No Immunity

the back. But of course they wouldn’t hear him.
    Loiding the lock would be a snap. If he hadn’t been so desperate to get inside, he would have been grinning at the prospect, picturing Kiernan left at home this time missing all the fun of defenestration, or whatever they call it with a door. He took out his wallet and extricated the plastic strip.
    He reached for the door, but caught himself before slipping plastic between wood. Would the neighbors call the cops? Bet on it. Someone in those nineteen units would be on the horn before he could pass the threshold.
    He would have to make one of the neighbors his ally.
    All he’d need to do was tell them the truth, that these kids were missing, and that any way you looked at it, they were in a heap of danger.
    Five steps and he was at Apartment 2. No sound came from inside; no light shone from the television that had been on minutes earlier. He knocked gently. Needn’t have knocked at all, he thought. Not like they don’t know I’m here.
    The light had gone out in Number 3 too. Number 4, he recalled, was already black, and the tenant in 5 chose to ignore him with more flair, leaving the television going and the lights on while he didn’t answer the door. There was no way to tell them he understood fear of authority in a strange country, not when he looked exactly like their picture of an enforcer of that authority.
    There was a whole floor above to try, and the units on the other side of the courtyard to tackle. He could either spend another forty minutes or leave now, the only difference would be that the tenants got a better look at him. He was Angering the ‘loid when he spotted the girl on the sidewalk.

    Cecil McGuire spotted it a block away: Big gold Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo was a real sore thumb in this place. Park wheels like that in this neighborhood, sheesh, you might as well drive it to the border yourself. And the thing was clean. He pulled up behind. A rent-a-car, sure. God, this guy of Adcock’s was some kind of novice. Why didn’t he just get a sign made: Know nothing Dick, for hire cheap.
    McGuire slid out of his own Barracuda, glancing with a certain pride at the fender. Rumpled, just a bit, but not with dents big enough or deep enough for anyone to remember. Parking-lot fenders. And he had a nice coat of dust on it. He’d spent a lot of time finding this ride. But for the engine, it was worth not a cent more dian the few hundred he’d paid for it. With that, a good thou more. But he was no fool; the way he drove, no one would guess there was anything but rust under the hood. No one was going to bother stealing it. He’d be fine till the damn thing became a collector’s car. He shrugged; so he’d get a few more dents.
    Even in the ‘Cuda there was no decent cover here. That was the problem with Vegas. No trees, no bushes, none of those little bus-shelter places to protect you from the cold like there were in the East. They were clear plastic, hardly the best for concealment, but if there’d been one of them here, it’d be so thick with graffiti that it’d do just fine. But there wasn’t. The only cover this neighborhood provided was suspicion of the police. Nobody was going to chance the cops coming to their place, or the neighbors seeing the cops there, not just to report a guy sitting in a car. Still he slunk lower in the seat, leaned his head against the side window, and watched Villas de Las Palmas as if it were a floor show.
    He didn’t have to keep an eye on it long. Nothing moved in the dirt courtyard, no doors opened, no window shades shot up. For five minutes the place could have been a still photo. Then he spotted the guy coming out of the last unit in the row. McGuire snorted. Guy coulda been a redwood. Adcock, the bum, hadn’t mentioned this dick of his was seven feet tall and built like a bear. Sheesh, the guy must weigh twice what he did!
    The giant baby dick was in the courtyard now, just standing there. All he needed was a neon sign saying, “What do I do next?”
    McGuire snorted again. lie was, well, insulted. It wasn’t like he had a license himself or anything, but, sheesh, any idiot could come along and call himself a PI. No wonder the pay was so bad. The guy was lucky this was just a poor neighborhood, not a really rough block, or he’d a been picked off from three sides by now. Didn’t he even know enough to do his thinking in his car? ¡i
    The Weasel relaxed. This baby dick was going to be no problem.