Robert R. McCammon: The Collected Stories Part 7

The other man smiled slightly, a wistful smile. "I hope you find who you're lookin' for. Good luck." He started after his friends, and the Green Falcon said, "Do right."

And then they were gone, the sounds of their motorcycles roaring away. The Green Falcon glanced again at the bartender, still hoping for some information, but the man's face remained a blank.

"You want a beer, Greenie?" someone asked, and the Green Falcon turned to face the tall, black go-go dancer.

"No, thank you. I've got to go." To where, he didn't know, but the Grinderswitch was a dead end. He had taken two steps towards the door when Gracie said, "I've seen him. The guy you're after." The Green Falcon abruptly stopped. "I know that face," Gracie went on. "He was in here maybe two, three hours ago."

"Do you know his name?"

"No, but I know where he lives."

His heart kicked. "Where?"

"Well... he might live there or he might not," she amended. She came closer to him, and he figured she was in her late twenties, but it was hard to tell with all the makeup. "A motel on the strip. The Palmetto. See... I used to... uh... work there. I was an escort." She flashed a quick warning glance at the bartender, as if she dared him to crack wise. Then back to the Green Falcon again. "I used to see this guy hanging out around there. He comes in here maybe two or three times a week. Asked me out one time, but I wouldn't go."

"Why not?"

She shrugged. "Too white. Amazin' Grace doesn't have to go out with just anybody. I choose my own friends."

"But you remember seeing him at the Palmetto?"

"Yeah. Or at least somebody who fits that description. I'm not saying it's the same guy. Lots of creeps on the strip, and those hot-springs motels lure most of them one time or another." She licked her lower lip; the s.h.i.+ne of excitement was in her eyes. "You really think he's the Fliptop?"

"I do. Thank you for telling me, miss." He started toward the door, but again her husky voice stopped him.

"Hey, hold on! The Palmetto's about ten to twelve blocks east. You got a car?"

"No."

"Neither do I, but there's a cabstand down the street. I'm clocking out. Right, Tony?"

"You're the star," the bartender said with a wave of his hand.

"You want some company, Greenie? I mean..." She narrowed her eyes. "You're not a crazy yourself are you?" Gracie laughed at her own question. "h.e.l.l, sure you are! You've got to be. But I'm heading that way, and I'll show you the place if you want. For free."

"Why would you want to help me?" he asked.

Gracie looked wounded. "I've got civic pride, that's why! h.e.l.l, just because I strut my b.u.t.t in this joint five nights a week doesn't mean I'm not a humanitarian!"

The Green Falcon considered that, and nodded. Amazin' Grace was obviously intelligent, and she probably enjoyed the idea of a hunt. He figured he could use all the help he could get. "All right. I'll wait while you get dressed."

She frowned. "I am dressed, fool! Let's go!"

They left the Grinderswitch and started walking east along the boulevard. Gracie had a stride that threatened to leave him behind, and his green suit drew just as many double-takes as her lean ebony body in its tigerskin wrapping. The cabstand was just ahead, and a cab was there, engine running. A kid in jeans and a black leather jacket leaned against the hood; he was rail-thin, his head shaved bald except for a tuft of hair in the shape of a question mark on his scalp.

"You've got a fare, kid," Gracie said as she slid her mile-long legs in. "Move it!" The kid said, "I'm waiting for-"

"Your wait's over," Gracie interrupted. "Come on, we don't have all night." The kid shrugged, his eyes vacant and disinterested, and got behind the wheel. As soon as the Green Falcon was in, the kid shot away from the curb with a shriek of burning rubber and entered the flow of the westbound traffic.

"We want to go to the Palmetto Motel," Gracie said. "You know where that is?"

"Sure."

"Well, you're going the wrong way. And start your meter, unless we're going to ride for free."

"Oh, yeah." The meter arm came down, and the mechanism started ticking. "You want to go east, huh?" he asked. And without warning he spun the wheel violently, throwing the Green Falcon and Gracie up against the cab's side, and the vehicle careened in a tight U-turn that narrowly missed a collision with a BMW. Horns blared and tires screeched, but the kid swerved into the eastbound lane as if he owned Hollywood Boulevard. And the Green Falcon saw a motorcycle cop turn on his blue light and start after them, at the same time as a stout Hispanic man ran out of a Chock Full O' Nuts coffee shop yelling and gesturing frantically..

"Must be a caffeine fit," Gracie commented. She heard the siren's shrill note and glanced back. "Smart move, kid. You just got a blue-tailed fly on your a.s.s."

The kid laughed, sort of. The Green Falcon's gut tightened; he'd already seen the little photograph on the dashboard that identified the cab driver. It was a stout Hispanic face.

"Guy asked me to watch his cab while he ran in to pick up some coffee," the kid said with a shrug. "Gave me a buck, too." He looked in the rearview mirror. The motorcycle cop was waving him over. "What do you want me to do, folks?"

The Green Falcon had decided, just that fast. The police might be looking for him since he left the apartment building, and if they saw him like this they wouldn't understand. They'd think he was just a crazy old man out for a joyride through fantasy, and they'd take the Green Falcon away from him.

And if anyone could find the Fliptop Killer and bring him to justice, the Green Falcon could. He said, "Lose him."

The kid looked back, and now his eyes were wild and thrilled. He grinned. "Roger wilco," he said, and pressed his foot to the accelerator.

The cab's engine roared, the vehicle surged forward with a power that pressed the Green Falcon and Gracie into their seats, and the kid whipped around a Mercedes and then up onto the curb, where people screamed and leapt aside. The cab, its exhaust pipe spitting fire, rocketed toward the plate-gla.s.s window of a lingerie store. Gracie gave a stunned little cry, gripped the Green Falcon's hand with knuckle-cracking force, and the Green falcon braced for impact.

6. Handful of Straws The kid spun the wheel to the left, and the cab's fender knocked sparks off a brick wall as it grazed past the window. Then he veered quickly to the right, clipped away two parking meters, and turned the cab off Hollywood onto El Centro Avenue. He floorboarded the gas pedal.

"Let's get outta here!" Gracie shouted as she grasped the door's handle, but the cab's speedometer needle was already nosing past forty. She decided she didn't care for a close acquaintance with asphalt, and anyway, the Green Falcon had her other hand and wasn't going to let her jump.

The motorcycle cop was following, the blue light spinning and the siren getting louder. The kid tapped the brakes and swerved in front of a gasoline truck, through an alley, and behind a row of buildings, then back onto El Centro and speeding southward. The motorcycle cop came out of the ally and got back on their tail, again closing the gap between them.

"What's your name?" the Green Falcon asked.

"Me? Ques," he answered. "Because of-"

"I can guess why. Ques, this is very important." The Green Falcon leaned forward, his fingers clamped over the seat in front of him. "I don't want the policeman to stop us. I'm-" Again, lines from the scripts danced through his mind. "I'm on a mission," he said. "I don't have time for the police. Do you understand?" Ques nodded. "No," he said. "But if you want to give the cop a run, I'm your man." The speedometer's needle was almost to sixty, and Ques was weaving in and out of traffic like an Indy racer. "Hold on," he said. Gracie screamed.

Ques suddenly veered to the left, almost grazing the fenders of cars just released from the red light at the intersection of El Centro and Fountain Avenue. Outraged horns hooted, but then the cab had cleared the intersection and was speeding away. Ques took a hard right onto Gordon Street, another left on Lexington, and then pulled into an alley behind a Taco Bell. He drew up close to a Dumpster and cut the headlights. Gracie found her voice: "Where the h.e.l.l did you learn to drive? The Demolition Derby?" Ques got himself turned around in the seat so he could look at his pa.s.sengers. He smiled, and the smile made him almost handsome. "Close. I was a third-unit stunt driver in 'Beverly Hills Cop II.' This was a piece of cake."

"I'm getting out of here." Gracie reached for the door's handle. "You two never saw me before, okay?"

"Wait." The Green Falcon grasped her elbow. The motorcycle cop was just pa.s.sing, going east on Lexington. The siren had been turned off and the blue light faded as he went on.

"Not in the clear yet," Ques said. "There'll be a lot of sh.e.l.lheads looking for us. We'd better sit here a while." He grinned at them. "Fun, huh?"

"Like s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g in a thornpatch." Gracie opened the door. "I'm gone."

"Please don't go," the Green Falcon said. "I need you."

"You need a good shrink is what you need. Man, I must've been crazy myself to get into this! You thinking you could track down the Fliptop!" She snorted. "Green Falcon, my a.s.s!"

"I need you," he repeated firmly. "If you've got connections at the Palmetto, maybe you can find someone who's seen him."

"The Fliptop?" Ques asked, his interest perked again. "What about that sonofab.i.t.c.h?"

"I saw him tonight," the Green Falcon said. "He killed a friend of mine, and Gracie knows where he might be."

"I didn't say that, man. I said I knew where I'd seen a guy who looked like the guy who's been coming into the Grinderswitch. That's a big difference."

"Please stay. Help me. It's the only lead I've got."

Gracie looked away from him. The door was halfway open and she had one leg out. "n.o.body cares about anybody else in this city," she said. "Why should I stick around and get my a.s.s in jail... or worse?"

"I'll protect you," he answered.

She laughed. "Oh yeah! A guy in a green freaksuit's going to protect me! Wow, my mind feels so much better! Let me go." He hesitated, then did as she said. She sat on the seat's edge, about to get out. About to. But a second ticked past, and another, and still she sat there. "I live on Olympic Boulevard," she said. "Man, I am a long way from home."

"Green Falcon, huh?" Ques asked. "That what you call yourself?"

"Yes. That's..." A second or two of indecision. "That's who I am."

"You got information about the Fliptop, why don't you give it to the cops?"

"Because..." Why not indeed? he asked himself. "Because the Fliptop has killed nine times and he's going to kill again. Maybe tonight, even. The police aren't even close to finding him. We are."

"No, we're not!" Gracie objected. "Just because I saw a guy at a motel a few times doesn't mean he's the Fliptop!

You've got a handful of straws, man!"

"Maybe I do. But it's worth going to the Palmetto to find out, isn't it?"

"You just don't want to go to the cops because you're afraid they'll pitch you in the nuthouse," Gracie said, and the way the Green Falcon settled back against the seat told her she'd hit the target. She was silent for a moment, watching him. "That's right isn't it?"

"Yes," he said, because he knew it was. "I..." He hesitated, but they were listening and he decided to tell it as it had been, a long time ago. "I spent some time in a sanitarium. Not recently. Back in the early fifties. I had a nervous breakdown. It... wasn't a nice place."

"You used to be somebody, for real?" Ques inquired.

"The Green Falcon. I starred in serials." The kid's face showed no recognition. "They used to show them on Sat.u.r.day afternoons," Cray went on. "Chapter by chapter. Well, I guess both of you are too young to remember." He clasped his hands together in his lap, his back bowed. "Yes, I used to be somebody. For real."

"So how come you went off your rocker?" Gracie asked. "If you were a star and all, I mean?" He sighed softly. "When I was a young man I thought the whole world was one big Indiana. That's where I'm from. Some talent scouts came through my town one day, and someone told them about me. Big athlete, they said. Won all the medals you can think of. Outstanding young American and all that." His mouth twitched into a bitter smile. "Corny, but I guess it was true. Heck, the world was pretty corny back then. But it wasn't such a bad place. Anyway, I came to Hollywood and I started to do the serials. I had a little talent. But I saw things..." He shook his head. "Things they didn't even know about in Indiana. It seemed as if I was on another world, and I was never going to find my way back home. And everything happened so fast... it just got away from me, I guess. I was a star-whatever that means-and I was working hard and making money, but... Cray Boomers.h.i.+ne was dying. I could feel him dying, a little bit more every day. And I wanted to bring him back, but he was just an Indiana kid and I was a Hollywood star. The Green Falcon, I mean. Me. Cray Flint. Does that make any sense to you?"

"Not a bit," Gracie said. "h.e.l.l, everyone wants to be a star! What was wrong with you?" His fingers twined together, and the old knuckles worked. "They wanted me to do a public-relations tour. I said I would. So they sent me all across the country... dressed up like this. And the children came out to see me, and they touched my cape and they asked for my autograph and they said they wanted to grow up just like me. Those faces... they gave off such an innocent light." He was silent, thinking, and he drew a deep breath and continued because he could not turn back. "It was in Watertown, South Dakota. April 26, 1951. I went onstage at the Watertown Palace Theater, right after they showed the tenth and final chapter of 'Night Calls The Green Falcon.' That place was packed with kids, and all of them were laughing and happy." He closed his eyes, his hands gripped tightly together. "There was a fire. It started in a storeroom in the bas.e.m.e.nt." He smelled acrid smoke, felt the heat of the flames on his face.

"It spread so fast. And some of the kids... some of them even thought it was part of the show. Oh G.o.d... Oh, my G.o.d... the walls were on fire and the children were being crushed as they tried to get out... and I heard them screaming!

'Green Falcon! Green Falcon!"' His eyes opened, and stared without seeing. "But the Green falcon couldn't save them, and fourteen children died in that fire. He couldn't save them. Couldn't." He looked at Ques, then to Gracie, then back again, and his eyes were wet and sunken into the mask's slits. "When I came out of the sanitarium, the studio let me keep the costume. For a job well done, they said. But there weren't going to be any more Green Falcon serials. Anyway, everyone was watching television, and that was that."

Neither Ques nor Gracies spoke for a moment. Then Gracie said, "We're going to take you home. Where do you live?"

"Please." He put his hand over hers. "I can find the Fliptop Killer. I know I can."

"You can't. Give it up."

"What would it hurt?" Ques asked her. "Just to drive up to that motel, I mean. Maybe he's right." He held up his hand before she could object. "Maybe. We could drive there and you could ask around, and then we'll take him home. How about it?"

"It's crazy," she said. "And I'm crazy." But then she pulled her leg back in and shut the door. "Let's try it." The Palmetto was a broken-down stucco dump between Normandie and Mariposa, on the cheap end of Hollywood Boulevard. Ques pulled the cab into the trash-strewn parking lot, and he spoke his first impression: "Place is a crack gallery, folks." He saw shadowy faces peering through the blinds of second-floor windows, and blue fire-light played across a wall. "Bullet holes in a door over there." He motioned toward it. "From here on we watch our a.s.ses." He stopped the cab next to a door marked "office" and cut the engine.

"It's sure enough gone to h.e.l.l since I worked here," Gracie said. "Nothing like addicts to junk a place up." Not far away stood the hulk of a a car that looked as if it had been recently set afire. "Well, let's see what we can see." She got out, and so did the Green Falcon. Ques stayed behind the wheel, and when Gracie motioned him to come on, he said, nervously, "I'll give you moral support."

"Thanks, jerkoff. Hey, hold on!" she said, because the Green Falcon was already striding toward the office door. He grasped the k.n.o.b, turned it, and the door opened with a jingle of little bells. He stepped into a room where lights from the boulevard cut through slanted blinds, and the air was thick with the mingled odors of marijuana, a dirty carpet and... what else was it?

Spoiled meat, he realized.

And that was when something stood up from a corner and bared its teeth.

The Green Falcon stopped. His eyes looking at a stocky black-and-white pit bull, its eyes bright with the prospect of violence.

"Oh s.h.i.+t," Gracie whispered.

Soundlessly the pit bull leapt at the Green Falcon, its jaws open for a bone-crus.h.i.+ng bite. 7. The Watchman The Green Falcon stepped back, colliding with Gracie. The pit bull's body came flying towards him, reached the end of its chain, and its teeth clacked together where a vital member of the Green Falcon's anatomy had been a second before. Then the dog was yanked back to the wall, but it immediately regained its balance and lunged again. The Green Falcon stood in front of Gracie, picked up a chair to ward the beast off, but again the chain stopped the pit bull short of contact. As the animal thrashed against its collar, a figure rose up from behind the counter and pulled back the trigger on a double-barreled shotgun.

"Put it down," the man told the Green Falcon. He motioned with the shotgun. "Do it or I swear to G.o.d I'll blow your head off." The man's voice was high and nervous, and the Green Falcon slowly put the chair down. The pit bull was battling with its chain, trying to slide its head out of the collar. "Ain't n.o.body gonna rob me again," the man behind the counter vowed. Sweat glistened on his gaunt face. "You punks gonna learn some respect, you hear me?"

"Lester?" Gracie said. The man's frightened eyes ticked towards her. "Lester Dent? It's me." She took a careful step forward, where the light could show him who she was. "Sabra Jones." The Green Falcon stared at her. She said, "You remember me, don't you, Lester?"

"Sabra? That really you?" The man blinked, reached into a drawer, and brought out a pair of round-lensed spectacles. He put them on and the tension in his face immediately eased. "Sabra! Well, why didn't you say so?" He unc.o.c.ked the shotgun and said, "DOWN, Bucky!" to the pit bull. The animal stopped its thras.h.i.+ng, but it still regarded the Green Falcon with hungry eyes.

"This is a friend of mine, Lester. The Green Falcon." She said it with all seriousness.

"Hi." Lester lowered the shotgun and leaned it behind the counter. "Sorry I'm a little jumpy. Things have changed around here since you left. Lot of freaks in the neighbourhood, and you can't be too careful."

"I guess not." Gracie glanced at a couple of bullet holes in the wall. Flies were buzzing around the sc.r.a.ps of hamburger in Bucky's feed bowl. "Used to be a decent joint. How come you're still hanging around here?" Lester shrugged. He was a small man, weighed maybe a hundred and thirty pounds, and he wore a Captain America T-s.h.i.+rt. "I crave excitement. What can I say?" He looked her up and down with true appreciation. "Life's being pretty good to you, huh?"

"I can't complain. Much. Lester, my friend and I are looking for somebody who used to hang around here." She described the man. "I remember he used to like Dolly Winslow. Do you know the guy I mean?"

"I think I do, but I'm not sure. I've seen a lot of them."

"Yeah, I know, but this is important. Do you have any idea what the guy's name might have been, or have you seen him around here lately?"

"No, I haven't seen him for a while, but I know what his name was." He grinned, gapped-tooth. "John Smith. That's what all their names were." He glanced at the Green Falcon. "Can you breath inside that thing?"

"The man we're looking for is the Fliptop Killer," the Green Falcon said, and Lester's grin cracked. "Do you know where we can find Dolly Winslow?"

"She went to Vegas," Gracie told him. "Changed her name, the last I heard. No telling where she is now."

"You're looking for the Fliptop Killer?" Lester asked. "You a cop or somethin'?"

"No. I've got... a personal interest."

Lester drummed his fingers on the scarred countertop and thought for a moment. "The Fliptop, huh? Guy's a mean one. I wouldn't want to cross his path, no sir."

"Anybody still around who used to hang out here?" Gracie asked. "Like Jellyroll? Or that weird guy who played the flute?"