Ken Douglas - Dead Ringer

“What?” the bartender said.

“It’s a sign. My brother’s favorite song. He’s trying to tell me something.”

“You want another shooter?”

“Naw. I was gonna call my boss, then get drunk, but now I’m gonna call a girl instead.”

“I hear ya.” He put four quarters on the bar.

“Wish me luck.” Horace scooped up the coins, headed for the phone. Most things Horace forgot right away, but he had a head for phone numbers.

“This better be good,” Sadie said instead of hello. “It’s the middle of the night and I have to work in the morning.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

“Horace?”

“You know my voice?”

“I don’t exactly tell all the men I meet to call. Of course, I know your voice.”

Horace was flattered. “I’m in kind of a spot, plus I feel about as low as hound dog at the bottom of an outhouse.”

“That sounds pretty low.”

“I could use some company.”

“Where are you?”

“You know that cowboy bar out by the pier?”

“Give me ten minutes.” She hung up.

Now his wounds didn’t hurt so much. He signaled the bartender, raised a finger to let him know he wanted another drink. He gulped the shooter, then dialed Striker’s number. He wanted business out of the way before he saw Sadie. Striker sounded like he was out of breath when he answered. Horace told him about his evening.

“So, you okay?” Striker said when Horace was finished with the telling.

“I think so.” He ran his hand along the wound in his side. “Feels like the bullet seared along my rib cage, like I was cut with a knife, but it didn’t enter. And I got a graze on the forehead, bled like a pig, but I got it under control. I just saw that gun in her hand and started back-peddling. I was lucky. That’s one tough bitch.”

“And you say she looks like the Kenyon woman?”

“I only got a quick look, but yeah, except for the hair, it’s her. Must be twins, only thing I can think of.”

“Margo Kenyon didn’t have any sisters. Maggie Nesbitt didn’t either.”

“They sure look alike,” Horace said.

“They say everyone’s got a double,” Striker said. Then, “Regarding the gunshots. You should be in the clear. A black-and-white responded. Neighbors heard shots, but nobody knew from where.”

“How do you know this stuff so fast?”

“I was a cop a long time. I got friends.”

“I left a lot of my blood up there.”

“Any prints?”

“No.”

“So, it’s not a problem. When the news guy gets home and sees the mess, he’ll call the cops, but so what?”

“What about the woman?”

“That is a problem.” Striker told Horace about the woman he’d followed into the liquor store and how she had dark hair. Then he told him about the car chase and how he saw the Porsche crash into the sea. “But apparently she didn’t die,” he added, “because I was outside that duplex. I heard the shots and saw the same woman run out. I followed her and the guy from downstairs out to a warehouse by the airport, then I lost ’em.”

“So, who’s the broad, the news guy’s wife or the Kenyon bitch?” Horace said.

“She was Margo Kenyon this morning and Maggie Nesbitt this evening,” Striker said.

“Something real hinky is going on.”

“Yeah,” Striker said.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Stay put. I’ll put the Japs on it. They’ve been dying to help, now we’ll find out if they’re as good as they say they are.”

“No, I started it, I’ll finish it.”

“When?”

“This time tomorrow she’ll be toast. You can count on it.” Horace didn’t want the Japs involved. If they took care of it, maybe Striker wouldn’t need him anymore.

“Alright. I’ll keep them in reserve. And don’t blame yourself about tonight, no way you coulda known she’d be in the bathroom with a gun. It was just bad luck.”

“Yeah, bad luck.” Horace grimaced. His side was killing him.

“Stay cool,” Striker said. “If we pull this off, we’re gonna have enough money to go live on a Caribbean island for the rest of our lives, sun, sea and more girls than you’ll know what to do with.”

“Right.”

Striker hung up.

Horace thought about the conversation as he replaced his own receiver. Striker had talked to him like a partner, not like an employee. Why did he do that? Was there a lot more in this for him, or was Striker just setting him up? He sighed. And how come Striker took off following the broad after he’d heard the gunshots? Who the fuck did he think the bitch was shooting at anyway?

Horace shrugged. Maybe Striker didn’t hear the shots. Maybe he did and didn’t think about the consequences. Whatever, point is he’d never known Striker to lie. If he said there was gonna be a big payoff, there was gonna be a big payoff.

For a second his thoughts were clouded with the boy. That was bad. No kid should have to die. But then he thought about what Striker had said. The sun, sea and more girls than he could count. Sometimes sacrifices had to be made.

“Horace.” Sadie climbed up on the barstool next to him.

“Hi.” He touched the makeshift bandage on his forehead with a finger, then put the finger to his lips.

“Gotcha.” She knew enough not to say anything in front of others. Horace admired that.

“Let’s get a booth.”

“No, let’s go to my place. You look like you could use some serious attention.”

“Nobody’s ever asked me to their place just like that.”

“We’ll talk about it after we get there. Come on.” She took his hand and led him to the door.

“My van’s in the Safeway lot.” Horace had trouble walking straight.

“We’ll take mine. How much have you had to drink?”

“Three shooters. It’s mostly shock.” He looked across the street, pointed at his van. “Will they tow it?”

“Not until it’s been there a couple days.” She opened the passenger door to a baby blue, beat up Toyota.

Horace got in.

Two minutes and two blocks later she parked in front of a single family house on Bennett Avenue. The house was sandwiched between a duplex and an apartment building. The apartments looked new. The Shore was crowded, parking was at a premium.

“How’d they get the zoning?” Horace said as she put on the parking brake.

“Owner’s brother knows somebody on the city council.” She got out of the car.

“Figures,” Horace muttered. He got out too, followed her up the walk.

The house was built in the ’30s. The furniture looked like it was from the same period, from the sofa and the wing chairs to the baby blue, flower print carpet. Horace shook his head. The rug was the same color as the car. She turned toward him, smiled. Her eyes, too.

“What happened to you?” She wasn’t accusing, just inquisitive.

“I was shot.”

She gasped. “Did you call the police?”

“I can’t. It was a cop that did it.”

She gasped again.

“It’s not what you think. I was working for his wife, trying to catch him with a hooker in one of those motels downtown. You know the type, they play dirty movies, have mirrored ceilings and waterbeds. Anyway,” Horace continued with the bullshit, “I bribed the desk clerk for the key. I figured to open the door, get a couple of shots with my Nikon and be out of there before he had a chance to get his pants on. But it didn’t work out the way I planned.”

“What happened?” She was all ears now.

“He started shooting the second I pushed the door open. Got me twice, the forehead and a grace across my side. If I wouldn’t a started back peddling so fast, I’d a been a dead man.”

“I used to be a nurse. Let me see.”