The Big Enchilada

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    Although I would have liked to do a thorough search to see if I could get a line on what Watkins had been doing, I was getting nervous. There was some kind of timetable in operation, and there was probably only a short time before a “neighbor” reported the suicide. My being found at Watkins’s house would be even worse than having the note found.
    I thought I heard sirens. It might have been my imagination, but I couldn’t afford to wait and see.
    I quickly started going through Watkins’s pockets. There was nothing of interest in his wallet or his notebook. Odds and ends of garbage in his other pockets. The sirens were getting closer. In his outer left jacket pocket there was a crumpled ball of paper. Three rooms of furniture for $250— terms can be arranged. The same flyer that was stuck on my windshield when I went to Medco.
    Did it mean anything? Fuck if I knew. An army of rummies had probably plastered half the city with the things. Still, it was something.
    No time to look further. The sirens were definitely getting closer. I ran to my car. I drove away at a nice legal speed.

TWENTY

    When I got close to my apartment, I had a hunch. I parked a few blocks away, and casually walked the rest of the distance. I turned the corner onto my block and quickly ducked behind some bushes. I saw that I was right. A patrol car with two cops in it was parked in front of my building.
    Shit. They didn’t waste any time. I knew I’d have to stay out of sight for a while, and I wanted to pick up some things first, but they could see both entrances from where they were sitting. I thought that if they were distracted for even a moment, I could get up the driveway without being seen. I only had to cover about twenty feet, and then the side of the building would hide me. But the cops looked young and alert, and I couldn’t see how I would manage. I decided to wait a few minutes to see if anything developed.
    It did. Sandi or Mandi or whoever came walking by my bush. She was wearing cutoffs that were cut to reveal half her ass and a tiny halter top that halted nothing.
    I hissed at her. She looked around, puzzled, and when she saw me she squealed with delight and ran around to join me.
    Before I could say anything, she said, “Do you want to do it right here?” and started to pull down her shorts.
    Her shorts were around her knees and she was attacking my waistband by the time I restrained her. She looked disappointed, but when I told her I needed her help, she was quite willing. I explained that I wanted her to distract the two cops so I could get into my apartment without being seen. She said it sounded exciting, but she didn’t think she could do it. I looked at her. She still hadn’t pulled up her shorts. Fuck!
    “You won’t have any trouble,” I said, and told her what she should do.
    She went into the building and I saw the cops’ heads turn to follow her. I smiled. In a couple of minutes she came out carrying a beach towel and wearing the bathing suit she had had on when she invaded my bathroom the other day. Even from this distance she was pretty spectacular. Poor cops, they didn’t stand a chance.
    She walked by the cruiser nice and slow to catch their attention. She did. I started moving up, being careful to stay in the shadows as much as I could. With a great deal of movement and wiggling, she spread the towel on the skimpy front lawn and settled down on it on her belly. She untied the thin string that fastened the bikini top and let it drop. She then started twisting and turning around, trying to get into a comfortable position, seemingly unaware of the cops’ presence and of the fact that she kept revealing tantalizing glimpses of her bare breasts.
    I made it up the driveway and around the side of the building with no difficulty. Hell, I could’ve driven a tank up and the cops wouldn’t have noticed.
    My apartment seemed the same as when I had left it. The way things had been going, that was not so small a blessing.
    I flipped on my answering machine. Harold Ace, reporter, wanted me to call him. He didn’t sound too happy. Who did?
    I gathered up some clothes, some weapons, some ammo, and whatever else I thought I might need for a few days and threw the stuff into a canvas carryall. I could never remember if those instructions about how to pack for a trip said to put your guns under or on top of your clothes. I must ask the newspaper’s travel consultant about that.
    I