Джонатан Келлерман - When the Bough Breaks

“She had tapes, Rafael. Where are they?”

“Hey, man, I don’ know shit about tapes.” He struggled to break loose. I slammed him against the wall again. “Oh, man, I’m hurting, just let me go fix myself up and then I talk to you about tapes. Okay, man?”

“No. I want to know now, Rafael. Where are the tapes?”

“I don’ know, man, I told you that!” He was whining like a three-year-old, snot faced and growing more frantic with each passing second.

“I think you do and I want to know.”

He bounced in my grasp, clattering like a sack of loose bones.

“Lemme go, motherfucker!” he gasped.

“Your sister was murdered, Rafael. Turned into hamburger. I saw pictures of what she looked like. Whoever did it to her took their time. It hurt her. And you’re willing to deal with them.”

“I don’ know what you’re talkin’ about, man.”

More struggling, another slam against the wall. He sagged this time, closed his eyes and for a moment I thought I’d knocked him out. But he opened them, licked his lips and gave a dry, hacking cough.

“You were off the stuff, Rafael. Then you started shooting up again. Right after Elena’s death. Where’d you get the dough? How much did you sell her out for?”

“I don’ know nothin’.” He shook spastically. “Lemme go. I don’ know nothin’.”

“Your own sister,” I said. “And you sold out to her murderers for the price of a fix.”

“Puleeze, mister. Lemme go.”

“Not until you talk. I don’t have time to waste time with you. I want to know where those tapes are. You don’t tell me soon I’ll take you home with me, tie you up and let you go cold turkey in the corner. Imagine that – think how bad you hurt now, Rafael. Think how much worse it’s going to get.”

He crumpled.

“I gave them to some dude,” he stuttered.

“For how much?”

“Not money, man. Stuff. He gave me stuff. Enough for a week’s fixing. Good stuff. Now lemme go. I gotta appointment.”

“Who was the guy?”

“Just some dude. Anglo. Like you.”

“What did he look like?”

“I don’ know, man, I can’t think straight.”

“The corner, Rafael. Tied up.”

“Twenny-five, six. Short. Built good, solid. Real straight-lookin’. Light hair, over the forehead, okay?”

He’d described Tim Kruger.

“Why did he say he wanted the tapes?”

“He dint say, man, I dint ask. He had good stuff, you unnerstand?”

“Didn’t you wonder? Your sister was dead and you didn’t wonder why some stranger would give you smack for her tapes?”

“Hey, man, I dint wonder, I don’ wonder. I don’ think. I just go flyin’. I gotta go flyin’ now. I’m hurtin’, man. Lemme go.”

“Did your brother know about this?”

“No! He kill me, man. You hurt me, but he kill me, you unnerstand? Don’ tell him!”

“What was on the tapes, Rafael?”

“I dunno. I don’ listen, man!”

On principle I refused to believe him.

“The corner. Tied up. Bone dry.”

“Jus’ some kid talkin’, man, I swear that’s it. I dint hear the whole thing, but when he offered me the stuff for them I took a listen before I gave them to the dude. Some kid talkin’ to my sister. She’s listenin’ and sayin’ tell me more and he’s talkin’.”

“About what?”

“I don’ know man. It started to get heavy, the kid’s cryin’, Elena’s cryin’, I switched it off. I don’ wanna know.”

“What were they crying about, Rafael?”

“I don’ know, man, something about how somebody hurt the kid, Elena’s asking’ him if they hurt him, he’s sayin’ yes, she’s cryin’, then the kid’s cryin’, too.”

“What else?”

“That’s it.”

I throttled him just hard enough to rattle his teeth.

“You wan’ me to make something’ up, I can do it, man, but that’s all I know!”

He cried out, snuffling and sucking for air.

I held him at arm’s length, then let go. He looked at me unbelievingly, slithered against the wall, found a space between the Chevy and a rusted Dodge van. Staring at me, he wiped his nose, passed between the two cars and made a run for freedom.

I drove to a gas station at Virgil and Sunset, filled up, and used the pay phone to call La Casa de los Niños. The receptionist with the upbeat voice answered. Slipping into a drawl I asked her for Kruger.

“Mr. Kruger isn’t in, today, sir. He’ll be in tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right! He told me he’d be off the day I got in.”

“Would you care to leave a message, sir?”

“Heck no. I’m an old friend from school. Tim and I go way back. I just blew in on a business trip – I’m selling tool and die, Becker Machine Works, San Antonio, Texas – and I was supposed to look old Tim up. He gave me his number at home but I must have lost it. Do you have it?”

“I’m sorry, sir, we’re not supposed to give out personal information.”

“I can dig that. But like I say, Tim and me are tight. Why don’t you call him at home, tell him old Jeff Saxon’s on the line, ready to drop in but stuck without the address.”

A clatter of ringing phones sounded in the background.

“One moment, sir.”

When she returned I asked her:

“You call him yet, ma’am?”

“No – I – it’s rather busy right now, Mr…”

“Saxon, Jeff Saxon. You call old Tim and tell him old Jeff Saxon’s in town to see him, I guarantee you he’ll be–”

“Why don’t I just give you the number?” She recited seven digits, the first two of which signified a beach cities location.

“Thank you much, I believe Tim told me he lived near the beach – that far from the airport?”

“Mr. Kruger lives in Santa Monica. It’s about a twenty-minute ride.”

“Hey, that’s not bad – maybe I’ll just drop in on him, kind of a surprise, what do you think?”

“Sir, I have to–”

“You wouldn’t happen to have the address? I tell you, it’s been one hell of a day, what with the airline losing my sample case and I’ve got two meetings tomorrow. I think I packed the address book in the suitcase, but now I can’t be sure and–”

“Here’s the address, sir.”

“Thank you much, ma’am. You’ve been very helpful. And you have a nice voice.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You free tonight?”

“I’m sorry, sir, no.”

“Fellow’s gotta try, right?”

“Yes, sir. Good-bye, sir.”

I’d been driving north for a good five minutes before I heard the buzzing. I realized, then, that the sound had been with me since I’d pulled out of the gas station. The rearview mirror revealed a motorcycle several lengths back, bouncing in the distance like a fly on a hot windshield. The driver twisted the handle accelerator and the fly grew like a monster in a Japanese horror flick.

He was two lengths behind, and gaining. As he approached I got a look at him, jeans, boots, black leather jacket, black helmet with full-face tinted sun visor that completely masked his features.

He rode my tail for several blocks. I changed lanes. Instead of passing, he hung back, allowing a Ford full of nuns to come between us. A half mile past Lexington the nuns turned off. I steered sharply toward the curb and came to a sudden stop in front of a Pup ’n Taco. The motorcycle sped by. I waited until he’d disappeared, told myself I was being paranoid, and got out of the Seville. I looked for him, didn’t see him, bought a Coke, got behind the wheel and reentered the boulevard.

I’d turned east on Temple headed for the Hollywood Freeway when I heard him again. Verifying his presence in the mirror caused me to miss the onramp, and I stayed on Temple, dipping under the bridge created by the overpass. The motorcycle stayed with me. I gave the Seville gas and ran a red light. He maintained his position, buzzing and spitting. The next intersection was filled with pedestrians and I had to stop.