Free Spider’s Cage by Jim Nisbet

scowled. “We found a black Cadillac limousine in the Presidio the day after they brought you in here. Front end was bashed in, the water was all gone out of the radiator, and the motor was locked up. There was paint and plastic from your Toyota all over the front end. There was a piece of your license plate embedded in the radiator core. So your end of the story checks out.” Bdeniowitz paused. “More or less,” he added.
    Windrow frowned. “You found the car the day after they brought me in here?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œSo what day is this? How long have I been in here?”
    â€œThey brought you in here on Tuesday. This is Thursday morning.”
    â€œSo I’ve been in here two days?”
    â€œTwo days, Marty. More or less.”
    Two days, Windrow thought to himself. So, Jodie’s been gone five. How long had she been in trouble? She’d called for help on Tuesday morning.
    â€œSo how come somebody wants you dead that close to the Neil murder?” Bdeniowitz persisted.
    Anything could have happened, Windrow thought to himself. Everything could have happened. “I don’t know,” he said aloud. He threw the bedclothes to one side. His arm ached, but it worked. “Has anybody seen Woodruff?”
    â€œNot a sign of him,” Bdeniowitz said glumly. “What are you doing?”
    â€œI’m getting out of here.” He stood up. He heard a rush of surf in his ears and saw sparks when he closed his eyes. He steadied himself on the bedstand and knocked the empty glass off the table onto the floor. It bounced and spun to a standstill, unbroken.
    â€œHey,” said Bdeniowitz, standing up.
    â€œI’m all right,” said Windrow. “Just excited about getting on the case for my client.”
    â€œYou got a client? Who?
    â€œWoodruff.”
    â€œWoodruff?”
    Windrow breathed deeply and screwed his eye up so the bruise smarted. That gave him something to concentrate on. “Hand me my duds. I’m checking out of here.”

Chapter Nine
    M AD BRUCE KICKED A TIRE ON A 1964 F ORD F AIRLANE. “Listen,” he said, “It’s red, dearie, inside and out.” He shrugged. “So there’s a little chrome missing.” He waved. “You can restore it on weekends.” He pulled open the door on the driver’s side, and the sheet metal at the hinge jamb popped. “Steering wheel, radio, dash pocket, ash tray, the seats in fair shape…” He patted a thatch of duct tape on the driver’s seat. “Two visors, dome light.” He flicked the switch on the dome light back and forth, and shrugged. “Needs a bulb.” He pulled the seatback forward, revealing two empty oil cans sitting on a nest of brown pine needles and yellowed newspaper. “Plenty of room in back. You could practically live in it, and you definitely,” he winked lasciviously, “could spend some time in it at the drive-in, my man my man.”
    Windrow looked under the hood. “Start it,” he said. Mad Bruce ground the starter and the motor caught. “Rev her up,” Windrow shouted. Mad Bruce floored the accelerator. The four-barrel carburetor moaned, the V-8 roared under it, the fan belt squealed. Blue smoke began to fill the car lot behind the Ford. There didn’t seem to be too much blowby, judging by the breather on the valve cover, and the pollution equipment had already been added. He took the cap off the radiator. The water was only about an inch low. “Turn it off,” he shouted. The motor continued to run wide open.Windrow looked out from under the hood and drew a finger across his throat. Mad Bruce made a fist over his shoulder and let his eyes and head droop, like a hanged man. He opened one eye and looked at Windrow. Windrow looked at him. Mad Bruce raised his head and drew one forefinger rapidly in and out of his closed fist, grinning and jerking his eyebrows wildly. Windrow stared