Part 8 (2/2)

”'Yours truly, the Green Falcon.”' And the Watchman looked up, smiling, from the yellowed, many-times-folded letter in his hands. ”You signed it,” he said ”Right here. Remember?” He held it up. Then he scrambled to the box again, rummaged, and came up with an old wallet covered in multicolored Indian beads. He flipped it open and showed what was pinned inside. ”I kept it all this time. See?”

The plastic b.u.t.ton said THE GREEN FALCONEERS. ”I see.” Cray's voice cracked.

”I did right,” Davy said. ”I always did right.”

”Yes,” the Green Falcon nodded. ”I know you did.”

”We moved from Center City.” Davy stood up; he was at least six inches taller than the Green Falcon. ”My Dad got a new job, when I was twelve. That was...” He hesitated, trying to think. ”A long time ago,” he decided. A frown slowly settled on his deeply lined face. ”What happened to you?”

”I got old,” the Green Falcon said.

”Yes, sir. Me too.” His frown started to slip away, then took hold again. ”Am I still a Falconeer?”

”Oh, yes. That's a forever thing.”

”I thought it was,” Davy said, and his smile came back.

”You've got a nice collection down here.” The Green Falcon walked amid the stacks. ”I guess gathering all this takes a lot of time.”

”I don't mind. It's my job.”

”Your job?”

”Sure. Everybody's got a job. Mine is watching things, and writing them down. Keeping them, too.”

”Have you actually read all these papers and magazines?”

”Yes, sir. Well... most of them,” he amended. ”And I remember what I read, too. I've got... like... a Kodak in my brain.”

Did he mean a photographic memory? the Green Falcon wondered. If so, he might recall the man Gracie remembered? ”Davy,” he said in his heroic voice, ”I've come to you because I need your help. I'm trying to find the Fliptop Killer. Have you heard of him?”

Davy nodded without hesitation.

”Can you think of a man like the one I described? A man who was a friend of-”

”Dolly Winslow,” Davy finished for him. ”Yes, sir. I remember him. I never liked him, either. He laughed at people when he didn't think they were looking.”

So far, so good. The Green Falcon felt sweat on the back of his neck. ”I want you to concentrate very hard, like a good Falconeer. Did you ever hear the man's name?”

Davy rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, and his eyes took on a steely glint. He walked to a filing cabinet, bent down, and opened the bottom drawer. Looked through dozens of envelopes. And then he pulled one of them out, and he brought it to the Green Falcon. On it Davy had written: 23. ”Dolly's room,” he said. ”He cleaned his wallet out in her trashcan one night.”

The Green Falcon went to the desk and spilled the envelope's contents out on the blotter. There was a torn-open Trojan wrapper, two dried-up sticks of Doublemint gum, a few cash-register receipts, a ticket stub to a Lakers game, and...

”His name's Rod Bowers. It's on the library card,” Davy said. ”His address too.” The library card had been torn into quarters, but Davy had taped it back together again. And there were the name and address: Rodney E. Bowers, 1416D Jericho Street, Santa Monica.

”That was over a year ago, though. He might not be there now,” Davy said.

”The Green Falcon's hands were shaking. Davy had taped together another piece of paper: a receipt that had been torn into many fragments. On that receipt was the name of a business: The House Of Blades. On December 20th, 1986, Rodney Bowers had bought himself a Christmas present of a John Wayne Commemorative Hunting Knife.

”Did I do right?” Davy asked, peering over the Green Falcon's shoulder.

”You sure did, son.” He grasped the younger man's arm. ”You're...” He said the first thing that came to mind: ”The number-one Falconeer. I have to go now. I've got a job to do.” He started striding, his pace quick, toward the stairs.

”Green Falcon, sir?” Davy called, and he paused. ”I'll be here if you ever need my help again.”

”I'll remember,” the Green Falcon answered, and he climbed the stairs with the taped-together library card and the House Of Blades receipt gripped in his hand.

He went through the door into the parking lot-and instantly heard someone shouting in Spanish. Somebody else was hollering from the second floor, and there were other angry voices. The man named Paco was standing next to the Mercedes, and suddenly he drew a pistol-not a cigarette lighter this time, but a .45 automatic. He shouted out a curse and began firing into the Mercedes, gla.s.s from the winds.h.i.+eld exploding into the air. At the same time, two men got out of another car, flung themselves flat onto the pavement, and started spraying Paco with gunfire. Paco's body danced and writhed, the .45 going off into the air.

”Kill 'em!” somebody yelled from the second floor. Machine-gun fire erupted, and bullets ricocheted off the concrete in a zigzagging line past the Green Falcon.

Oh, my G.o.d! Cray thought. And he realized he'd come out of the bas.e.m.e.nt into the middle of a drug deal gone bad.

The two men on the pavement kept firing. Now figures were sprinting across the parking lot, shooting at the men on the second floor. Machine-gun bullets cut one of them down, and he fell in a twitching heap. The Green Falcon backed up, hit the wall, and stayed there-and then a man in a dark suit turned toward him, a smoking Uzi machine-gun in his hand, his face sparkling with the sweat of terror. He lifted the weapon to spray a burst at the Green Falcon.

9. h.e.l.l Or High Water A black-and-white streak shot across the parking lot, and the pit bull hit the gunman like a miniature locomotive. The man screamed and went down, the Uzi firing an arc of tracers in the sky. And Lester ran past, stopped almost in front of the Green Falcon, fired a shotgun blast at another man, and then skidded on his belly behind the protection of a car.

The Green Falcon ran towards the street-and was almost struck by a cab that whipped into the lot with a shriek of burning rubber.

Ques. .h.i.t the brake, and Gracie shouted, ”Come on, fool!” as she threw the door open. The Green Falcon heard a bullet hiss past his head, and then he grasped the door and hung on as Ques reversed out of the lot and sped away on Hollywood.

Gracie pulled the Green Falcon in, and they got the door closed, but Ques still kept a leaden foot on the accelerator. ”Slow down!” she told him. ”We don't want the cops stopping us!” He didn't respond, and she slapped him on the question mark. ”SLOW DOWN!”

Ques did, but only by a little. ”They had guns,” he said shakily. ” Real guns!”

”What'd you expect drug dealers to carry? Slingshots?” She looked at the Green Falcon. ”You in one piece?” He nodded, his eyes huge behind the mask. ”We were circling the block, waiting for you to come out. We figured you'd never get out of this neighbourhood alive. We were almost right, huh?”

”Yes,” he croaked.

”Welcome to the big city. You find the Watchman?”

”I did.” He drew a couple of deep breaths, could still smell the gunsmoke. ”And something else too.” He gave the library card to Ques. ”That's where we're going. I think it's the Fliptop Killer's name and address.”

”Not that again!” Gracie protested. ”Man, we're taking you home!”

”No. We're going to Santa Monica. You don't have to get out of the cab if you don't want to-in fact, I'd rather you didn't. But I'm going to find the Fliptop, with you or without you.”

”It'll be without me, all right,” she answered, but the way he'd said that let her know he was through talking about it. The man had a mission, and he was going to do it come h.e.l.l or high water. She settled back into her seat, muttering, and Ques turned toward the Santa Monica freeway.

The address was near the beach, so close they could smell the sea. The building was dark-bricked, one of those old art-deco places that probably used to be a hotel when Santa Monica was young. Ques pulled the cab to a halt in front of it and cut the engine.

”I want you both to stay here,” the Green Falcon said. ”I'm going in alone.” He started to get out, but Gracie caught his arm.

”Hey, listen. If the Fliptop's really in there, this is the time to call the cops. No joke.”

”I don't know that he's in there. It's an old library card; he might have moved. But if he's there, I've got to see his face for myself. Then we can call the police.”

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