Blood of the Albatross Page 25

  Kepella missed the surprise in her voice.

  “I thought I would be allowed to pick,” Marlene said.

  He shrugged. “My turn.”

  They both stepped out of the car. Kepella pulled his raincoat closed and tied the belt. He opened the Yellow Pages to the motel section, closed his eyes, and stabbed the page. Marlene saw her chance. “Which is that?” she asked. She reached down and carefully placed her chemically coated fingertip on the name of the motel—The Westside Motel—and rotated it once, as Holst had schooled her.

  Back in the car, she said, “Roy, do you suppose we might stop somewhere and have a drink or two?”

  He glanced over at her, a line of sweat caught in a crease of his forehead. “Why?”

  She thought, Why indeed? “I could use a drink.”

  “Me too.” Kepella pulled into Tommy’s Steaks and parked. He was thirsty.

  It felt as if it might rain.

  ***

  Jay sat around Jocko’s apartment all day, his boredom mounting with each passing hour, thinking about the fire. Jocko had gone off for a bucket of chicken. Jay couldn’t help thinking of what he had lost: some love letters; lyrics to several dozen songs, now kept only in his head; family memorabilia; photos; correspondence; thrift store clothes with memories of a decade of performances woven into the seams. None of this was earth-shattering. Nonetheless, he was devastated. Larry the Lizard had died in the fire; “the forest” was ashes—his green friends he had cared for were gone.

  Jocko had doted on him like a good Jewish mother. Drink this. Eat this. Think this. Finally, he had sulked out, grumping about doing some shopping.

  The heart, Jay realized, is the only true test of anything. Your heart knows what matters. His heart told him that Marlene was innocent and in trouble. In over her head. She needed him. He no longer believed she was sleeping with Holst. That had been a clever line to get rid of him. And it had worked. He strapped the switchblade to his left calf as Jocko had shown him and left the apartment, climbing aboard The Streak and heading off toward Shilshole. He would change things, once for and all.

  He rode for fifteen minutes. Once there he hid behind a Winnebego that was parked on the far side of the parking area, directly across from Pier L, and waited, trying to build up his nerve. The sun sat above the horizon ready to be extinguished by Puget Sound. As he was trying to decide what to do, he saw Marlene leave The Lady Fine and start in his direction. Holst followed slowly behind her.

  The two climbed into separate cars and caravanned out of the parking lot, Marlene’s Eagle in the lead. Jay jumped onto The Streak and set off at top speed, helmeted head down, pedals flying. Both cars traveled down Market Street. Due to the unusually heavy traffic Jay was able to stay with them, electing to remain a block behind. By Oswego he had sweated through his shirt and the seat of his pants and thought he might blow a ventricle.

  When Holst finally pulled over, Jay hopped off The Streak and jogged in place to keep his legs from cramping. He watched as Marlene transferred to an old junker of a car. It was Roy’s car—the same car he had followed the night before. A few blocks later she and Roy got out at a Shell station and a minute later they were back on the road. There was no way to follow them without passing Holst, so he swallowed his urge and decided to stay with the German instead. Now he knew they were all connected. But how? Marlene was obviously involved in something, just as Jocko had said. Tonight she was dressed to kill, and suddenly Jay didn’t necessarily want to know the rest.

  Holst drove across the street to the phone booth at the Shell station. Ah-ha, Jay thought, a message. Then Holst removed a vacuum cleaner—or something—from his car and took it with him to the phone booth. A minute later he got in the car and drove away.

  The chase began again.

  Fifteen minutes later Holst pulled into The Westside Motel, parked, and entered the office. Three or four minutes later, he emerged and pulled his car around to one of the rooms and parked again. Lugging some gear, he disappeared into a room. Jay leaned The Streak against a tree and hid in the bushes. A motel?

  ***

  Holst had spent the better part of the day working on his false identification. His only real problem had been finding a convincing badge, a problem he solved by renting a police hat from a costume shop. The hat’s badge looked authentic enough for a quick flash. He had pinned the badge into a thin identification wallet and had practiced flipping it open. His performance was convincing. Once he flashed the badge, the woman night clerk, a nervous Oriental, agreed to his every request.

  He took his gear first to room 114. He placed the voice-activated tape recorder inside a towel under the bed, hoping the sound on the video would be enough but wanting this as a backup in case. The video camera presented a bigger problem. He measured the wall carefully and worked speedily, knowing he had only thirty or forty minutes. He drilled a two-inch hole in the sheetrock, removed the insulation from the stud wall, and then drilled into the wall directly behind where the mirror had hung. He brushed away the sawdust and mounted a two-way mirror he had bought. Mylar on Plexiglas. It looked fine: as cheap as the rest of the place. From room 115, he trained the video camera through the newly drilled hole and focused. When the TV had warmed up, he was looking at a dark picture of an empty room 114. He adjusted the camera’s aperture.

  ***

  Marlene wore a white dress with blue fleur-de-lis in neat and patterned rows. Her hair was in a bun and held in place with a jeweled skewer. Her smile, contrived as it was, sparkled in the soft light of the cocktail lounge. A piano player earned his keep in the corner. Kepella lifted his glass and drank. “Did you think about what I said?”

  She stared at the table, a thick coat of polyurethane covering the imitation boat hatch. “A great deal.”

  “And?”

  “I do not know how to help.”

  “Holst is running the deal, isn’t that right?”

  She shook her head. “I do not understand why you would care to know any of this.”

  “To protect myself. To protect both of us. If something goes wrong—if I’m busted—I need a way out of all of this. I told you before, we both may need a way out.”

  “Nothing will go wrong.”

  “I wish I had your confidence. Don’t forget I used to work for the Bureau.”

  She placed her hands in her lap. She wanted Holst stopped. She knew that much. But if she missed her chance at him, then who would punish him? “Holst runs it.”

  Kepella kept the smile off his face. She had broken. Just as he had guessed, she was no professional; she was being used; she was all alone. He knew the feeling. “They’re using you, aren’t they? What do they have on you, Marlene?”

  “Why do you keep asking that?”

  “I assume you are what we call the ‘resident expert.’ You’re the one who can verify what I give you. Isn’t that right?”

  “It might be.” She sipped the drink nervously and finished it, her second. She wasn’t accustomed to two mixed drinks.

  Kepella raised a hand, ordered them both another. The base of his skull was warm and numb. “So they’re using you…”

  She wanted to say, You don’t know the half of it. Instead, she said, “No.”

  “What do they have, Marlene? Personal? Family? Business?”

  “Family,” she admitted.

  Now we’re getting somewhere, he thought. “You want to tell me about it?”

  “No. What do they have on you?”

  “A gambling debt. It’s very large. That’s why I suspected Holst. I think he rigged the games.”

  “He did. That is all I am going to tell you, Mr. Kepella. No more. Now you will trade?”

  “Of course.” He raised his glass to hers and they toasted. “I’m far too much in debt, and to the wrong people, not to play along. Like you, I have no choice.” He waited. “And the kid? How does he fit into it?”

  She spilled some of her drink. She told herself not to drink anymore, but took a sip anyw
ay. “I don’t know who you are talking about.”

  “Jesse Becker.”

  She glared across the table. “Jay had nothing to do with this.”

  “But…”

  “No more, Mr. Kepella. Ask me no more questions, please.” She checked her watch. A red flag went up in Kepella’s dulled brain. He thought it odd she should check her watch. “Can we please leave now?” she asked.

  “This was your idea,” he reminded her.

  “Please.”

  Kepella paid for the drinks and helped her with her jacket. He felt like kicking his heels together. Progress at last. It was beginning to fit together.

  ***

  Kepella opened the door to 114 with the key the Oriental desk clerk had given them.

  Marlene flicked on the light. The bed occupied most of the room, save for a chest of drawers and a color television. The bathroom was at the far end of the room, behind a white door. Kepella closed the door. She opened her briefcase, and the two of them sat side by side, examining the papers Kepella had given her. She seemed concerned only with two or three specific computer boards that drove the laser, and Kepella realized how knowledgeable she was. He answered a few questions and she paid him the balance of the money.

  “What about the method?”

  Kepella resisted. He felt like a traitor now—no more role-playing. He was giving away state secrets—that fact was inescapable. He felt his palms sweat, his pulse increase. “Satellite,” he said.

  She removed a small notepad and pen from the briefcase. “Deployment?”

  He looked around the room, trying to avoid giving the answer. Funny, he thought, there’s a strip of paint beneath the mirror that hasn’t faded. Somebody probably broke the mirror and the motel had replaced it. Shitty-looking mirror, though, dull and gray. “Space shuttle deployment of the first working model is scheduled for September.”

  She looked up. “Are you certain?”

  “They will let it leak that it’s another spy satellite. All the attention will be on Florida. A second shuttle will be launched from the California site at the same moment. They hope to catch the Soviets with their pants down.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Just an expression. Off guard… they hope to surprise them.”

  “Yes. I see.” She took notes, a shorthand Kepella didn’t recognize. “September?”

  “Barring any other shuttle delays. Yes, last week in September, I believe.”

  “Do you have working plans?”

  “No, not complete plans. They have them spread around the country to prevent any one supplier from seeing the full picture. We have Zelco Industries here. They provide the gasses. I can give you that. That’s all I have.” He took off a shoe and handed her the folded paper.

  She studied it for several minutes. “This is excellent. I will see they pay you a bonus for this.”

  “They?” he tried.

  She looked quickly over her shoulder, toward the mirror.

  Kepella made the connection then. Glancing down, he saw traces of saw dust on the rug, below the chest of drawers. He might have missed it if the mirror had fit.

  He jumped up, hurried out the door, and, before Marlene could react, kicked in the door to room 115. He rushed over to the VCR. Just as he reached for it he heard, “Do not touch the equipment, Roy. It would be a fatal mistake.”

  Holst stood in the doorway, a small semi-automatic pistol in hand.

  “Bastard,” Kepella spit.

  “I could not take your word, now could I, Roy? Insurance, is what it is. Marlene told me you were thinking of cutting our business deal short. I cannot allow that, Roy. You are far too valuable. Now, with this tape, you will help me until I say stop. Is that clear?”

  “Bastard.”

  Holst waved Kepella away from the equipment with the gun, and then shut the door. “Go back inside, Roy. Marlene will tell you what we want next.”

  “And what if I refuse?”

  “I will kill you so that it looks like suicide. I will expose an edited version of the tape.”

  Kepella, a little drunk, walked back into 114 and shut the door. Marlene’s eyes said, Now you know how it feels… how it really feels.

  Holst checked to see that the machine was still running. No use losing good footage. He could see the resignation written on Kepella’s face. He stepped out for a cigarette. It was then he heard the sneeze. Someone was in the bushes…

  ***

  Jay felt the sneeze coming. Christ! He tried everything, pinched his nose, sucked air through it, even rammed a finger up his nostril, trying to quell the itch. He had seen the whole thing: Roy furious; Holst with a gun.

  And then he sneezed. He saw Holst look up toward him.

  “Stop!” Holst shouted.

  Jay scrambled up the hill toward The Streak, jumped on, and pedaled away.

  “Stop!”

  He heard the car fire up and the tires squeal. Holst was coming after him.

  He headed west on 57th Street, making ninth gear by 33rd Avenue. In the twilight, in the tiny rearview mirror mounted on his helmet, he suddenly saw Holst’s car. A horn blasted in his left ear. He looked up just as he ran a red light. A car was approaching from his left, another from his right. Nowhere to go. He squeezed the rear brake gingerly and laid The Streak down into an intentional fall. The car on his left swerved and missed him. He kept his balance perfectly, sitting on the high side of the bike as it skidded on a pedal and handlebars, holding on with all his strength to keep it from bucking into a somersault. The car to his right swerved as well, and was suddenly aimed right for him. He ducked. His shoulder grabbed the pavement as he slid under the car’s front bumper, his helmet hitting the front license plate. He slid to a stop, his scuffed-up shoulder bleeding. The leg of his jeans was shredded and pain screamed from his right knee. Then the pain disappeared—he felt only adrenaline pumping. He looked around. Holst was out of his car, looking into the jam of traffic. Their eyes met. Jay popped the wounded Streak back up, threw his hurt leg over the bar, and took off. The pedal was bent slightly, as was the brake handle, but the bike had come through it surprisingly well. He looked back. Holst’s car pulled out and jumped up onto the sidewalk, bypassing the congested traffic. It knocked over a newspaper vending machine.

  Jay shifted gears.

  Holst passed the third car back.

  Jay looked behind again, pumping now as hard as he could. He began passing cars on the right, eyes alert for anyone pulling out in front of him. He put several cars between himself and Holst. Then Holst made his move. He swung into the oncoming lane of traffic and took three cars to his right, jamming his way back into traffic amid a flurry of horns.

  Jay shifted again and leaned forward across the handlebars, keeping his head low to cut the wind. He took two cars. Holst picked up another car, and was only three cars back.

  Then Jay saw trouble ahead. A car had pulled out from a parking lot and was waiting for a break in traffic. Jay took a second too long to judge the distance. No way to beat the car; no way to squeeze by. He grasped the rear brake handle and made it bite, locking, releasing, locking, releasing—tight little controlled skids. When he had slowed sufficiently, he threw The Streak into a right turn, his leg ready to break his fall if she slipped out from under him. He cleared the rear bumper by inches and made a swift arc in the parking lot, realizing this was exactly the right tactic. Now he was headed in the opposite direction from Holst. He poured it on, downshifting and cutting through the lot to 37th. He backtracked on 60th and turned right onto 35th.

  No sign of Holst. Jay did one of his controlled bike lifts, jumping the curb at a slow speed, and hurried down an alley beside The Tam, a club he had played a few years ago. He braked to a stop, locked The Streak to a fire escape, and pounded loudly on the rear fire door, which was also the stage door. Otis Read, a string bean of a man who played left-handed guitar, opened the door. Otis cracked a joke about Jay Becker of The Rocklts trying to steal the show. Jay had in
terrupted Otis’s set. The crowd laughed. Noticing Jay’s bloodied shoulder and knee, Otis told him to go get a drink and clean himself up. The crowd laughed again.

  34

  “I’m gonna do it.” Jay pulled on a pair of Jocko’s jeans. His shoulder hurt. His knee hurt. His knuckles hurt. He balled his hands together and blew into them to warm the knuckles. That helped.

  “What is it with you?”

  “Somebody’s got to get her out.”

  “So who chose you?”

  “I did.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Listen, Rocks. You and I have been debating my life for the past few nights. We both agreed that the choice is a simple one: I can choose to do things for me and put on the coat and tie and go earn a decent salary in some office with wall-to-wall and an IBM PC; or I can hang in there—play music—and continue to do it for them, the proverbial them. So maybe I’m close to a decision.”

  “You’ve fallen for Marlene, haven’t you? You’ve lost it.”

  “That’s rhetorical. I have to talk to her. The question is: Are you going to help or not?”

  “Of course. I’ll follow you in the van.”

  “Now I don’t follow you.”

  “If we ride together, we’re screwed. If I back you up, maybe I can call in the cavalry.”

  “You’re a good shit, Jocko.”

  “I know.”

  Jay had been tossed out a window and his apartment had been burned, yet something in him refused to walk away from this. He didn’t want to call it love—to him it was more like seeing something through. A single moment, now several weeks back, had changed everything: he had cracked up a friend’s car, gone into debt, and taken a day job. He looked up at his friend. “What the hell do we live for if we can’t help someone like. Marlene?”

  “Ourselves,” Jocko returned.

  “I’m serious.”

  “You’re morose when you’re serious.”

  “What if she needs us?”

  “Hey, I’m not arguing with you. But don’t forget: she may not want help. I’ll go as far as supporting you to find out. But you’ve got to keep your eyes open. If she’s into something and she’s using you, then you’ve got to see that and get the fuck out of this. These guys are playing serious. I’ve been around shit like this; you haven’t. Helping Marlene to get out is one thing. Becoming involved would be a big mistake.”