High Risk 10.2

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[Continuing chapter ten]

“You’re sure you don’t want to get started on this thing tonight,” Casey said.

“It’s late,” Desiree said, shutting off the ignition and opening her door. They were a full block from Jeff’s apartment, and Desiree had only found that parking space by circling twice. “I just want to come up and say hello to Jeff. Then I’m going to go to bed.”

“It’s not even ten-thirty yet.”

“I’ve been writing for more than an hour,” she said, “and I’m tired. Plus, I have an early call tomorrow. We’re running out of time at the airport, and Jerry still has oodles of set-ups left to shoot.”

“All right, then.” Casey started to get out of the car, then stopped. “Why don’t you leave the pages with me, then? I can start reviewing them tonight.”

“Don’t you have an early call as well?”



“It wouldn’t be the first time I’d gone flying on less than a full night’s sleep.”

“You’re not a boy anymore, either,” Desiree said. “Say, just how old were you when you fought the Red Baron, anyway?”

“I never met von Richthofen,” Casey said. “For which I’m grateful. Since you ask, I was sixteen when I joined up, and eighteen when the war ended.”

“Sixteen? Good Lord. They let you fly an airplane at that age?”

“I lied,” he said. “It’s a long story.”

“I want to hear it some time,” she said. Then she handed him the manila envelope into which she’d stuffed the copies they’d made, of the diary and of whatever of Neal’s notes they could discover. “Here you go, then.”

Casey took the envelope and they started walking toward the apartment. Neither of them said anything, and Casey was suddenly aware of how tired he was. This was a feeling not unlike that he’d experienced after a patrol over the lines: the sudden release after several hours of running on nerves and not much else; the feeling one could sleep for days if allowed. “I have a suspicion—” he began.

“Casey?” The voice came from behind them, and it didn’t sound friendly. Casey picked up the pace, nodding at Desiree to keep walking. He looked ahead in the hope that some assistance or even a potential witness might be on the sidewalk. He saw no one; the jokes were true, and Hollywood really did shut down early.

“You been a bad boy,” the voice said. Casey resigned himself to the face that he was going to have to fight, and then a heavy object smashed into the back of his head and he was on the sidewalk, his ribs spasming with pain and Desiree cursing like a sergeant at his assailant.

Casey turned around as he scrambled to his feet, and was surprised to see that the big man staring at Desiree held no sap, no pistol. That was his fist that hit me? Jesus Christ.

“You should stay out of things what don’t concern you,” the man said. His voice was pitched high for such a big man. A really big man. He raised his fists, then grinned as Desiree told him to do something anatomically impossible.

The grin vanished when Casey drove his foot up and into the man’s crotch.

Making a small, surprised noise, the man sank to his knees, then curled up into a whimpering ball. “Come on,” Casey gasped as he fought off the pain from his ribs. “Let’s get out of here.”

It hurt to run—all the care he’d been taking lately to avoid putting stress on his injured ribs was suddenly made irrelevant—but he didn’t let himself stop or even slow down until they were safely in the entry hall of the apartment building.

“You fight dirty,” Desiree said. She said it in a matter-of-fact way, not as an accusation.

“A stand-up fight wasn’t an option,” he said, trying to fill his lungs without adding to the pain. “Not with my ribs the way they are. We should get up to the apartment,” he added, unlocking the inner door. “We can discuss the Marquis of Queensbury some other time. If that guy’s bollocks are as hard as his hands, he’s already on his feet and after us.”

They weren’t followed, though. Once they’d reached Cunningham’s apartment, Casey went straight to the window and opened it, leaning out gingerly in order to see down the street. The man who’d assaulted them was walking, hunched over, in the opposite direction. Once he paused, and Casey could hear the sound of retching echo from the walls of the buildings on the opposite side of the street.

“Good God,” Cunningham said, emerging from his room with a glass of something illegal in his hand. “What the hell happened to you two?”

“With my luck,” Casey muttered, “Howard Hughes has sent someone after me for talking to you about Hell’s Angels.” He carefully dabbed at the back of his head, felt the beginnings of a lump, and winced. “I need an Aspirin,” he said. “Or several. Morphine, if you’ve got it.”

“Not on my salary,” Cunningham said. “Seriously, though—what happened?”

“Some big bruiser tried to smack Casey around,” Desiree said. “Casey kicked him in the balls.” She smiled, as if she found pleasure in the phrase.

“Going to call the cops?”

“What for?” Casey asked. “I couldn’t even give them a description of the guy, other than to say ‘big and ungrammatical’. Besides, I don’t think we want Detective Sergeant Clark to know what we’re up to.”

“Probably not,” Desiree said. “But I got a good look at him, Casey. If you change your mind, I could probably give the cops all they need to track him down.”

“Thanks.” He handed the envelope back to her. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said as she took it from him. “I don’t want to read anything tonight. I don’t want to do anything but put ice on my head and try to sleep. You’re welcome to do whatever you want with this stuff, Desiree; I’m going to bed.”

“I should go too,” she said. “I have an early call tomorrow, and this excitement is going to make it hard enough for me to get to sleep. What say the two of you walk me to my car, just in case.”

Next     Prologue    Chapter One    Chapter Two    Chapter Three    Chapter Four    Chapter Five
Chapter Six    Chapter Seven    Chapter Eight    Chapter Nine     Chapter Ten