The Pallbearers

Chapter 35

The party broke up a little past 2:00 A. M. Men and women started coming off the front porch. I saw Rick O'Shea exit. He had a pretty dark-haired girl in a Hooters T-shirt clinging to his arm. They got into his Escalade, and he revved the engine like a teenager before slamming it into gear and squealing away from the curb.

The partygoers were streaming out of the house, heading to their vehicles. Motorcycles and old cars with dented fenders started firing up all over the street. Alexa and I ducked down as they roared past. I noticed they all turned east at the end of the block.

I pulled my head up and spotted the short, middle-aged man with the hair plugs who had been out by the pool in Jack's video leaving the house with Chris Calabro. E. C. Mesa.

He looked slightly ridiculous the way he was dressed. A clumpy, middle-aged guy with obvious hair implants wearing a too-tight biker jacket, torn jeans, and three-inch Cuban-heeled boots. He and Calabro got on the last two Indian motorcycles and racked the starters.

Jack exited the house a few feet behind them, mounted his Harley, and jumped down on his starter. The two Indians roared across the lawn and bounced over the curb, with Jack just a few yards behind.

I ducked down quickly, but Jack saw me. A big, slimy lugie gobbed onto our side window as he roared passed.

"Thanks, Jack." I turned to Alexa and said, "Let s go."

"Where?"

"Everybody turned east at the end of the block. I'm no mathematician, but that defies even my meager understanding of the law of probability. Gotta all be going to the same place. The party ain't over yet."

Alexa put the car in gear and swung a U-turn. When we got to Alameda Street, everyone was about three blocks ahead just making a left. I could see the taillight of Jack's trailing Harley as it made the turn.

We hurried to catch up. Either Alexa was closing the gap or Jack's Harley was slowing, because as we sped down Alameda and made the next left, I could see we were much closer. It was soon obvious that Jack was deliberately dropping back. I rolled down the window as we came alongside.

"Get out of here, Scully!" he shouted over the roar of his engine.

"You're under arrest!" I yelled back.

Jack shook his head in disgust, then powered ahead.

We followed the party as it turned onto Pacific Coast Highway, heading east, and crossed the Los Angeles River into the coastal town of Signal Hill.

We continued along the PCH into Long Beach and were soon in a run-down industrial section of town a few blocks from the San Gabriel River. Up ahead the motorcycles and cars were turning into the parking lot of a big, wooden, red barn-shaped building. As we neared, I could read the neon-lit sign on the roof: