twenties, intelligent and athletic like this one, and somehow induced in them that strange, attentive look. This one had to be thirty or more, which made him something of a veteran. Porterfield thought about Donahue for a moment, then shrugged. “No. He’s nothing.”
C HINESE G ORDON LIFTED the telephone receiver.
“Mr. Gordon.”
“Hi there, Jorge. You certainly took a long time making up your mind.”
“I had arrangements to make, people to talk to. You know how it is, I’m sure. I’d like to make you an offer.”
“Okay.”
“Seven-fifty.”
“Fine.”
“What?”
“I said yes, I’ll take it. I’ve got other things to do, and I don’t want to be a pig about it. I’ll call you at ten. But Jorge?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t be too ambitious. It hasn’t been anywhere you could find it for sometime, so all you would do before ten is get somebody killed. Just be ready with the cash. You can bring as many people as you can fit in one car, all heavily armed if that seems good to you, but remember it’s going to be a public place.”
“Of course. It would be.”
Chinese Gordon hung up and dialed Kepler’s number. “Time to go.”
Chinese Gordon walked across the shop to the door. Doctor Henry Metzger was curled in a furry ball on the metal welding table, but stretched himself and lashed his tail from side to side. “See you later, baboon ass,” said Chinese Gordon. Beneath the table Doctor Henry Metzger’s dog stirred. The large, alert, pitiless eyes opened, and the upper lip curled to bare the jagged array of teeth. “You too, you mental case.” The dog’s horrible maw widened into a yawn, and then the broad, untroubled face settled into sleep.
Chinese Gordon made his way down the alley to the back door of the grocery store. There was no sign that anyone was watching. He supposed a man like Grijalvas could probably connect an unlisted telephone number with an address easily enough, but this was about the time he had walked to the grocery store every day since the arrival of Doctor Henry Metzger’s dog. He walked through the shop to the counter, bought a pack of cigarettes, and went out the front door to the street.
At the curb he got into Margaret’s car and drove off. Since it was a beautiful, sunny Sunday morning, he decided that he favored “Bringing in the Sheaves.” As he coaxed the bright yellow Volkswagen to sixty and eased into the center lane, his voice reached maximum volume, but he had already sung the only verse he knew. Undaunted, he amused himself by inventing obscene lyrics until he reached the Hawthorne Boulevard exit ramp.
Chinese Gordon drove on in silence until he reached the beach, then parked and waited for a half hour, watching to be sure no one had followed. Then he drove onto the vast parking lot set in the sandy hillside above the ocean and got out of the car, leaving the keys under the seat.
By the time he reached the entrance gate there were three buses in the loop spewing their hordes of passengers onto the walkways. In the distance he could see families beginning the long trek across the parking lot, the tall pairs of parents moving with straight, unswerving purpose toward the entrance, while smaller shapes scampered and cavorted about them in a reckless, random expenditure of energy. Chinese Gordon sighed. Judging from the size, they’d all be named Joshua or Laura and their mothers would be Kathys or Karens.
Inside the park he made the first telephone call. “Be at the phone booth at the Griffith Park Observatory at eleven.”
“Shit,
amigo
. Are you going to do that to me? It’s embarrassing.”
“I can’t help it. I need the insurance.”
“I understand.”
By eleven he’d seen the others. Immelmann was at the head of a line of people and was buying a long string of tickets to the Skyride, a shaft that rose over two hundred feet in the air and served as the track for a glass elevator. He looked excited and happy as he
C HINESE G ORDON LIFTED the telephone receiver.
“Mr. Gordon.”
“Hi there, Jorge. You certainly took a long time making up your mind.”
“I had arrangements to make, people to talk to. You know how it is, I’m sure. I’d like to make you an offer.”
“Okay.”
“Seven-fifty.”
“Fine.”
“What?”
“I said yes, I’ll take it. I’ve got other things to do, and I don’t want to be a pig about it. I’ll call you at ten. But Jorge?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t be too ambitious. It hasn’t been anywhere you could find it for sometime, so all you would do before ten is get somebody killed. Just be ready with the cash. You can bring as many people as you can fit in one car, all heavily armed if that seems good to you, but remember it’s going to be a public place.”
“Of course. It would be.”
Chinese Gordon hung up and dialed Kepler’s number. “Time to go.”
Chinese Gordon walked across the shop to the door. Doctor Henry Metzger was curled in a furry ball on the metal welding table, but stretched himself and lashed his tail from side to side. “See you later, baboon ass,” said Chinese Gordon. Beneath the table Doctor Henry Metzger’s dog stirred. The large, alert, pitiless eyes opened, and the upper lip curled to bare the jagged array of teeth. “You too, you mental case.” The dog’s horrible maw widened into a yawn, and then the broad, untroubled face settled into sleep.
Chinese Gordon made his way down the alley to the back door of the grocery store. There was no sign that anyone was watching. He supposed a man like Grijalvas could probably connect an unlisted telephone number with an address easily enough, but this was about the time he had walked to the grocery store every day since the arrival of Doctor Henry Metzger’s dog. He walked through the shop to the counter, bought a pack of cigarettes, and went out the front door to the street.
At the curb he got into Margaret’s car and drove off. Since it was a beautiful, sunny Sunday morning, he decided that he favored “Bringing in the Sheaves.” As he coaxed the bright yellow Volkswagen to sixty and eased into the center lane, his voice reached maximum volume, but he had already sung the only verse he knew. Undaunted, he amused himself by inventing obscene lyrics until he reached the Hawthorne Boulevard exit ramp.
Chinese Gordon drove on in silence until he reached the beach, then parked and waited for a half hour, watching to be sure no one had followed. Then he drove onto the vast parking lot set in the sandy hillside above the ocean and got out of the car, leaving the keys under the seat.
By the time he reached the entrance gate there were three buses in the loop spewing their hordes of passengers onto the walkways. In the distance he could see families beginning the long trek across the parking lot, the tall pairs of parents moving with straight, unswerving purpose toward the entrance, while smaller shapes scampered and cavorted about them in a reckless, random expenditure of energy. Chinese Gordon sighed. Judging from the size, they’d all be named Joshua or Laura and their mothers would be Kathys or Karens.
Inside the park he made the first telephone call. “Be at the phone booth at the Griffith Park Observatory at eleven.”
“Shit,
amigo
. Are you going to do that to me? It’s embarrassing.”
“I can’t help it. I need the insurance.”
“I understand.”
By eleven he’d seen the others. Immelmann was at the head of a line of people and was buying a long string of tickets to the Skyride, a shaft that rose over two hundred feet in the air and served as the track for a glass elevator. He looked excited and happy as he
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