Читать книгу Long Fall from Heaven - George Wier - Страница 9

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Micah Lanscomb’s home was a repossessed Airstream parked in the alleyway behind Cueball Boland’s pool hall. Its former silvery glory had dulled to a light orange, tarnished by the salt air from the Gulf, its buckled seams patched with various kinds of rubber cement—reds, blacks, translucents and grays. It looked like the tail section of a cooked lobster.

Micah’s boss, Cueball Boland, owner of NiteWise Security Company, banged on the wall outside the door. It was still dark out. The sodium arc light made an eerie shadow of his aging and solid frame. The sky above was mostly overcast but an occasional dim star shined through. Not that Cueball spent much time looking at stars.

“What?” The voice from inside was muffled and sleepy.

“Need to talk to you,” Cueball said.

No reply came. Instead the trailer creaked on its foundation of concrete pilings. Micah was getting himself up. Some day, Cueball thought, he would have to scrap the trailer and find proper quarters for his employee.

The door opened and Micah stood there in his underwear looking down at Cueball, his abdominal muscles rippling with his breathing. Micah shielded his eyes against the glare of the parking lot light. “Come in,” he said. “Give me a sec to get some clothes on.”

“Might as well put your security uniform on,” Cueball said.

Cueball entered and stood in the cave-like darkness of Micah’s living room. Micah shuffled off down the hallway and flicked on the light.

The room was neat as a pin—the way Micah kept everything with which he came in contact, be it possessions or relationships. From the bedroom, Cueball heard the sounds of hurried dressing and mild oaths.

“What gives?” Micah asked from down the hallway and a half-closed door.

“There’s been a killing,” Cueball said.

“Who?” Micah asked.

“Jack Pense.”

“Damn,” Micah responded. His bedroom door slapped the wall of the trailer and Micah’s long stride brought him into view.

“Rusty called and woke Myrna up a few minutes ago. Somebody broke into the DeMour warehouse. They knocked Jack on the head, tied him up, and then—just for good measure—beat him to death.”

“Shit,” Micah said. “Anybody told Jenny?”

“No,” Cueball said. “I’m sorry, Micah.”

“Yeah. Me, too. Anything stolen over there?”

“Don’t know. It’s a big warehouse. I told Rusty to hold off calling the cops until we’ve arrived.”

“Fine,” Micah said and moved toward the door, but Cueball slowed his advance with a gently raised hand.

“Now, I know your first instinct is to go and tell Jenny. But she doesn’t know yet and the news can keep for another few hours. Meantime, we’ve got work to do. Rusty is waiting for you in the warehouse. I’ll finish up his rounds for him, which shouldn’t take long, then meet you there. Not a word to anyone about this. After you’ve checked the place out, go ahead and call the local cops.”

“Okay,” Micah said. And that was that.

• • •

Jack Pense had retired from running an armored truck crew for Wackenhut Security ten years before. Too young for social security but with not enough income to support himself and his common-law wife, Jennifer Day, Jack had come to work for Cueball Boland’s security firm a week after he was pensioned off.

During the drive to the warehouse on the back side of the Island, Micah summoned up an image of Jack’s face—round, tired and somewhat pained. Mostly what he associated with him were a stack of read and re-read Sackett and Longarm novels and the stubs of chewed Muriel Magnum cigars. Also, he had known for years that Jack sometimes laced his on-the-job coffee with Southern Comfort and that he probably took too many pain pills, but who could blame him? Jack’s ruptured discs and three fused vertebrae weren’t imaginary. Jack’s favorite topic was his injuries and his general health. He could be downright expansive on the subject. Aside from this, Micah’s and Jack’s conversations mainly kept to football, old western movies, and the antics of Depression era desperadoes such as Bonnie and Clyde, Raymond Hamilton, and Joe Palmer.

Micah had liked Jack Pense. Micah didn’t like many people.

“Damn,” he told the Island. It said nothing in return. It lay mocking and silent in the haze of the breaking dawn, a little exotic, a little seedy, and—as always—a little menacing. To his right and slightly over his shoulder, the sky and the horizon waters of the Gulf glowed with coming light while ahead loomed the grim, gray silhouette of the DeMour warehouse. “Damn,” he said once again.