Free Dangerous Times by Phillip Frey

night, he hoped.
    He stepped quietly toward the front of
Cottage Six. He paused at a side window, the interior light
softened by the closed blinds. Frank heard nothing, but knew his
pigeon was still in there.
    He reached under his coat and pulled out his
Russian-made 7.62mm. Because of its smallish size and built-in
silencer it had an excellent reputation for close-up work, the kind
of gunplay Frank had always been fond of.
    Gun in hand he turned from the window, faced
the stone wall and gently racked the slide. Thinking now of
what’s-her-name, the divorced woman he had been with this
afternoon, asking him why he carried a weapon.
    The question hadn’t surprised him, since
they were stripping naked at the time.
    Diamond salesman, Frank had said.
    Julia, that was it, Julia Gavin. He had met
her at the West Channel while researching the docks and waterways,
making sure he knew where to abandon the speedboat tonight. First
spotting her on hands and knees, washing down the stern of her
46-foot cabin cruiser.
    Funny, Frank smiled, seeing himself below
deck with her. Julia embarrassed about it being her time of the
month. How could she know how much it pleased him, slipping in and
out of the blood.
    Tomorrow night, he thought. The Saturday
night yacht-club party. Though he knew he wouldn’t be able to
attend, he had accepted the glitzy invitation from her. She had
written his name on it. James Anthony, he had made up on the
spot.
    Bathed in light suddenly, Frank lifted his
eyes and saw the full moon edging its way above the wall he faced.
In the next moment it faded under a blanket of cloud.
    Kirk’s cottage door closed, followed by the
slap of the screen door. Frank looked toward the front of the
cottage. John Kirk came into view, lit by the glow of the pool.
Dressed as before: scuffed boots, Levi’s, and the same old military
jacket.
    Good news, Frank thought. He wouldn’t have
to lug the body from here to the alley where his car was parked.
Follow him, give him some neighborly talk, get him into the Lincoln
and kill him. Leave the body in the car at Angels Gate Park.
    Kirk went past the fieldstone wall’s arch
and stopped at the door of Cottage One, a set of keys in hand.
Frank unsure now which nest it was that his pigeon called Home.
    He brushed back his blond hair and gave his
Patek Philippe a glance: 6:20. A little less than 4 hours to kill
him. Then call a cab and get up to the L.A. marina by eleven.
Plenty of time, Frank figured.
    He studied John Kirk over the distance; Kirk
motionless at the door of the lighted cottage, as if listening to
what was going on inside. Frank wondered how many people might be
in there. How many he would have to kill if Kirk spent the entire
evening with them.
    Always expect the unexpected, he reminded
himself. Thinking then he could go to the door, come up with a
performance that would get Kirk to leave with him. Yes, some kind
of fun plan…
    That’s all right, Frank thought. Kill him
here, kill him there, kill him anywhere. Along with anyone else who
might get in his way.

Chapter 20
    Kirk listened at the door of Cottage One.
Her voice was on the rise and becoming clearer now: “Jesus H—can’t
take no for an answer!”
    Kirk unlocked the door. Pushing it open he
was surprised to see Bob Staub standing with Beverly at the edge of
the sofa. Both looked back at him with equal surprise; Beverly with
the top buttons of her blouse undone, a portion of bra showing; a
glass of scotch in her hand.
    With her long blond hair and slight figure,
it was hard to tell she had recently passed her 52nd birthday. Even
the tiny wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and blue eyes were
appealing. Kirk had often contemplated the absurdity of it, if
Beverly’s preservation had anything to do with her consumption of
alcohol.
    She gave him a look of exasperation and
buttoned her blouse. While Bob Staub stood like a kid caught with
his hand in the cookie jar.
    Kirk closed the door, walked toward him