Ultimate Thriller Box Set - Crouch Blake (лучшие книги без регистрации txt) 📗

When the doors opened, I dragged myself out on my stomach, propped the camera in front of me on the pavement, aimed the lens at the aisle, and waited for the blackmailer to drive down. I prayed the camera hadn’t been broken by one of his kicks.

A moment or two later, he came screeching by in a new Ford Focus. I don’t think he saw me. I managed to snap one or two pictures before he sped past on his way to the cashier. I hoped I got his license plate, though I had no idea what I would do with the information.

***

I was still there, soaked in my own urine and bile, when the family of six came out of the stairwell. They pretended not to see me. So did the lovely young couple that walked up five minutes later. They just stepped over me and got in the elevator, then immediately got out and stepped over me again to take the stairs instead.

It took me a good ten minutes before I’d gathered enough oxygen, and enough courage, to try sitting up. The pain was like a fresh kick, but at least I could breathe. Sort of. Each breath was like being stuck with knives. I’d broken a few ribs playing touch football in high school, and it felt just like this.

I propped myself up against the wall and sat there, clutching my sides, gathering strength, waiting for my pants to dry, and hoping the pain would wane.

More people passed me on their way to the elevator and tried not to look at me. I think if I hadn’t wet myself, I would have gotten more sympathy. As it was, I was written off as another one of Santa Monica’s ubiquitous homeless people.

Next time I took a beating, I would work harder at controlling my bladder. Next time, I wouldn’t cry, either.

Yes, I was thinking about the next time.

Because as miserable as I felt, as humiliated as I was, as much pain as I was in, I was elated.

I had just gotten my first professional beating.

Someone had just pounded the piss out of me because my investigation had gotten me too close. It didn’t matter that my bungled surveillance was what got me in that elevator and got me thrashed. Nor did it matter that I didn’t even get in a punch of my own. With each kick, he acknowledged that I was on a case and I was a threat to him.

It was no different from Syndicate thugs trying to run over Jim Rockford. Or a hired sniper taking a shot at Dan Tana. Or someone waiting in Travis McGee’s houseboat to ambush him.

I was one of them now. I wasn’t simply a detective. I was Harvey Mapes,  private eye.

***

I may have considered myself a private dick, but as I sat in my car stripping off my piss-soaked pants and underwear, I certainly didn’t feel like a sex machine to all the chicks.

I left my soiled clothes on the pier, rolled down the window, and drove back to the Valley naked from the waist down, hoping to air myself out a little. I figured if anyone could see I was half-naked, they were too damn close to my car anyway.

I decided against going to the ER. I knew I had a few broken ribs, but a doctor wouldn’t do anything for me I couldn’t do myself, besides prescribe some strong painkillers. I would have to make do with handfuls of Advils, which I could buy in bulk from Costco for what a pharmacist charged for two pills of something fancier.

After I dropped off my film for developing, I’d buy some Ace bandages and a big jug of Pepto Bismol, since eating Advils like M&Ms ravages your stomach. The only thing more humiliating than a detective who pisses his pants is one who can’t be more than five feet away from a toilet for fear he’ll shit himself.

I got off the freeway at the Ventura Boulevard exit and parked behind the first gas station I saw. I put on my uniform, got out of the car, and limped into the men’s room. Those simple actions hurt more than I can describe. Suffice it to say that every move I made was painful, so I won’t belabor the point from now on. Take it as a given.

I shoved my blood-and-puke-stained shirt in the trash, washed my face in the sink, and took a pee to see if there was any blood in my urine. There wasn’t, which I took to mean there wasn’t any internal bleeding, not that I had the slightest bit of medical knowledge.

Still, I was relieved.

I got back in the car and drove to the Thrifty on the way to my place, dropping the film off at their one-hour photo counter. I bought my medical supplies and went to my apartment.

As soon as I got home, I stripped and showered. After that, I wrapped the Ace bandages tightly around my waist, washed down six Advils with a couple gulps of Pepto Bismol, and lay down on my bed to rest for a few minutes.

***

I awoke to pounding in my head from inside and out.

The apartment was dark. Pain pulsed in my head, keeping time with the sound of a fist banging on my front door.

I sat up slowly, pleased that the tight bandages were providing some support and a slight easing of my pain.

I put on my bathrobe and dragged myself to the front door. I could have stayed where I was and yelled to Carol to stop her damn knocking, but I was afraid it would hurt me more than walking across the apartment.

I unlocked the door and swung it open.

“Oh my God, what happened to you?” Carol said as she came in, closing the door behind her.

“Nothing,” I said. “I’d love to talk, but I got some errands to run before I go to work.”

“Harvey, it’s after midnight.” She turned on the light. “I just got back from the movies.”

“Shit!” I yelled, and confirmed my earlier fears. Yelling did hurt more than walking across the room. I clutched myself and wanted to cry. I’d slept over ten hours.

I wasn’t so concerned about being late to work; Clay would cover for me. But Thrifty was closed now, which meant I wouldn’t be able to pick up the pictures until after my shift Saturday morning. I’d have nothing to show Cyril Parkus. I put both hands on the kitchen counter and groaned. Now I felt like a failure. This hurt worse than the beating.

Carol turned the light off again.

“Why did you do that?” I asked.

“Because right now you look a lot better in the dark,” She came up behind me and tenderly caressed my back. She’d never touched me like that before. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“Maybe tomorrow,” I said. “I have to go to work.”

“You’re in no condition to work.”

“You could be in a coma and do my job,” I said and shuffled off to the bedroom.

“Then you’re certainly qualified,” she replied.

I was changing carefully into my uniform when Carol came into the bedroom and, without saying a word, helped me put on my pants and button my shirt. It was the most intimate moment of my adult life. For some reason I couldn’t figure out, I wanted to cry, but I brought all my manly resources to bear and controlled myself. When she was done, she gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.

In the glow of my clock radio, I could see the concern on her face when she spoke.

“I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow.”

And I knew, no matter what, she would be.

Chapter Nine

It was after one a.m. by the time I got to Bel Vista Estates with some burgers from McDonalds for Clay and me. Clay took one look at me and offered to work the next shift in my place, but I told him I needed the money.

I also told him I’d been mugged, which is why I looked like shit.

He asked me where it happened, and when I told him it was in a parking structure, he demanded to know which one, so he could scope it out for a redesign to enhance safety.

After Clay left, I checked the surveillance tapes. Lauren came home around two Friday afternoon and didn’t come out again. I wasn’t surprised.

I spent the rest of the night swallowing Advils, guzzling Pepto Bismol, and going over the events of the previous day in my mind.

I wondered how he discovered that I was following him. As much as I tried, I couldn’t isolate the fuck-up, maybe because it wasn’t just one thing, but my entire performance. Maybe I was the fuck-up.