Boldt by Ted Lewis Page A

fuck up the nice new surfaces.
    The sun is low now distorted and larger than life through the thick hanging haze, its rim dirty in the bottom quarter as though some kid has wiped his sticky fingers over it.
    A faint breeze ripples through the leaves of the Point’s bushes and I remember when I was a rookie spending most of my night shifts up here shining my flashlight in the backs of the parked cars and wondering each time I caused some couple to scramble back to a semblance of decency, what the fuck I was doing when in most cases, I’d have liked to have been the guy in the back feeling up the girl. But at this time of a summer’s night there are no cars up here, just mine, so I light a cigarette and throw the match out of the window. As I do that, I hear the sound of a car slowing down and then the sound stops, a door slams and a couple of minutes later the image of Pete Foley appears in my driving mirror, parting the bushes, looking as if he’s just scaled Rushmore. He walks over to the car and gets in.
    â€œHello, Pete,” I say to him.
    He takes his cigarettes from his coat pocket.
    â€œGive me a light, will you.”
    I give him a light and he inhales, leaning back in the seat.
    â€œSo,” he says, “you don’t think I’ve got anything for you?”
    â€œPete, I’m here,” I tell him. “Just give me the message.”
    â€œWell,” he says, “you’ll know what I’m talking about when I give you a name and that name’s Styles.”
    I don’t say anything. Pete shifts his position slightly, pleased to have some effect.
    Albert Styles. A hit man, a craftsman, but without one conviction, and he’s been responsible for at least a dozen hits I can think of around the country, and Christ knows how many more there must be that nobody knows about.
    â€œOkay,” I say to Pete. “Albert Styles. Now how is that supposed to interest me?”
    Pete’s mouth falls open and he stares at me. Eventually he says, “Listen, you know what Styles is. I mean, you do know?”
    â€œYeah, I do know.”
    â€œThen what are you saying? Styles is a hit man. Your brother’s been sent a letter, a proposition. He’s in line for being whacked. And here’s Styles.”
    I look out through the windshield. The evening is getting darker now and the city’s dust haze is mingling with the gathering dusk. Some of the cars on the freeway over in the east already have their lights on.
    â€œAnd so,” I say to Pete, “Albert Styles is in town and in his pocket he has a contract on my brother.”
    â€œWell,” Pete says, “Christ, he’s in town, after all.”
    â€œAnd it’s obvious, this great hit man, this great asset to the organization, he’s going to whack my brother after, of course, sending the department a note telling us all about it just so’s we’ll know who to pick up. The only thing about it all that surprises me, Pete, is that in the note Styles didn’t tell us how he’s going to carry out the contract and where he’s going to be afterward so that we don’t have to waste time looking for him.”
    Now it’s Pete’s turn to be quiet for a while.
    â€œPete,” I tell him, “I know you need the dough, and in one way, it’s useful for the department to know that Styles is in town but, seriously, in your heart of hearts, you know that no way could a hit man like Styles be involved with a thing like this.”
    â€œI guess you’re right,” Pete says. “Looking at it logically, that is. I agree hit men and politicians, they don’t mix, but that’s only so far. There’s got to be a first time for everything. Now supposing—”
    â€œSupposing you leave the speculative work to me, Pete, and just give me the details of what you’ve told me, and then I can go away and you can go away and I can get on with what