When The Bough Breaks

A clatter of ringing phones sounded in the background.

"One moment, sir."

When she returned I asked her:

"You call him yet, ma'am?"

"No - I - it's rather busy right now, Mr…"

"Saxon, Jeff Saxon. You call old Tim and tell him old Jeff Saxon's in town to see him, I guarantee you he'll be - "

"Why don't I just give you the number?" She recited seven digits, the first two of which signified a beach cities location.

"Thank you much, I believe Tim told me he lived near the beach - that far from the airport?"

"Mr. Kruger lives in Santa Monica. It's about a twenty - minute ride."

"Hey, that's not bad - maybe I'll just drop in on him, kind of a surprise, what do you think?"

"Sir, I have to - "

"You wouldn't happen to have the address? I tell you, it's been one hell of a day, what with the airline losing my sample case and I've got two meetings tomorrow. I think I packed the address book in the suitcase, but now I can't be sure and - "

"Here's the address, sir."

"Thank you much, ma'am. You've been very helpful. And you have a nice voice."

"Thank you, sir."

"You free tonight?"

"I'm sorry, sir, no."

"Fellow's gotta try, right?"

"Yes, sir. Good - bye, sir."

I'd been driving north for a good five minutes before I heard the buzzing. I realized, then, that the sound had been with me since I'd pulled out of the gas station. The rearview mirror revealed a motorcycle several lengths back, bouncing in the distance like a fly on a hot windshield. The driver twisted the handle accelerator and the fly grew like a monster in a Japanese horror flick.

He was two lengths behind, and gaining. As he approached I got a look at him, jeans, boots, black leather jacket, black helmet with full - face tinted sun visor that completely masked his features.

He rode my tail for several blocks. I changed lanes. Instead of passing, he hung back, allowing a Ford full of nuns to come between us. A half mile past Lexington the nuns turned off. I steered sharply toward the curb and came to a sudden stop in front of a Pup 'n Taco. The motorcycle sped by. I waited until he'd disappeared, told myself I was being paranoid, and got out of the Seville. I looked for him, didn't see him, bought a Coke, got behind the wheel and reentered the boulevard.

I'd turned east on Temple headed for the Hollywood Freeway when I heard him again. Verifying his presence in the mirror caused me to miss the onramp, and I stayed on Temple, dipping under the bridge created by the overpass. The motorcycle stayed with me. I gave the Seville gas and ran a red light. He maintained his position, buzzing and spitting. The next intersection was filled with pedestrians and I had to stop.

I kept a watch on him through the side mirror. He rolled toward me, three feet away, now two, approaching on the driver's side. One hand went inside the leather jacket. A young mother wheeled a small child in a stroller, passing directly in front of my bumper. The child wailed, the mother chewed gum, heavy legged, moving oh so slowly. Something metallic came into the hand in the mirror. The motorcycle was just behind me, almost flush with the driver's window. I saw the gun now, an ugly little snub - nosed affair, easy to conceal in a large palm. I raced my engine. The gum - chewing young matron wasn't impressed. She seemed to move in slow motion, indolently working her jaws, the child now screaming at the top of his lungs. The light remained red but its cater cornered cousin had turned amber. The longest light in the history of traffic engineering… how long could an amber light last?

The snout of the revolver pressed against the glass, directly in line with my left temple. A black hole miles long wrapped in a concentric halo of silver. The mother still dragged her heavy body lazily across the intersection, her heel in line with my right front tire, unaware that the man in the green Cadillac was going to be blown away any second. The finger on the trigger blanched. The mother stepped clear by an inch. I twisted the steering wheel to the left, pressed down hard on the accelerator and shot diagonally across the intersection into the path of the ongoing traffic. I gunned the engine, laid a long patch of rubber, heard a Delphic chorus of curses, shouts, honking horns and squealing brakes, and shot up the first side street, narrowly missing a head - on collision with a Water and Power van coming from the opposite direction.

The street was narrow and winding, and pocked with potholes. The Seville was no sports car and I had to fight its slack steering system to maintain speed and control around the turns. I climbed, bounced down hard, and swooped steeply down a hill. A boulevard stop at the bottom was clear. I sped through. Three blocks of level turf at seventy miles an hour and the buzz was back, growing louder. The motorcycle, so much easier to maneuver, was catching up fast.