Ron Goulart - John Easy 03 - The Same Lie Twice by Ron Goulart Page B
Authors: Ron Goulart
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over me. He says he’s an ex-marine.”
“Edwards tends to have autobiographical fantasies, but otherwise he’s okay. We use him quite a bit.”
“When are you coming home? I mean here to me.”
“In a few hours.” Easy remembered his tap water coffee and sipped it. “Yang.”
“What?”
“I’ve been backsliding and trying to drink coffee again,” he said. “Okay, I have to get going now.”
“Guard yourself and get back home in one piece, or at least in not more than a half-dozen I can reassemble without too much trouble.”
“Good-bye,” said Easy.
Easy yawned. The blurred night’s few stars were leaving the dawn sky above San Amaro. Thin slow rain still fell. He’d parked his VW with a cluster of other cars at a closed gas station two blocks uphill. Most of this stretch of beach was given over to ramshackle beach houses and a few doomed-looking restaurants and souvenir shops. In the frail light before morning the whole area seemed like a ghost of the Thirties.
The yacht club was built on a jutting of land, with a pale white pier leading out from it. The pier stopped abruptly a few hundred yards into the black ocean, like the remains of a bridge which had collapsed a long time ago. The sea was making snuffling sounds against the thin beach, brushing at the pale sand and the sprawl of debris.
A man-high wooden plank fence had been thrown up around the club grounds. The raw weathered boards were rich with inscriptions done in spray paint, chalk and something that might be blood. Screw Pigs! Jerry Eats It! Post No Bills! Jesus is the only Answer! The Red Avengers!
In the minutes he’d been watching the place from the dark doorway of a boarded-up seafood shop Easy had seen a police patrol car go by once. There was no sign of anyone moving on the club side of the fence.
Inhaling deeply, Easy ran to the wood fence, grasped its top and vaulted over. He landed, flatfooted, among soggy weeds. The club consisted of two long low buildings, built in the Spanish-Moorish style. There were many arches, much black wrought iron, jigsaws of tile roofing. The palm trees planted all around the club were mostly dead, their few dry fronds clicking in the mild dawn wind. It made Easy think of his roof-hopping down in Mexico.
He stayed close to the wall of the main building. There was no evidence of anything like a watchman around. Joanna had said she didn’t think anybody cared enough about the old place for that.
In a few minutes Easy located the office. The black and gold Office plate was still firmly attached to the red-painted door. There was no alarm system in evidence and he got the wooden door open quickly.
When he stepped onto the tile flooring of the small office a voice off in the dark corner said, “She changed her mind.”
XX
A FLASHLIGHT BLOSSOMED IN the darkness, its beam knifing across the room to catch Easy. Easy noticed the scent of pine now. “That’s a fast car you have, Rudy,” he said.
“Keep on coming in,” ordered Rudy. He had a red-stone ring on the hand which held the flash. His right hand contained a revolver. He was against the rear wall of the small office room, backed by wood-slat Venetian blinds. The gray light beyond the blinds was growing very gradually brighter. “We got a plane, a private plane. I wouldn’t drive all away down there. It bothers my kidneys so much driving. Extract the gun I see stuck in at your belt and place it carefully on the floor.”
After giving up his .38, Easy stepped near a water cooler which still held about a gallon of water. Halfway along the wall nearest him ran a table with ship models atop it, some in bottles. Clipper ships, sailboats and one pirate galleon. Next to the model table was a high trophy cabinet empty of all but two small tarnished silver cups. “Who told you the stuff was here?”
“Move a little ways from that water jug,” suggested Rudy. He walked to the wooden desk in the room’s center, keeping the circle of light
“Edwards tends to have autobiographical fantasies, but otherwise he’s okay. We use him quite a bit.”
“When are you coming home? I mean here to me.”
“In a few hours.” Easy remembered his tap water coffee and sipped it. “Yang.”
“What?”
“I’ve been backsliding and trying to drink coffee again,” he said. “Okay, I have to get going now.”
“Guard yourself and get back home in one piece, or at least in not more than a half-dozen I can reassemble without too much trouble.”
“Good-bye,” said Easy.
Easy yawned. The blurred night’s few stars were leaving the dawn sky above San Amaro. Thin slow rain still fell. He’d parked his VW with a cluster of other cars at a closed gas station two blocks uphill. Most of this stretch of beach was given over to ramshackle beach houses and a few doomed-looking restaurants and souvenir shops. In the frail light before morning the whole area seemed like a ghost of the Thirties.
The yacht club was built on a jutting of land, with a pale white pier leading out from it. The pier stopped abruptly a few hundred yards into the black ocean, like the remains of a bridge which had collapsed a long time ago. The sea was making snuffling sounds against the thin beach, brushing at the pale sand and the sprawl of debris.
A man-high wooden plank fence had been thrown up around the club grounds. The raw weathered boards were rich with inscriptions done in spray paint, chalk and something that might be blood. Screw Pigs! Jerry Eats It! Post No Bills! Jesus is the only Answer! The Red Avengers!
In the minutes he’d been watching the place from the dark doorway of a boarded-up seafood shop Easy had seen a police patrol car go by once. There was no sign of anyone moving on the club side of the fence.
Inhaling deeply, Easy ran to the wood fence, grasped its top and vaulted over. He landed, flatfooted, among soggy weeds. The club consisted of two long low buildings, built in the Spanish-Moorish style. There were many arches, much black wrought iron, jigsaws of tile roofing. The palm trees planted all around the club were mostly dead, their few dry fronds clicking in the mild dawn wind. It made Easy think of his roof-hopping down in Mexico.
He stayed close to the wall of the main building. There was no evidence of anything like a watchman around. Joanna had said she didn’t think anybody cared enough about the old place for that.
In a few minutes Easy located the office. The black and gold Office plate was still firmly attached to the red-painted door. There was no alarm system in evidence and he got the wooden door open quickly.
When he stepped onto the tile flooring of the small office a voice off in the dark corner said, “She changed her mind.”
XX
A FLASHLIGHT BLOSSOMED IN the darkness, its beam knifing across the room to catch Easy. Easy noticed the scent of pine now. “That’s a fast car you have, Rudy,” he said.
“Keep on coming in,” ordered Rudy. He had a red-stone ring on the hand which held the flash. His right hand contained a revolver. He was against the rear wall of the small office room, backed by wood-slat Venetian blinds. The gray light beyond the blinds was growing very gradually brighter. “We got a plane, a private plane. I wouldn’t drive all away down there. It bothers my kidneys so much driving. Extract the gun I see stuck in at your belt and place it carefully on the floor.”
After giving up his .38, Easy stepped near a water cooler which still held about a gallon of water. Halfway along the wall nearest him ran a table with ship models atop it, some in bottles. Clipper ships, sailboats and one pirate galleon. Next to the model table was a high trophy cabinet empty of all but two small tarnished silver cups. “Who told you the stuff was here?”
“Move a little ways from that water jug,” suggested Rudy. He walked to the wooden desk in the room’s center, keeping the circle of light
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