Ken Douglas - Dead Ringer

He punched nine, then Striker’s number.

No answer.

Horace clenched his teeth, stood and went back to the bathroom, where he pulled off the jacket. He didn’t want to get blood all over the motel room, too. The bloody shirt came after the jacket. He tossed it in the wastebasket. Then he took the still damp washcloth and dabbed at the wound. The bleeding had stopped. Another graze, but it hurt like hell.

His lucky night.

“Not,” he grumbled. He’d been shot, no luck there. But it could have been so much worse. Maybe he was lucky after all. Lucky the broad was such a lousy shot.

Convinced he didn’t have to go to the hospital, he picked up the bomber jacket from the floor, turned it inside out and scrubbed as much of the blood off the lining as he could with hand soap and the washcloth. Then he hung it over the shower railing. He loved that jacket.

He couldn’t have the maid come in tomorrow morning and find blood in the sink, so he washed it up. Then he rinsed out the cloth, wrung it out, dumped it in the trash.

The bathroom clean, he examined his wounds again. Although the bleeding had stopped, they were going to have to be bandaged or it would start up as soon as he strained himself or bumped into something. Besides, he could hardly walk around with that gash in his forehead.

In pain, but able to walk, he went out to the van, that too he was going to have to clean, but it could wait till he took care of himself. He had no first aid kit, but he had a tool box and in it a roll of duct tape. Back in the bathroom, he folded a clean washcloth and duct taped it over the wound on his side. Then using a utility knife from the tool box, he cut a one by two inch piece from one of the motel towels, placed it over the wound on his forehead and taped it into place.

Finished, he studied his handiwork in the mirror above the sink. He looked daring, he thought, like a pirate with that great hunk of grey tape covering his forehead. And unforgettable. That wasn’t good. He had more work to do this night and if seen, he didn’t want to be remembered.

Horace left the bathroom, went to the closet, where he pulled another pair of slacks from a hanger, another silk shirt. At the bureau, he took out a clean pair of Jockey shorts. He slipped off his loafers, stripped the pants and underwear from his body, thought about a shower, rejected the idea. He didn’t want to get the makeshift dressings wet. Then he put on the clean clothes and cleaned the blood out of the van, but he couldn’t clean away what he was setting out to do. Horrible as it was, he had no choice.

Twenty minutes later he drove by the Ocean View Towers on Ocean Avenue, a nineteen story luxury apartment complex on the beach. He parked half a block away and took the steps down to the beach. Stars lit the sky, the moon was up, a sliver of a sideways smile. He was on the sand, two stories below Ocean Avenue. He walked along the bike trail toward the Towers.

He missed his bomber jacket. He hated stuff in his pants pockets. Shit in pockets broke up the natural look of his profile, made him look cheap. He pulled the picks out of a hip pocket, grit his teeth and sauntered up to the Tower’s beach door. He had it open in seconds.

Inside, he walked through an underground parking garage. He was breathing heavily now, his side on fire. Walking was difficult, painful, as if stabs of hot fire were shooting from his side down his right leg with every step. He couldn’t walk without a limp. He caught his reflection in a round overhead mirror used to warn residents of cars coming around the ramp from the floor above. He looked like a stroke victim.

He shuffled to the elevator. Lifting his feet caused bolts of pain in his side. He pushed the call button. After a minute that seemed like a month, the doors opened. It was empty. He stepped in, pushed the button for the seventeenth floor.

During the ride up, he tried to shut out the pain. Eyes closed, he imagined a cool place. A ski lodge in the mountains. A log fire, girls laughing, drinking. By the time the doors opened, he was focused, the pain gone, for now. He didn’t know the time, didn’t have a watch, but he guessed it was around midnight, maybe a little later. He was taking a chance, he knew it. He’d left the Beretta back at the motel in case he got stopped by a cop because his driving wasn’t what it should be. A cop saw the tape on his forehead, he might search the van. Busted with a handgun was the last thing he needed.

He walked out of the elevator toward the Wolfe apartment. He stopped at the door, listened for the sound of a television, music, anything. Nothing was what he heard. Odds were they were asleep. Horace always played the odds. Again the picks were out.

Inside, the place was dark. He stood still as stone, left the door open a crack. He heard the steady breathing of someone in a deep sleep coming from the back of the apartment. Horace slipped off his loafers, walked to the full window which ran the length of the living room, looked out upon the beach, the sky, the stars, the moon.

This was the kind of view he could have if it wasn’t for Ma. She insisted on staying in Lakewood. And like a good son, Horace couldn’t leave her. He saw the lights of a small plane over the ocean. A night flyer. Horace loved flying in the dark. The sense of freedom.

All of a sudden he knew how he was going to do the kid. At first he’d planned on quietly smothering him in his sleep, but now he didn’t know if he could keep holding the pillow while the kid struggled.

There was a balcony to the right of the living room. Horace eased open the sliding glass door. It wasn’t locked. Stupid Mom. He stepped out into the night, went to the railing, looked down at the beach below.

Time for work.

Back in the apartment, he followed the sound of the sleepy breathing. There was a bedroom at the end of a hall. Mom was curled, all scrunched up with the covers. He backed out of her bedroom, found the kid’s room across from the bathroom.

Horace stood in the doorway for a second, then took three quick steps into the room and was at the kid’s bedside. A blanket went up to the kid’s waist. Horace pulled it down. It would be best if he could do this without waking him. A small mercy. Horace scooped his hands under the tiny body, lifted it.

A silent gasp as pain racked his ribs. Horace clenched his teeth as he made his way out to the living room. He moved through the apartment like an apparition, silent and quick. In seconds he was out on the balcony. The kid was still asleep. Horace resisted an urge to kiss his forehead.

The kid opened his eyes. Wide, afraid.

Horace tossed the boy into the night.

He fought puking his guts out as he took the elevator down to the parking garage. Outside, back on the beach, he heard someone screaming. Head down, he jogged along the bike trail to the stairs up to Ocean Boulevard. He pulled away from the curb expecting sirens. He didn’t hear them till he was past the Safeway, where Virgil had grabbed onto that bitch’s shopping cart.

If only he could go back and live that few minutes over, Virge would still be alive.

He turned into the Safeway parking lot, parked and locked the van. He crossed the lot to the country and western bar. Inside, he ordered a tequila shooter. He passed on the salt and lime, drank it straight down, ordered another. Then he saw the pay phone on the wall at the end of the bar.

“Got quarters?” He dropped a dollar on the bar.

“Guy over there’s been playing the juke all night,” the weightlifter of a bartender said.

“It’s for the phone.” Horace turned, saw a slim guy with dirty jeans and unkempt hair drop quarters into the jukebox. Springsteen started singing ‘Born in the USA.’ “A sign.” Horace tossed down the second drink.