Chapter 11
Suzanne stepped into the chilly night. She drew a deep, free breath and looked around. She was in an alley behind a run-down old house. There were streets at either end of the alley. She headed for the better lighted of the two, walking gingerly over the sharp cinders that surfaced the alley.
At the corner she peered around. It didn't look like a good neighborhood. The streets were deserted and there were few cars parked along them. She debated standing there until a car came along. Then she remembered that she hadn't locked the door behind her! She almost turned to go back and do it, but couldn't force herself near the place of her humiliation. Visions of Craft leaping out at her stopped her.
Irresolutely she gnawed her lip. She was a little afraid to step out into the street so naked. But she was more afraid of staying where she was, so near her captor. She squared her shoulders and stepped into the street, turning right and walking rapidly along the sidewalk. She turned at the next corner, angling away from the little building in the alley, trying to put as many corners between herself and Craft as possible.
She walked along for several blocks, wishing a police car would come along. None did. A truck came by but she ducked behind a stack of loading crates. It didn't have the look of a rescue vehicle. The men she glimpsed in the cab were hard and rough - worker types. She was almost as afraid of them as of being left. She came to another corner and walked rapidly around it. Before she could stop, she had bumped directly into a group of dark figures standing on the corner. There was mutual silence for a minute. Suzanne could see that they were men - mostly young. Several had long hair, and the two black men in the group had Afros.
"What you doing here, girl? And half naked?"
It was a black man who spoke. Suzanne was almost petrified with fear. "Please," she said, her voice unsteady. "M'm being f-f-followed. There's a man after me. He had me tied up. He's trying to kill me."
A blond young man stepped forward. "What are you talking about? Who's following you?"
The black man put his hand on the blond's arm. "Leave her be, Harry. We don't want to get mixed up in anything."
Harry shook his arm free. "The girl's fucked up on something. She needs help, man."
"Leave her be. We can't stand no heat right now."
Suzanne stepped toward the man called Harry. "Please. Just get me away f-from here. There's a man who's trying to kill me. Just take me somewhere I can get help. I won't say anything about you."
Harry looked at Suzanne silently a moment. "Is that blood on that shirt?"
"Yes. I hit him with a jar."
Harry spoke over his shoulder. "Louis, get the truck."
"Hey, man," the black said. "What you doin'?"
"I'm going to help this chick. She's in no shape to go wandering around down here."
"Well if you do, baby, the whole deal's off."
"Take it up with Willis. You're the one wanting to sell. We'll take our business elsewhere."
There was the sound of a motor and a van pulled out of a nearby alley. It was painted red, white, and blue and had a large peace symbol emblazoned on its side.
Harry took Suzanne by the arm. "C'mon, chick. Get in the truck."
Gratefully, Suzanne did so.
Roger drove through the night-time Los Angeles traffic. He was headed south, down La Brea avenue. Heading for a hunch.
He had sent Flo off into Silverlake to check out a name that he had heard Craft use once, and which they had found listed in the phone book. Phyllis was cruising Hollywood Boulevard, checking out the skin-book stores and the dirty movie houses. Craft had a fondness for such places. Tom Baumler was at his office, making discreet telephone calls to business acquaintances of his who were good at finding things - and people - in a hurry, no questions asked.
And Roger was following a memory. Months earlier, he had heard Craft mention a hideaway. A place where he could "do his thing" in privacy. Roger had assumed then that Craft had meant shooting up. But in the light of tonight's events, he was afraid that Craft's "thing" might be something other than dope.
Roger had connected that casual reference to two seemingly unrelated events. The abrupt departure of two other girls who had moved into Craft's apartment building earlier in the year, and a bill. At the time, Roger had not suspected anything because of the girls leaving. Girls came to Hollywood and discovered that the big city wasn't for them all the time. And most of them, when they left, did so suddenly and without fanfare. But Roger doubted that many of them left with water in the tub and all of their clothes still hanging in the closet.
The second incident was the specific reason that Roger was driving into the southern part of town. He had picked up the mail a few months earlier and had noticed a rent-due card addressed to Walter Craft. The address was in a seedy industrial neighborhood and Roger had wondered idly if this were the location of Craft's hideaway. He was soon to find out.
He pulled up to a light and waited for it to change to make his turn. A red, white, and blue van cut across his path, headed north. He swung slightly to miss it and cursed in an absent manner.
Still following his memory, Roger turned up and down the dim streets until he passed one whose name jangled in his mind. He wasn't positive it was the street on the card, but it seemed familiar. He did, however, remember that the street number was twenty-two something, and that it ended with "rear."
He cruised a few blocks east until he reached the twenty-one hundred block. Then he parked and locked the car and stepped off into the night. He walked slowly up and down the twenty-two hundred block. There were only two possibilities. A house, old and boarded up, and an apartment building. After a moment's thought, Roger Watlington discarded the apartment building. If Craft were seeking a hideaway, he would avoid neighbors.
Roger shifted the chamois-wrapped pistol to his right front pocket and took off his jacket. He folded it neatly, laid the chamois on top of it, and set the bundle on a garbage can. Then he rolled the neck of his sweater up to his eyes and stepped into the shadows. In his black clothing he was nothing more than a darker part of the night.
Moving lightly, he stepped to the rear of the house. Nothing. It, too, was boarded up. There was a small loading dock against the rear door. Obviously the place was used for storage. And equally obviously, there was no "rear" to this building. No place for even an inhabitable room.
He swung around and examined the night. Across the alley stood a small stone building. It had no windows. But it did have a door, and there was a faint but unmistakable trace of light under it!
Roger moved cautiously across the cinders to the little building. He plastered himself against the wall and counted to ten. Nothing. He reached in his pocket and pulled the revolver. He slid along the wall to the door. He placed his ear against its surface. He could hear the faint hum of an air conditioner but nothing more.
Very carefully, he turned the knob. The door swung open more easily than he had intended, and instead of a cautious peek, he kicked it the rest of the way open and leapt through, landing in a crouch with the revolver sweeping the room and both hands on its grip. Then he stood, slowly, and lowered the pistol. Straw on the floor. A table with handcuffs locked to it. And blood. Blood and... jam? He bent and touched a finger to the gooey stuff. He sniffed. Strawberry jam!
He walked to the table and sat on it a minute. He was shaking visibly. His eyes glittered behind the turtleneck. He was thinking furiously... weighing the odds on Suzanne's being still alive... working out the probability of her having escaped... trying to plan his next move.
After a time, he jumped off the table and went to the door. He looked for a lightswitch but found none. He carefully locked the door from the inside and closed it behind him. Then he sprinted down the alley to the street, retrieved his jacket, and made it to the car. He let himself in and pushed off at a rapid rate, heading north again at the first available turn.