Free Nightwork by Joseph Hansen Page A

latest Newsweek and smiled. “How was Gifford Gardens?”
    “Words fail me.” Dave set the tray on the long raw pine chest of drawers, carried his glass to Cecil, bent and kissed his mouth. “How are you?”
    “I rested, like you told me,” Cecil said. “Nearly driving me crazy.” With a wry little smile, he raised his glass. “Cheers,” he said cheerlessly, and drank.
    Dave tasted his drink, then brought the sandwiches and napkins. He sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s a little bit racist out there. Eat that. They also have gangs.” He bit into his sandwich. That was the best delicatessen in L.A. When he’d washed the bite down with Bloody Mary, he said, “Can I borrow your van tomorrow?”
    “Something happen to the Jag?” Cecil looked alarmed.
    Dave told him what had happened to the Jag.
    “Aw, no. Shit. It’s my fault. I heard the kind of place it was, when I worked for Channel Three News.” Cecil shook his head slowly in self-disgust. “I should have warned you.”
    “I wouldn’t have taken you seriously.” Dave set his plate on the bed and shed his jacket. “The place is beyond belief. Next time I’ll drive a junk heap.”
    “Next time, just don’t go,” Cecil said. “Wonder is you came back with a car at all. Wonder is you came back alive. That is a killing ground out there. Grannies, little children, policemen.” Cecil stretched out a long, skinny arm to take the cigarette pack from Dave’s jacket where it lay on the bed. “I should have been with you.”
    “You’re not supposed to smoke,” Dave said. On a deadly night of rain last winter, in the lost back reaches of Yucca Canyon, flames leaping high from a burning cabin, bullets had punctured the boy’s lungs. Cecil acted as if he hadn’t heard. He lit the cigarette with Dave’s lighter, and choked on the smoke. Coughing bent him forward, shook him. “Damn.” He wiped away tears with his knuckles. “Damn.”
    Dave took the cigarette from him, stubbed it out in the bedside ashtray. “That’ll learn you,” he said.
    For a moment, Cecil got the coughing under control. Eyes wet, voice a wheeze, he asked, “Where you going tomorrow? Where you taking my van?”
    “San Diego County,” Dave said. “And no, you can’t go. It’s too far. Look, will you please eat?”
    Cecil coughed again, fist to mouth. When he finished, he picked up the sandwich. Wearily obedient, he bit into it. With his mouth full, he said, “Seem to me, if you take my van, it’s only fair you take me.” He gulped Bloody Mary, wiped tomato juice off his chin with the napkin. “Dave, I can’t eat this. I’m not hungry.” He laid the sandwich on the plate. His eyes begged. “I’m sorry. Maybe later.”
    “Right.” Dave knew his smile was stiff, mechanical, false. He was growing discouraged. And frightened. “I’ll wrap it in plastic and put it in the fridge. Don’t forget it, now, okay?” Cecil nodded mutely and handed him the plate as if looking at it was more than he could bear. Dave rose and set it on the tray. He turned back. “I’ll take you tomorrow, if you promise me something.” The rear of the van was lushly carpeted—floor, walls, ceiling—in electric blue to contrast with the flame colors of the custom paint job. Picture window. Built-in bar, refrigerator, drop-leaf table. Electric blue easy chair. Electric blue wraparound couch. “You lie down. All the way.”
    Cecil made a face. He poked grumpily at the ice cubes in his Bloody Mary with a finger. He licked the finger, tried for a smile, and almost managed it. “Okay. I promise.” He livened up a little. “Why are we going?”
    “The reasons keep piling up.” Dave sat on the bed again, worked on his sandwich and drink, and reviewed the morning’s events for Cecil. He finished, “So I went to see Dr. Ford Kretschmer. Only his address is a storage lot for galvanized pipe. And the telephone number is out of service.”
    Cecil stared. “He wasn’t a doctor at