The Monkey

34

It began to rain again just after four the next morning, a slow leaking drizzle that fell out of silver clouds, lit from beneath by cityglow. Pike sat at the dining table in the dark, sipping at a finger of bourbon in a tall glass. He said, “It’s about time you were up.”

I went into the little bathroom without saying anything and dressed. Levis, gray Beverly Hills Gun Club tee shirt, CJ Bass desert boots. A client had given me the Gun Club tee shirt, but I’d never worn it. When I went out to the kitchen Pike looked at the shirt and shook his head.

There was coffee in the pot and a plate of dry toast, and Pike’s big Coleman thermos, also filled with coffee. I got out a loaf of white and a half loaf of whole wheat and laid out bread for nine sandwiches. There were two packs of pressed ham, most of a pack of processed chicken, and two ham hocks left in the refrigerator. Enough for nine. I wrapped sweet gherkins and jalapeno-stuffed olives in foil, put them in a Gelson’s bag with napkins, then put the sandwiches on top. In another sack I put two six-packs of RC 100, a plastic bottle of water, cups, and some Handi Wipes.

When the food was ready, Pike took the bags out through the kitchen door and put them in his Jeep. Cold air came in through the open door. While he was out, Ellen Lang, dressed in her jeans and one of my sweatshirts, came down and sat quietly on the stairs, elbows on knees.

“How ya doing?” I said.

She nodded.

“Want some coffee?” I poured half a cup and brought that and a slice of the dry toast to her. “It’s good to have something in your stomach.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Nibble.”

From the entry closet I took out a slicker for Ellen and a nylon rain shell for me. I put Pike’s duffel bag and the two guitar cases by the couch. The duffel bag weighed a ton. I shrugged into my shoulder holster, checked the load in the Dan Wesson, and snapped the catch. I went upstairs, found my clip-on holster, and took a 9mm Beretta automatic from the drawer beside my bed and two extra clips. Each clip held fourteen hollow-point hot loads. Pike had made them for me a long time ago. Illegal. But what’s that to a tough guy like me? With the rain shell on, you couldn’t see either gun. It wouldn’t be easy to get to the Dan Wesson, but I didn’t expect to have to quick-draw walking out to the Jeep.

When Pike came back, he was wearing the cammie field jacket. He opened the first guitar case and took out a Weatherby Mark V. 30-06 deer buster with an 8-power Bushnell scope and a box of cartridges. He fed four into the gun, locked the bolt, then stood the gun against the arm of the couch. When he opened the second case, Ellen Lang leaned forward. She said, “What’s that?”

“Heckler and Koch. 308 assault rifle,” Pike said.

“Pike shows it to people to scare them,” I said. “It doesn’t really shoot.”

Pike’s mouth twitched. The HK was entirely black. With its Fiberglas stock, pistol grip, carry handle, and flash suppressor, it was an ugly, mean gun. Pike snapped the bolt, then took a sixty-shot banana clip from the duffel bag and seated it. He sprayed the external metal parts of each rifle with a mist of WD40, then wiped each lightly with a greasy cloth. His hands worked with a precise economy. Finished, he stood up, said, “Whenever,” and brought the big guns and the duffel out to the Cherokee.

I gave the slicker to Ellen. “Put this on.”

She put it on.

I put the foil brick into a third shopping bag and gave it to her. “Are you scared?” I said.

She nodded.

I said, “Try to be like me. I’m never scared.”

She carried the dope out to the Cherokee. I watched her climb into the backseat from the kitchen, then stood around, wondering if I’d forgotten anything.

The cat walked in and looked at me. I fed him, poured out a saucer of beer, then locked the door. We drove to Griffith Park in a rain so light it was very much like falling dew.