Fugitive Page 10

  “Hey, Werner and I don’t want to be a problem so why don’t we get together for coffee when you’re finished.”

  “I don’t know, Gary. I’m awfully busy.”

  “I’m cool with that. If you don’t have time for coffee we’ll fly back East and see if an investigative reporter at the New York Times wants to discuss our confusion about the book over a double decaf mocha. To tell the truth though, we’d rather spend our time reminiscing with a pal about the good old days.”

  Charlie felt sick. A sheen of sweat formed on his forehead. “Maybe I can spare some time when I’m done.”

  “Great! There’s a restaurant two doors down. Werner and I can’t wait to hear all about the exciting life you’ve been leading. See you soon.”

  “Who were those guys?” Mickey Keys asked when Gary and Werner left without buying books.

  “Acquaintances from the old days. I’m going to grab a cup of coffee with them after the signing.”

  “Do you want me to come along?”

  “No. You and Delmar go back to the hotel.”

  “You sure you want to be alone with them?”

  “Positive. Believe me, Mickey, the less Gary and Werner know about you, the better off you are.”

  CHARLIE FOUND THE odd couple sitting in a booth in the back of the restaurant. Gary was nursing a cup of black coffee while Werner wolfed down a slab of pie. A plate with the cannibalized remains of a burger and fries was also sitting in front of the Neanderthal.

  “My man,” Gary said as Charlie slid into the booth. “You not only survived the big house but you’re looking prosperous.”

  Charlie shrugged. “The book’s only been out a few weeks. There’s no telling what might happen.”

  “Hey, don’t be modest. Newsweek reported you got a seven-figure deal for the book and another mil or so for the movie. Say, have you met Tom yet? What’s he like in person?”

  “That stuff about Tom Cruise is Hollywood bullshit, Gary. They’re negotiating. He hasn’t committed.”

  “That fucker can act,” Werner opined between mouthfuls of pie.

  “Yes, well, how are you? It’s been years.”

  “About five,” Gary said. “Werner and I took off after that muffed bank job. What a cluster fuck that was; one dead guard, one dead civilian, and no money.”

  Gary shook his head sadly. Then he perked up. “You know, there’s an incident in your book that vaguely resembles our fiasco. Werner and I got a kick out of the part where you dive behind that car, guns blazing. It reminded me of a scene in a John Woo flick. In fact, it’s almost identical to a scene in one of his movies. Funny thing though. Werner and I remember Freddy going into that bank with us but we don’t remember seeing you there. Of course, you were probably describing another bank job you pulled with Freddy and some other guys where a guard and a customer were killed.”

  “Well, you know, I had to disguise the events so the cops couldn’t use the book as a basis for an indictment.”

  “Yeah, I get that. The thing is Werner and I think some big publisher might be interested in our life stories now that your book is selling so well. It can be a whole new genre, Criminal Confessions. The only thing holding us back is our concern for you. If we tell our stories, some of our reminiscences might contradict your version of events. We’d feel real bad if our success created difficulties for you.”

  Charlie sighed. “Okay, Gary. Let’s stop fucking around. What do you want?”

  “A small piece of the pie, an opportunity to dip a crust of bread into the gravy train, a…”

  “Can you cut the crap? I get it. What do I have to do to get you and Werner to go away?”

  “We don’t really want to go away, Charlie. A big star like you should have an entourage.”

  Charlie snapped his head back and forth. “That’s not gonna happen.”

  “Sure it is. We figure we can testify at these seminars about how we were terrible criminals, corrupt to our very souls, until you helped us find our inner lights.”

  “No way.”

  Gary’s affable demeanor faded away. “Do you know what plagiarism is? Werner and I feel that you plagiarized our lives. That’s a crime, Charlie, and you know what they say: ‘If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.’ There’s also ‘Crime does not pay.’ It all boils down to the fact that there are consequences for bad acts. The consequence in your case is a tax on profits. You’ll pay a bit of it now and we’ll tag along to keep an eye on the receipts so we can decide how much the tax will be in the future.”

  “I’m not gonna do it. You go to the Times and see what they say. Who’s going to take your word over mine? I’m a hero, Gary. I saved a guard’s life.

  “And how are you going to prove I made this stuff up? A reporter will want specific facts about murders, armed robberies, and other crimes that would send you away forever. But say they believe you committed these crimes. That wouldn’t prove I made up the incidents in the book. I’d just say that my crimes were different from what you say you did. In my introduction I said I made the events vague and changed names and places to protect myself from getting charged with the crimes. So do your worst.”

  Gary turned red, which meant he was pissed off. Charlie had forgotten for a moment who he was dealing with, but he remembered now. Gary leaned across the table and lowered his voice.

  “If you think talking to a reporter is the worst thing I can do to you, you must have forgotten some of the things you’ve seen me do. Fuck with me and you’ll have to sleep with one eye open for the rest of your life.”

  Gary leaned back and let what he’d said sink in. “I’m going to forget how rude you’ve just been. We’ll see you tonight at your seminar at that fancy country club. That’ll give you a few hours to think.”

  Gary nodded to Werner, who vacuumed down what was left of his pie.

  “Pick up the check, will you?” Gary said.

  Charlie watched them leave. Then he closed his eyes and exhaled. How could he be so stupid? He’d been so full of himself lately that he’d forgotten what the world was really like. People like Sally Pope lived in Camelot, but he lived in the jungle, where he was prey and people like Gary and Werner were predators.

  CHAPTER 14

  Are you out of your mind?” Moonbeam asked Charlie, who was in the bedroom of his hotel suite, killing time before the seminar at the Westmont Country Club by quick-drawing a Ruger.357 Magnum Vaquero revolver. The engraved, stainless steel, ivory-handled gun weighed more than two pounds, had a six-inch barrel, and was a gift from the twentysomething wife of a septuagenarian Texas oilman. She had given it to Charlie after a night of intimacy following an Inner Light” seminar in Austin.

  “Relax, Moonbeam,” said Charlie, who almost choked whenever he used her “mystical” name.

  When they were in New Haven, Charlie had told “Moonbeam” that she could come to Oregon with his entourage. Now he deeply regretted the words he’d moaned in the heat of passion and he had decided to dump her when they moved on. “Moonbeam” might be great in bed but the rest of the time she was a bossy pain in the ass. The broad had also shaved her head, because she’d concluded-for reasons Charlie never understood-that her hair was impeding her spiritual growth. Charlie was definitely not turned on by bald women and he’d said so.

  “You’re an ex-con,” she persisted. “Having a gun violates the conditions of your parole. What if someone sees you?”

  “Do you think I’m stupid enough to carry in public? Delmar totes my piece when I’m out and about and he’s licensed to carry.”

  Charlie’s bodyguard was slouched on the sofa reading a sports magazine with an NBA star on the cover.

  “Haven’t you heard of the right to bear arms, bitch?” Delmar asked without looking up from the article he was reading. “Or didn’t you study the Constitution at your fancy Ivy League college?”

  Before Moonbeam could answer, the door to the suite opened and a waiter rolled in a serving cart with Charlie’s dinner. C
harlie froze in mid-draw. The waiter stared at the gun. Charlie whipped it behind his back.

  “Don’t they teach you to knock?” he shouted at the flustered server.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I did knock on the door to the suite. The man said I could…”

  “Yeah, yeah, just leave it,” Charlie said. Mickey Keys was out in the sitting room. “Have my agent sign for this.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the waiter said as he backed out of the bedroom.

  “Have I made my point?” Moonbeam asked. “If he talks to your parole officer, you’ll be putting on your seminars for the prisoners at the state pen. And there’s something else. You have to stop sleeping with that woman.”

  “Whoa, who I fuck is none of your business. I warned you I wasn’t a one-woman man when you insisted on following me out here.”

  “I know, Charlie, but it doesn’t look good. She’s married and she has a kid, not to mention that her husband is a powerful politician who can seriously mess you up.”

  “How do you think we got this gig at the Westmont? I’m just using her for her connections, baby. If you’re too jealous to see that, maybe you should just go back to your rich friends.”

  Moonbeam looked frightened. “Don’t send me away, Charlie. I only want to help.”

  “Well you’re not helping by nagging my ass every five minutes.”

  Moonbeam moved close to Charlie. “I’m sorry. You know I’m just worried about you.”

  Charlie felt the heat and remembered what the girl looked like naked, hair or no hair. He glanced at the clock and saw that there was still time before they had to leave for the country club. He put his arms around Moonbeam.

  “I know you care about me, baby,” Charlie said in a voice that oozed concern. “Just don’t worry so much.”

  Moonbeam looked down and Charlie lifted up her chin until he could see her eyes.

  “You don’t have anything to worry about. Sally can’t touch you in bed, and that’s what counts between a man and a woman.”

  Charlie released the girl’s chin. “Why don’t you take five, Delmar?” he said as he fondled her small, firm breasts.

  The bodyguard looked at his watch. “We’re heading out in three quarters of an hour.”

  “That’s cool. See you then.”

  Delmar left. Charlie scooped up Moonbeam in his arms and carried her to the bed. His timing was perfect. When his bodyguard rapped on his door three quarters of an hour later, Charlie was refreshed, fed, and ready to bilk the members of the Westmont Country Club.

  CHAPTER 15

  Shortly after sunset, on the evening Congressman Arnold Pope Jr. was murdered, Sally Pope stood next to John Walsdorf, the manager of the Westmont Country Club, and watched a line of expensive cars drive toward the entrance to the Westmont’s sprawling fieldstone clubhouse. The caravan snaked along a wide, tree-lined lane that ran by a few of the golf holes. There was no moon, so the lush emerald green of the fairways was left to the imagination.

  Some of the cars turned left at the end of the lane and drove past the pro shop into the outdoor parking lot that bordered the driving range. The rest went right and discharged their passengers at the club entrance after circling a large grass turnaround decorated with flower beds. Illumination from the clubhouse spilled onto the turnaround, fading as it crossed to the far side.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?” Tony Rose asked Sally Pope just as the limousine carrying Charlie Marsh, Delmar Epps, Moonbeam, and Mickey Keys drove into view.

  “Not now, Tony. I’m busy,” Sally said, annoyed that Rose would pick the moment when the guest of honor arrived to speak to her.

  “When, then? We have to talk.”

  “We don’t have anything to talk about,” Sally whispered angrily. “And I don’t think hashing out any problem you might have in front of John would be a good idea, do you?”

  Rose suddenly noticed Walsdorf, who had the power to fire him. Frustration and anger made his face flush. He started to speak, then thought better of it. The tennis pro shot Sally an angry look and walked toward the parking lot just as Charlie’s limousine stopped at the clubhouse entrance. The chauffeur ran to Charlie’s door. Before he could grip the handle, Werner Rollins stepped in front of him. The driver took one look at the Visigoth and skidded to a stop. This gave Gary Hass the opportunity to open the door to the limo.

  “Hey, Charlie,” Gary said, flashing a wide smile.

  Delmar Epps got out of the limo and put a hand on Gary’s chest.

  “Step back, sir,” Charlie’s bodyguard commanded in his most intimidating tone. Werner started toward Delmar but Gary waved him off.

  “I’m an old pal, right, Charlie?”

  “It’s okay, Delmar,” Charlie answered nervously as he emerged from the car.

  John Walsdorf was uncomfortable with activity that was far better suited to a lower-class tavern than a country club that catered to his refined clientele, but Sally Pope was unfazed. She walked over to the limousine, distracting the testosterone-charged men just as Mickey Keys emerged from the car. Keys took one look at Werner Rollins and edged away from him.

  “This is John Walsdorf, Charlie,” Sally said. “He manages the club.”

  Behind the club manager were two hefty security guards dressed in blue blazers, black turtlenecks, and gray slacks. They fixed on Delmar and Werner, who paid no attention to them.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Sun,” said Walsdorf, a short, balding man with a narrow mustache, whose paunch was hidden under a buttoned suit jacket. He eyed Charlie’s bodyguard and Gary’s scary companion nervously.

  “It’s a privilege to be invited to speak at this august institution,” Charlie brown-nosed.

  “We’ve already got a good crowd,” Walsdorf told him.

  “Great,” Mickey Keys chimed in.

  “Why don’t I show you where you’re going to speak?” Sally offered.

  She started toward the front door of the clubhouse, then froze. Walsdorf followed her gaze and saw a tall, broad-shouldered man bearing down on them from the direction of the parking lot. He recognized him immediately.

  United States Congressman Arnold Pope Jr. was an ex-Marine and he looked like he was still in training. His stride was purposeful and his brown eyes were fixed on his wife. The open top button of his dress shirt, the tie that hung at half-mast, and the congressman’s flushed face were hints that Pope was not in full control of his emotions.

  “Is this the latest boyfriend?” Pope barked angrily.

  Sally stared at him with disdain. “I didn’t know you planned to join us, Arnie.”

  “Caught off guard?” Pope said.

  “Not in the least, dear. You know you’re always welcome to join me. The only surprise is that you’ve shown up at something I’m hosting. I see so little of you.”

  Pope shifted his attention to Charlie. “You’re the guru, right?”

  Charlie laughed nervously. “That’s what the newspapers are calling me.”

  “What does your religion say about adultery?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You heard me, you little prick.”

  “Do we have to do this here?” Sally asked.

  “Where do you want to do it, in our bedroom or this punk’s hotel room?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sally answered coldly.

  Pope pulled an envelope from his suit jacket’s inside pocket and took a stack of photographs out of it. Pope held up a snapshot that showed Charlie and Sally groping each other in the foyer of the Popes’ home. Seconds after Sally realized that the shot had been taken through one of her front windows, Pope threw the photographs at her. Then he punched Charlie in the face.

  The limo driver rushed out of the way. Charlie staggered into Delmar. Delmar pulled Charlie behind him and hit the congressman in the solar plexus. Pope dropped to one knee seconds before one of the security guards slammed into Delmar, who brought his knee up between the guard’s legs. The guard turned pale and De
lmar swung him into his partner, who crashed into Werner Rollins.

  John Walsdorf scurried to safety and tripped, tumbling to the ground. Delmar and Werner Rollins were fighting with the security guards in the area between the turnaround and the parking lot. The crowd cleared a space around them. Charlie and Gary Hass backed around the traffic circle until they were far enough from the fight to be cloaked in shadow. Walsdorf saw Rollins knock one of the guards to the asphalt, making sure the guard was down, before joining Gary and Charlie.

  Seconds later, Walsdorf saw Delmar Epps deliver a high karate kick to the head of the other security guard. Delmar watched the guard crumple to the pavement, then joined the group standing in the shadows just as Arnold Pope swore at Charlie and charged.

  “Don’t, Arnie!” Sally yelled.

  The club manager saw flame flash from the general area where Charlie was standing just before Sally reached the congressman. An instant later a gunshot silenced the crowd. Arnold Pope stopped moving. He looked stunned. Then he staggered forward a few paces, wobbled in place, and stared at his shirt-front, which was slowly turning red. Pope dropped to his knees. A woman screamed. Sally ran to her husband. Delmar yelled, “Go, go.” Walsdorf heard car doors slam. Seconds later, the limo drove away but Walsdorf didn’t look to see where it was going. He was staring at Arnold Pope Jr., who showed no signs of life.

  Twenty-five minutes later, John Walsdorf learned that one of the officers had found an ivory-handled Ruger.357 Magnum Vaquero revolver lying in the shadows where Charlie Marsh had been standing.

  CHAPTER 16

  The Westmont Country Club complex straddled two counties. Most of the members lived in populous, urban Multnomah County, but most of the club grounds, including the clubhouse, were in Washington County, where sprawling bedroom communities, high-tech companies, and large areas of farmland coexisted uneasily. Karl Burdett was an athletic thirty-two-year-old with sandy blond hair and a confident smile. The newly elected district attorney for Washington County, a staunch conservative, had narrowly defeated a moderate candidate in last fall’s election. His most important backer was Arnold Pope Sr., and Burdett had jumped into his car as soon as the wealthiest man in the county summoned him.