The Kill Riff by David J. Schow Read Free Book Online

the office, then, or…" He held up his hands helplessly. "Or-"
        " Au contraire . I need to blow the decay off everything in my corner. Say a few more hellos. Run an inspection on my desk. I'd le to borrow some of the equipment, too. One of the portable videotape rigs, if you don't mind."
        It was a tiny favor. "We got a whole closet full. You want VHS or Beta? We traded some of the bulkier stuff for self-contained porta-packs no bigger than a phone book. With cameras-everything's built in."
        "Don't need the camera. Just playback."
        "No prob. Say-are you meeting, uh, Sara at this secluded mountain eyrie of yours? That why you don't want to tell me where it is?"
        "Now, don't pry. You're not my mommy." Lucas shook his head. "Sara I'll deal with once I reengage with the real urban world. This is just for me." He laughed. "What do you think I'm up to, you old fart? I'm going to get bagged and watch pornies."
        "Very funny," Burt snorted. "Watch that 'old fart' crap or you'll get fed your teeth. Listen, Lucas, if you-"
        "I know, don't tell me," he cut in. "If there's anything you can do, doo-dah, doo-dah, and so on and etcetera and so forth. You've already done plenty, my pal. And you've got my sincere thanks for everything you've done, now and during my absence. Hey, you want blood? Or worse, a percentage?"
        "Lucas, you know the thanks are as unnecessary as the apologies." To Burt, loyalty was fundamental, automade. He did not know just how rare he was. "You need a car?"
        "That's taken care of. I've been shopping. Simon the Broker told me it was okay. But I am glad you saved me the social discomfiture of climbing out the restroom window to avoid picking up the tab."
        "They have iron bars for people like that." Recalling his entrance at the Kroeger Building, he added, "You crafty son of a bitch."
        "Probably. Cheers." Lucas drank down slushy ice water.
        They sauntered out in good spirits. Burt felt his duty had been done and was out of touchy questions. Several times, though, Lucas had caught him peeking, regarding him as if he might be an imposter hiding behind Lucas Ellington's name, a fake or clever surrogate. The sensation was mildly irritating, but not wholly unjustified, given the circumstances.
        He would just have to prove to everyone how sane he really was.
        But that would be after he got back from the mountains, the beach, the quiet.
        

3
        
        TO THE WEST, THE PACIFIC Ocean shone a weighty, industrial steel color-massy, substantial, permanent. The road ahead of Lucas unwound in smooth gray curves, following the close topography dictated by the sea.
        Again Lucas thought of the crate. It was buried, like a casket holding ghosts from the past sealed within. Whatever the condition of his cabin, the crate would be intact, protected by the embrace of the soil.
        Around him, the vehicle, a dense mechanical buffalo some Detroit genius had decided to call a Bronco, all indestructible chassis and knobby tires and flagrantly shitty gas mileage, thrummed to the tune of a steady eighty-five miles per hour, northbound, a solitary locomotive of bronze-finished power highballing up the Pacific Coast Highway with no competition. The last real traffic Lucas had noticed was a flock of roller-skate-sized Nipponese deathtraps, trickling down toward Malibu. The sunspray on the calm ocean was magnificent, hot on the back of his neck. He cracked the pilot's window, and the sharp salt tang flared his nostrils and trued up his sinuses. The showroom smell of the brand-new Bronco blew out in a rush of sea air.
        The vinyl slipcover on the portable video gear reflected a white gash of sunlight in the rearview. It had taken audiocassette recorders a decade to hit a state-of-the-art stride; home video technology had taken about half that time. Things were accelerating geometrically. Who would have