Читать книгу Sunset People - Herbert Kastle - Страница 11

The cab sped west on Olympic, carrying Frank Berdon home from his shop. It was almost ten o’clock. He stayed open late Fridays, and had also taken his time closing up. He much preferred work to home lately.

It had been a hot day, but in typical Los Angeles manner had cooled rapidly at dusk. Now it was mild and pleasant, and Frank sat away from the direct whip of air from the open window.

He was flung to the side as the cab turned sharply north, toward the Hollywood Hills.

He righted himself, a heavy man of thirty-six, on the short side, which made him look even heavier. A balding man with a round, pink, almost cherubic face who smiled often, as he did now, catching the driver’s eyes on him in the rear-view mirror. A man who rarely meant his smiles, as he certainly didn’t now. The cabby was big and surly and drove with an aggressiveness which seemed directed as much toward his fare as toward the traffic. And there was very little traffic.

Especially on this side street, one lane in each direction, along which the cabby sped, before braking to a sudden stop for the traffic light. Frank was flung forward, and back. Again he smiled for the pugnacious eyes in the rear-view mirror, but they jerked left, toward the window. Another car, traveling in the same direction, was pulling alongside them, half in the opposite lane.

“Excuse me,” a voice called. “How do we get to Santa Monica?”

The car held two men in the front seat; the passenger was doing the speaking.

“City or street?” the cabby asked, and inched the cab forward against the soon-to-change light. The other car inched forward even more.

“Street,” the man said, and put his arm out the window. The cabby said, “Jesus, no!” and twisted the wheel toward the car. Frank saw a long shadow at the end of the man’s pointing hand, and then it jerked. The cab jerked too, into the car, but too late. The cabby slumped over the wheel.

Frank was jolted; there was a brief grinding of metal; the cab stalled.

Headlights were coming toward them.

The two men in the car were arguing. The passenger was opening his door, or trying to since the cab had jammed it. “. . . fell on the street,” he was saying. The other snapped, “Fuck it!” and backed up, freeing his vehicle with another brief rending of metal; then he screeched forward and out of the way of the approaching auto.

Frank watched it speed off, and watched the approaching car pass without slowing. He got out and leaned toward the driver’s window. The man’s face rested against the steering wheel. It dripped blood. But it was the back of his head which made Frank jerk away. There was no back; just a big wet hole.

Frank stepped on something that almost turned his ankle. He bent and picked up a pistol, unnaturally long.

Another car was coming, this time from behind the cab.

Frank hesitated an instant; then stooped low and ran around the front of the cab and across the intersection. He put his hand with the gun inside his jacket, and kept running until he saw the alley.

He turned into it, panting, and looked back. The approaching car simply pulled around the cab and kept going.

Another car came up and stopped behind the cab; the traffic light had changed to red again.

Frank began walking through the alley. He would try to find a cab, but he was close enough to walk home in about half an hour.

A horn blew several impatient blasts back on the street. Frank was startled, and came to a stop. He took hand and gun from under his jacket, and stared at the weapon. His face was oily with sweat.

The horn blew again. Frank loosened his belt and jammed the gun under it, on the left hip, butt forward. He buttoned his jacket and began walking again, carefully, differently, because of pressure on that left hip and thigh.

He came out of the alley and turned north on the dark street. He was alone. People didn’t walk in Los Angeles at night. Only an occasional prostitute.

He began to feel ill.

Footsteps sounded. His head jerked around. A woman was strolling on the other side of the street: young, dressed in tight pants, blouse, and very high heels. She was blonde and pretty, and glanced across at him.

He heard heavy breathing. His own.

The girl turned and began walking the other way.

Strolling. Walking the street. Up and back.

He opened his jacket and stepped into the street. He was ready to cross . . . when headlights flared and a car pulled to the curb beside the girl. The driver said, “Sorry I’m late. They tried to make me work another shift. How’s that sweet mother of yours?” And they were gone.

Frank buttoned his jacket and walked north. Nausea tickled his gullet. His head throbbed.

Near the corner he gagged, bent to the curb, and threw up.

Tacos and enchiladas for dinner. And that cabby’s head . . .

He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and stood still. The little eyes in the big face blinked. Then, slowly, he continued walking toward Sunset Boulevard, the Strip, the Hollywood Hills.