100 Malicious Little Mysteries

Dutch by William F. Nolan

Dutch got the idea when we were in Beverly Hills. It was late, almost midnight, and the whole town was quiet as a grave. All the fancy stores were dark and we could hear our own footsteps like clapped hands on the pavement. Me and Dutch and Rosa. She was one of his chicks. Dutch had plenty others.

Rosa was seventeen, a real little doll, like you find on the shelf of a toy store, all in blue and pink. She always dressed real nice when Dutch asked her out.

Dutch was eighteen and he looked like a movie star. I mean, handsome in a dark, curly-haired kind of way. The chicks flipped over him. Rosa, for instance.

Me, I’m Eddie Conners, and in the looks department I don’t score. Year younger than Dutch; short, with thick glasses. Dutch always used to tell me that my eyes looked like two crazy fish swimming around behind the lenses. The chicks pass me by, and I guess I don’t blame them any. Sometimes Dutch would fix me up with a cute chick, but she’d spend more time looking at him than she would me when we double-dated.

Anyway, on this particular night Dutch got the idea we should cop a couple of new irons and have ourselves a little dice over Mulholland Drive.

“Me against you, Eddie,” he grinned. “You game, boy?”

“Sure,” I said. “Why the hell not! Only let’s be sure we get two alike. You could walk away from me in some souped-up short.”

“Then let’s start lookin’ around.”

Rosa put up no objections. What was okay by Dutch was okay by her.

We found a couple of new Fords near Martindale’s bookstore. Dutch was a real cool operator when it came to a deal like this. He told us to wait over in the building shadows and keep our eyes open while he got the cars started. Dutch didn’t need keys, not the way he worked. In about two shakes he had both engines purring like a pair of big cats. We were all set to go.

“Now, listen,” he said to me. “You follow my iron over Coldwater to Mulholland. Then, we’ll line up even for a run. I claim by the third turn you’ll be outa sight behind me!”

“We’ll see, Dutch,” I said.

Rosa got in front with him and they glided away from the curb with me in the other Ford right behind. I sure like the way a new car feels — powerful and ready to do anything you want it to.

I felt pretty great tooling along smooth and easy, like some big high-class banker maybe, or some big office president out for a spin in his new car. My folks are tramp-poor and everything I make at the warehouse goes to the family. I couldn’t afford a car of my own.

Then I pretended that Rosa was sitting next to me instead of next to Dutch. Real close, with her head on my shoulder. That was damn nice. I could almost smell that sexy perfume she wore and see her smile just for me. Yeah, Rosa was a real gone chick, and no mistake.

We were taking it easy around town because we didn’t want any cops on our tail. Beverly Hills is lousy with cops at night. I saw the turn-indicator blink on in Dutch’s Ford; he was swinging into an all-night gas station. What the hell was wrong with the guy, anyhow? Why risk being pegged in these hot buggies? I was plenty sore when I got out.

“You nuts?” I demanded, keeping my voice down. “What’s the lousy idea?”

“Tires,” he said. “What if the tires are low when we hit that cliff road? Hell, boy, we’d go on our heads for sure. You check ’em while I hit the can. Thirty-two all the way round should be okay.”

I waved the station guy away and began to check pressures.

Rosa stayed in Dutch’s car, fixing her face, touching lightly at her hair. She was always primping around Dutch, trying to look prettier than she did already. She didn’t need to. Rosa looked plenty good to me all the time. She had natural blonde hair and a hell of a figure and she really knew how to walk.

“How were they?” Dutch asked me.

“My left rear was low,” I said. “Good thing we checked.”

“Damn right. I just don’t like taking chances is all.”

We climbed back in the Fords and got going. As long as we kept it at twenty-five we were okay. We’d done this before, taken a couple of hot irons out for a joyride. No dice then. Just a ride. Afterwards we took ’em right back where we found ’em and nobody knew the difference.

I snapped on some dance music. Rosa was sure a wonderful dancer. Once, in Gardena, when Dutch was pooped, Rosa asked me to hoof it with her. I remembered how light and airy she felt in my arms that night, how soft and warm she’d been. Damn!

We’d crossed Sunset, taken the long climb up Coldwater and I got ready for the sharp right-hand turn onto Mulholland. Easy to miss if you’re not on the ball. I followed Dutch around, taking it slow. He waved me up, and I pulled my Ford alongside his.

“This is it, Eddie.” He was smiling in that handsome crooked way of his. “We dig on three. Rosa will do the counting.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Rosa’s weight adds better than a hundred pounds to your iron.”

“So?”

“So I don’t want any advantage. Either we start equal or it’s all off.”

The road stretched away ahead of us, narrow and treacherous and misted with fog.

“Okay, okay.” Dutch reached across and opened Rosa’s door. “Wait here for us, baby. We’ll make the run down to Laurel Canyon and back.”

“Right, Dutch,” she said, sliding out. “But, be careful, hon.”

Her voice was soft and husky and I figured she must practice talking that way, knowing how sexy she sounded.

“Nervous, Eddie?” Dutch asked, grinning at me from the open car window. He jazzed the Ford’s mill and it was mean. Real mean.

“Hell, no,” I snapped, lighting a cig. I was lying. Sure I was nervous. Who wouldn’t be with a set-up like this?

Rosa was standing to one side, her arm raised, ready to flag us off. She looked like a little pink doll in the bright glare of our headlights.

Dutch was grinning, the way he always does when he’s real sure of something. He was sure he’d cream me on this stretch. Mulholland is a bitch at night, with the fog hanging low over those hairpin turns, and a long drop waiting for you if you goof. He’d driven it a lot more than I had, and he knew the road pretty well. He was used to irons, too; he could stomp through the turn and broadslide like a pro. Sure I was nervous.

“Get ready, fellas,” Rosa shouted,

I stubbed out my cig on the Ford’s dash and tried to relax. I juiced the engine to make sure she was firing right and got all set behind the wheel.

“One... Two...”

I could feel the sudden sweat on the palms of my hands. God, but I wished it was all over! The whole thing was crazy and unreal.

“Three!”

We were off like twin jets, engines screaming, our tires sliding on the damp asphalt. I gave the Ford all the pedal she’d take in first and held Dutch, but when I snap-shifted into second he was by me and moving for the first turn. It was a fairly rough one and I eased off a little, watching Dutch throw his car in. He fishtailed like mad and his Ford was all over the road. He was really pushing.

I got through without much trouble and we headed for the next turn. He pulled away from me on the short straight and I let him go. Hell with it! No use risking my own neck on this kind of road.

The second turn wasn’t bad at all — just a bend really — but the one coming up was a lulu. I remembered I’d almost gone off there once myself in my cousin’s Chevy — and I hadn’t even been dicing then.

Dutch was going like a crazy man, booming through the bend, ragged and swaying with speed. I knew he’d never make it through the hairpin.

And he didn’t.

The whole rear end of his car broke loose and slid sideways. I could see him fighting the wheel, but it didn’t help. He was in the kind of a slide that ends only one way.

Dutch went over.

I saw his Ford jump the little raised hump at the edge of the road, hover for maybe a split second in the air, like it couldn’t make up its mind which way to go, and then drop out of sight.

I’ll never forget the long roar it made going down, bumping over rocks and brush and trees, clear to the bottom.

Pulling over, I cut the engine and got out.

I was trembling. I snapped loose a cigarette and lit it; the smoke felt good. I began to relax.

Dutch was dead. That was for sure. Nobody, but nobody, could live through one like this. Besides, I could hear a dry crackling sound, like cellophane being crumpled up, and I knew the car was burning down there. Yeah, Dutch was finished all right.

What really got me was how dumb he’d played things. When he made that first rough turn and felt the whole car going he should have known something was haywire. But, he wouldn’t stop in the middle of a dice, not Dutch. The fever was in him, and that’s what I’d counted on. Anything to beat me. In racing or in pool or with chicks. Beat ole Eddie. Make him look like a damn fool.

Well, Dutch, this time you lost. Because not even you could corner at speed with only fifteen pounds of air in your back tires!

I killed the cig and fired up the Ford. I’d better hurry.

Rosa would be wondering what had happened.