick look upward, saw the clearing rain as a sign, a good one. He stepped off the curb, got in the car.

  “Ready?” Striker slid over a pump shotgun. He was a big man, dark hair cropped close, white walls, like he was back in the Army or still on the force. He looked like a fight waiting to happen, but he was the kind of man who stayed in the background, a planner, a fixer.

  “Yeah.” Horace fingered the shotgun, playing calm, but his nerves were on fire. He wished he was anywhere else, but Ma was sick and she had no insurance, so here he was. It was out of his control.

  “There’s a small convenience store up the street,” Striker said, getting right to it. He had a deep voice, like one of those game show hosts on TV. “The Jap goes in every Monday at 12:10, gets a bag of dope from his connection and buys lottery tickets.”

  “Junk or coke?” Horace said.

  “Smack, but he’s not a junky, he smokes it.”

  “Like that makes a difference.”

  “He’s a snappy dresser, you can’t miss him.”

  “What’s the name of this place?”

  “The convenience store?” Striker pulled away from the curb. “Quick Shop.”

  “Quick Rob is more like it.” You stop and they rob you with their high prices. So, what’s the drill?”

  “You walk in, blow the fuck away. After, walk to the back of the store. Next to the freezer section, you’ll see a door. Go through it into the back room and out the rear exit. There’ll be a Chevy waiting. By the time anyone figures out what happened, you’ll be gone.” Striker gave him a quick look from behind the wheel. Horace saw amusement in his eyes. The bastard was enjoying himself.

  “Jesus, I’m gonna be seen.”

  “No one’s gonna notice you and after that gun goes off, they’re gonna be grabbing floor.”

  “Shit.”

  “We’re here.” Striker pulled up to the curb in front of the store, tires throwing water.

  “Hey!” It was a pretty blonde. She had to jump out of the way to keep from getting sprayed.

  “Sorry,” Horace said from his open window.

  “Sure.” She went into the store.

  He couldn’t help taking a quick appraisal of her figure and shoulder length hair. He was a sucker for women, even though he wasn’t too lucky with them. She had blue eyes. He loved blue eyes. And she was dressed in designer clothes, beige silk blouse, scarf that matched her eyes, classy skirt. She belonged in Beverly Hills, not downtown Long Beach. Maybe she worked for one of the attorneys down by the courthouse. Maybe she was an attorney herself. Maybe she was slumming. Who could tell?

  “Okay, go!” Striker slapped him on the thigh.

  Horace got out of the car, holding the shotgun down by his side. He looked both ways as he crossed the sidewalk. Nobody noticed. He stepped into the stop-and-rob, saw the Jap right off. He had a bottle of Johnny Walker Black in his hand. Two people were in front of him as he waited at the cash register. Horace took a quick look around. The store was full of customers, a man and a kid at the magazine rack, others in the aisles.

  He almost called it off, but then he met eyes with the Jap. The Jap saw the shotgun, recognition flooded his eyes. He knew who the gun was for. Horace stepped forward, stuck the gun into the Jap’s chest, braced himself for the kick, pulled the trigger.

  The Jap flew backward as if he’d been kicked by a tornado. His body slammed into a counter of canned refreshment, sending beer and soda cans rolling among the screaming assholes seeking cover. Striker had been right, nobody was looking at him.

  Horace turned toward the rear of the store, found himself face to face with the blonde from out front. She’d seen his face then, she saw it now. Her blue eyes blazed. He brought the shotgun up to her face. She didn’t shrink like the others.

  Finger on the trigger.

  She stared right into his eyes, as if daring him.

  The seconds screamed to a stop. Everything seemed slowed down, like he was that comic book character, the Flash. She was a witness, a problem. Squeeze the trigger and the problem would go away.

  He pushed her aside. He couldn’t kill a woman. He chanced a quick look around, almost screamed when he saw another Jap in a suit. He tried to get the gun around, but the bastard was running for the door. He was out and safe before Horace could fire.

  Horace grabbed another look at the blonde, then rushed to the back of the store. The door was unlocked. A dingy back room, dust. Horace despised dust. And the place sold food. The back was unlocked, out in the grey day it had started to rain again.

  The Chevy was waiting as promised. The engine running as promised. Horace jumped in, pulled it out of park, smashed his foot to the floor. The Chevy fishtailed on the wet pavement, but Horace knew how to drive, loved to drive. He got quick control of the car, made a right at the first street out of the alley, another right, another and he was on Long Beach Boulevard. A couple minutes later he took the on ramp to the San Diego Freeway south. He got off on Bellflower, near the university. He turned toward Lakewood and home.

  His head was spinning. He laughed. He was high, like he used to get when he was a punk in school. Who woulda thought you could get off on killing a man?

  But did he get the right one? That fucking Striker. Maybe he’d been a tough soldier and a hero cop, but he sure as shit couldn’t plan a job. Two Japs. Christ.

  Fifteen minutes later he pulled behind a liquor store on Candlewood, near the Lakewood Center Mall. He wiped the shotgun down, then heaved it into a dumpster. With that taken care of, he drove to the mall and left the Chevy unlocked with the keys in the ignition by the south entrance. He entered the mall, adrenaline pumping. He bought hot chocolate chip cookies and cold milk, greedily wolfed them down.

  He left the mall, passed the stop where he’d caught the bus to Long Beach. The sun was out now, burning off the rain clouds. Crisp clean air. A good time to fly, but he had to get home and check on Ma.

  A couple of young blondes, still in school probably, got out of the car parked next to his van. Seeing them made Horace think about the blonde in the stop-and-rob. She’d gotten a righteous look at him, like it or not, he was going to have to tell Striker, but about the other Jap, he’d keep that to himself. If Horace brought it up, Striker might hold out on the money.

  He climbed into his van. What the fuck, he’d done the job, he deserved to be paid. He put that other Jap out of his mind, but he thought of the blonde again and, clear as the air in front of him, he could see the steal and determination in her eyes, the firm set of her jaw as she stared him down, almost daring him to shoot.

  A light shiver tingled up his spine as he white knuckled the wheel.

  What if Stryker wanted him to do her?

  Chapter Two

  Abortion, a horrible word. Unthinkable for a woman who wanted children, never mind a Catholic who held life sacred. Maggie let go of the shopping cart, rubbed a hand across her stomach. Life, and she was going to kill it. She fought tears. What else could she do? Three years sh
e’d been faithful to a fault. Except once. One time and it had happened.

  How could she have been so stupid? A party, a few drinks too many, but not too many that she didn’t know what she was doing. No, she couldn’t blame it on the drink. She couldn’t blame it on Conner’s persistent advances either. He was, after all, only twenty-one, ten years her junior. He had just been doing what all men his age did, trying to get laid. She was the one who was supposed to know better.

  But she’d been flattered by his attention. And when he asked if she’d like to leave the party for someplace more private, she surprised herself by saying yes. He took her to the Marriot out by the Long Beach Airport, not some cheap motel, and that impressed her. He’d been a slow and considerate lover and that impressed her even more. And he didn’t complain afterward when she told him she had to get back to her car, so she could be waiting for her husband when he got home from work.

  When Nick got home a little before one in the morning, she was in bed where she belonged. He’d wanted to make love and she responded with a passion she hadn’t shown him since before they were married. She loved her husband and, curiously enough, she didn’t feel guilty about what she’d done with Conner.

  That night had been wonderful, wonderful with Conner, wonderful with Nick, but now she was paying for it with an ache that tore at her heart. She couldn’t keep the child, not and have Nick, too. He had two sons from his first marriage, wanted no more and to ensure it, he’d had a vasectomy before the wedding.

  After she quit racing, they settled into what Nick called the perfect life. He had his job, she had her work at the magazine. He was happy. She told herself she was too. Now she was shit. She wondered if she’d blame Nick for the abortion later on. It wouldn’t be right, not really. After all, he didn’t even know.

  She picked up a pot roast, turned it over in her hand, studied it with a remote detachment.

  “Got you!” a voice boomed at her.

  “What?” Maggie dropped the roast into her cart. Goosebumps peppered her arms. It was high noon and hot outside, but it was Alaska in the frozen foods section.

  The man blocking the aisle was huge, with hammy hands, a flat face, flat nose and black eyes, almost crossed. He wore new jeans and a white T-shirt that almost looked starched, with a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his left sleeve, like Marlon Brando or somebody from one of those old black-and-white biker movies. His hair was going to grey and he had a five o’clock shadow. He seemed slow.

  “You’re in my way.” She started to back away, but he grabbed her cart. “Let me by,” she said. But the man didn’t let go.

  “Saw you in the newspaper.”

  “What are you talking about?” She tugged on the cart, but it was no use.

  “Leave the woman alone, Virgil,” a squeaky voice coming up behind the big man said.

  “It’s the one you showed me, Horace. The one in the paper.”

  “Shut up.” Horace slapped the big man on the arm with a magazine. His sportcoat was hanging loose. It parted and Maggie saw the shoulder holster underneath. A policeman. A plain clothes detective.

  He turned to look at her. He was short, wiry with a face like a ferret. Close, squinty eyes. Long, thin nose. Scrawny mustache. Hair slicked back, covering his ears. He wore a silk shirt under the sportcoat tucked into baggy pants that just touched spit shined loafers. His thin lipped smile was false and his eyes went wide when he saw Maggie. He looked like a ’50s movie killer. There was danger there, policeman or not.

  “It is, it’s her!” Virgil was still holding onto her cart.

  “It’s not. Let her go!” Horace grabbed one of Virgil’s wrists and squeezed. Virgil winced and let go of the cart. Horace was stronger then he looked.

  “Thanks.” Maggie started to back away.

  “Has he been bothering you, ma’am? He can’t help it.” Horace’s stare was as cold as the meat she’d just dropped in the cart.

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “Pretty women remind him of his mother.”

  “I see.”

  “He’s harmless.” He shoved Virgil aside, so she could pass.

  Maggie pushed her cart on by, turning at the end of the aisle. She passed a Pepsi display, stopped the cart and walked away from it. The big man had unnerved her and that Horace character had sent cold worms curling up her spine. She didn’t want to cook dinner anyway. They could eat out.

  For a second, she toyed with the idea of telling Nick about the baby over pizza at Armando’s, then rejected it. No matter how much she hoped Nick would say he forgave her, that they’d raise the child together, it wasn’t going to happen. He’d feel betrayed. He’d want a divorce.

  She stepped through the electronic door out into the noonday heat. The temperature was in the nineties, without a hint of breeze, rare for the beach. Normally she’d jump in her air-conditioned Mustang and be on her way, but Nick’s ancient Mercedes was in the shop and he’d never dream of walking. Besides, he’d said, she was the fitness nut.

  She started to walk home, stopped. She was supposed to meet Nick in a couple of hours at the Menopause Lounge. If ever she needed a drink, now was the time. She headed east, toward Second Street.

  Shouldn’t drink, she thought. Bad for the baby. Oh what the hell. It’ll be dead in two days time.

  A bus stopped in front of the Safeway, Nick’s smiling face plastered on its side, an advertising banner for the Eleven O’clock News.

  She put on her Ray Bans, Horace and his friend Virgil gone from her mind as she turned on Second Street, strolling on the shady side. She loved the Belmont Shore section of Long Beach-the college kids, the beach, the ritzy bars, the trendy restaurants, the holiday atmosphere. But not even the Saturday buzz could take her mind away from the baby she carried.

  “Hey, Maggie.” It was Stacy, waving from behind the counter at Yoghurt Heaven. Maggie gave a half-hearted wave back. She knew people here, had friends. What would they think if they knew about the baby? If she kept it, she’d have to move away. She couldn’t imagine ever leaving.

  She caught her reflection in a bookstore window, frowned at the reflected lettering on the UCLA book bag she used as a purse. She hated missing work and she was going to be out for a week. Her T-shirt, peach colored and oversized, would have made a good maternity smock. Would have. It was wrong, but what could she do? Keep the baby and lose her husband? She watched herself start to cry.

  If only she hadn’t done it. How stupid. She covered her stomach with her hands, as if she could protect the life inside. She couldn’t. She thought of Conner, tried to picture him behind her in the window mirror. Would the baby have his brilliant green eyes? His jet black hair?

  She pushed the sunglasses onto her forehead, wiped her eyes with her fingers. Time for that drink. She turned away from the dismal reflection and pulled her sunglasses back on to hide her puffy eyes. A few minutes later, she took them off and dropped them into her shoulder bag as she entered the dimly lit restaurant.

  She saw Nick straightaway, but what was he doing here so early? Three o’clock every Saturday. Three to whenever. Nick was never early. Golf was his religion, Saturday his Sabbath.

  He was sitting at the end of the bar. Where else? It was where he greeted his fans. Nick was the local celeb, the Menopause Lounge his hangout, that barstool his throne. He was talking to a redhead young enough to be his daughter, his hands moving as fast as his lips.

  Maggie checked out the redhead as she approached. Early twenties, tanned, years younger than her. Cascades of orange hair down her back. Breasts like cannons. Nick liked long hair and tits. But Maggie didn’t mind, because he never touched, only looked.

  She sighed.

  “Maggie,” Nick said, “this is Stephanie.” She looked like a Stephanie, Maggie thought.

  “Hi,” the redhead said.

  “I’m starved,” Maggie said.

  “I’ve gotta go. See ya.” Stephanie jumped from the barstool, wiggling her ass for Nick when her feet hit the floo
r.

  “Kinda young,” Maggie said as the redhead flowed out the door.

  “Journalism student at Cal State.” Nick gave her his sloppy smile, ran a hand through his shocking white hair.

  “Pretty,” Maggie said.

  “She has the fire.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s like she’s totally focused, energy all flowing in one direction and Heaven help anyone who gets in her way.”

  “And where’s all this energy flowing to?”

  “A network anchor desk someday. I’d bet on it. But right now it’s flowing toward a group of high school kids who are selling big time drugs over at Wilson High School. She’s gone undercover to make a drug buy. We’re doing the story this afternoon, filming the bust live.”

  “How come you didn’t tell me?”

  “I didn’t want to worry you. I was going to tell you later, after it was over.”

  “You were gonna stand me up?” She looked into his eyes.

  “Gordon’s coming in at 3:00. He was going to keep you company till I got back. I’m sorry you came in early, I wanted to surprise you with the story on the idiot box up there.” He pointed to the flat screen mounted above the giant mirror behind the bar.

  “Surprise?”

  His cell phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket. “Nesbitt.” He listened for a few seconds, then, “I’ll be right there.” He slid off the barstool.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Gotta go. I’ll be back to watch the Six O’Clock with you. Don’t dance Gordon’s legs off.” Then he was out the door.

  “You two not fighting, are you?” It was Richard McPartland, AKA Skinny Dick, the bartender. He was a wisp of a man, thin but wiry, strong the way ex-cons are. He was bald, with saucers for eyes and a smile that opened up under a thick white mustache. He was sliding into sixty and had spent most of his adult life behind bars for this or that, he’d say, but he’d been going straight for the last five years and was the best bartender on the Coast. Ask him, he’d tell you.