No Place to Die (Sam Leroy Book 3) Page 2

  ‘Help, help,’ he said. He had an accent, which Harry couldn’t place. The guy didn’t look Hispanic, or Asian, but English was clearly not his first language.

  ‘What’s up, pal?’ Harry asked.

  The man blurted out something Harry could not comprehend, and pointed to the row of dumpsters beyond the corner of the store. He tugged at Harry’s sleeve.

  ‘What is it, pal?’ Harry asked again. ‘What’s the matter?’

  The man pulled at the sleeve some more and gesticulated wildly at the dumpsters. Again said something in his native tongue which by now Harry had guessed was something Eastern European. Harry let the man lead him to the row of dumpsters. There were eight in total, and only one had its lid open. The man released Harry’s sleeve and scampered over to the open one. He jabbed his finger inside.

  Harry followed the man and peered inside. It was dark, but the lamp affixed to the side wall of the store afforded Harry the light he needed.

  As he looked inside, he could feel the lasagne he had microwaved earlier try to force its way back into his throat.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he said.

  Chapter 3

  A few weeks earlier, John Thomas Hightower nestled his ample figure into the comfort of his seat. At 224 pounds, he was pleased to be travelling first class; had he gone coach, this five-hour flight would be even less enjoyable. It was just as well his firm was paying the $900 round trip fare. Hightower, also known as ‘J.T.’, always insisted on flying first class. He had to make these trips twice a year, and felt that almost two thousand dollars was a small price to pay to ensure his attendance at these conventions.

  Hightower worked for a company specialising in rare books, and his position as Acquisitions Executive gave him the twice-yearly opportunity to travel to a variety of cities around the country, leaving his wife and son back at home in Jasper, Alabama.

  He and his wife Maybeline had five offspring in all: two girls, now in their thirties and married with children of their own; two sons, one of whom was also married with children, and one who, much to his father’s disappointment, was now living in Birmingham with a girl he met in a bar. His fifth child, a son, had just turned fifteen and still lived at home.

  This particular trip was in fact the second so far this year. The first was in January and was up to Chicago, a place Hightower hated in the winter. Winters in the humid subtropical climate of Alabama are mild, and the three days in Chicago, with the ice and snow and cold, were an anathema to him. Now, in the late Spring, he had mixed feelings about this trip to Los Angeles. At home, the mercury would already be hitting the 80s, and he would be tiring of the incessant rain, so he would be feeling more comfortable physically; but the City of the Angels was anything but to Hightower. He always found it dry, dusty, dirty, too spread out.

  And sinful. Hightower viewed with disdain the countless motels and bars and sex shops and hookers. On a previous trip, one evening for the want of something to do, he took a cab the length of Hollywood Boulevard, from Fairfax to Normandie, not getting out, but just out of some morbid curiosity around how the other half lived.

  And now, comfortable in Seat 3B in the small first class section of the Boeing 757, Hightower was ready to begin the final leg of his journey. The first leg had been a short hop from Birmingham-Shuttlesworth to Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson; the main part of the journey was the 4 hour 55 minute trip from ATL to LAX. As the plane sped down the runway, Hightower rested his tan felt Stetson on his lap and closed his eyes. Soon they were in the air, the aircraft banking slightly as it turned left to begin its journey across Alabama, Arkansas, Oklahoma, New Mexico, Arizona to California.

  It was just after 2pm, and Hightower tried to get a brief nap, but soon the cabin crew began to make their rounds offering the first of several complementary drinks. Hightower accepted a mineral water, and glanced over at the man in Seat 3A, who ordered a double whiskey. He reciprocated the mumbled ‘cheers’ as his neighbour downed the bourbon in one mouthful. Another reason to disapprove of his fellow passenger, who had a goatee and long hair tied in a ponytail. Hightower guessed the guy worked in the music industry as he had out on his lap two music magazines and was constantly sending and receiving messages on a Blackberry. Then he fished an Ipad out of his carry-on case, and Hightower noticed he went straight to a record company website. The man also smelt heavily of a very sweet-smelling cologne.

  Finishing his mineral water, Hightower paused as he listened to the chief steward welcoming the passengers on board Delta Airlines Flight 1755 to Los Angeles International Airport, which was due to arrive 3:32 that afternoon local time. They would be travelling at an altitude of 35900 feet, and a ground speed of 445 knots. The weather in Los Angeles was a balmy 72 degrees, and conditions were good over the flight path, so sit back and enjoy the flight.

  Hightower cleared his throat and glanced across at what the man in Seat 3A was doing. He was still engrossed in one of his magazines, specifically at the page which was taken up with a large photograph of a scantily clad reality TV show star. Hightower cleared his throat again and reached into his own carry-on bag, and pulled out a Bible, King James Version. He opened it up to a page where a corner had been turned down, and found a verse he had previously underlined in pencil. Romans 3:23 – For everyone has sinned; we all fall short of God’s glorious standard. Harrumphing again, he continued reading until he had finished all sixteen chapters of the Book of Romans. As he read, he would look up and around, not looking at anything or anyone in particular, but thinking of his wife, his children, his grandchildren, and his church back in Jasper, some forty miles from Birmingham.

  It was only three days ago that Hightower and his entire family – all three generations – except his third son were sitting in the pews at the Church of the Holy Gospel, listening to Pastor Martyn preaching – as he always seemed to – on the immorality of sex outside marriage. Hightower recalled the text on which the forty-minute sermon was based, again from the Book of Romans: Those controlled by the sinful nature cannot please God. For if you live according to the sinful nature, you will die; but if by the Spirit you put to death the misdeeds of the body, you will live.

  He recalled feeling slightly uncomfortable listening to Pastor Martyn, and receiving a couple of awkward glances from Maybeline. Pastor Martyn had always made it no secret that he disapproved strongly of the fact that one of Hightower’s children was living in sin in Birmingham, and the inference was that Hightower, as the head of the family, should have done something to stop it. But as he would say to Maybeline, what can I do? The boy had rejected all of his father’s and Pastor Martyn’s teachings; the only response the pastor could give was that ‘your son will have to explain himself before God when his time comes.’ Maybeline’s response and that of his other children was, ‘Let him. Pastor Martyn has a thing about sex, anyway.’

  Hightower knew they were probably right, but it was the impotence and embarrassment he felt amongst the congregation which he found difficult to handle. He would say to his wife, ‘All I can do is pray for him, Maybeline,’ but deep down he knew that prayer was not the answer. At least the boy was living with a woman. The alternative was beyond imagination.

  He did manage to doze off, despite fighting the urge to glance now and then at whatever Seat 3A was watching on his device: some movie or other. He must have slept for a couple of hours off and on, because now the cabin crews were readying the passengers for landing. They were beginning their descent into the natural bowl where the city of Los Angeles is situated. Having an aisle seat, Hightower could only sit bolt upright and get a brief glance through the window. Seat 3A was messaging, oblivious to the desert and shrubs and freeways and flat buildings below.

  With a slight jolt, the 757 touched down, decelerated, and started to taxi towards Terminal 5, of which Delta had exclusive use. Being in first class, Hightower was one of the first passengers to deplane, and after thanking the steward for an enjoyable flight, he put on his Stetson and carried his bag out of the
757, along the bridge to the arrivals hall, where he awaited his suitcase.

  He did not have long to wait, and, after a brief restroom stop, made his way out of the terminal building to the row of taxis where he hailed a cab to his hotel.

  Chapter 4

  Hightower was booked into the Stocker on North Alameda, across from Union Station. He checked in, and the bellhop led him to the elevator. His room was on the ninth floor, and much to his alarm, once the glass elevator reached the second floor, it made the rest of its journey up the outside of the building. Hightower involuntarily turned towards the metal doors to avoid the view, much to the wry amusement of the bellhop and the other two passengers, who got out on the sixth.

  Hightower tipped the bellhop a $10 bill and unpacked. He was starting to get hungry as well as tired: after taking a shower, he ordered a room service dinner. The food arrived thirty minutes later, and as he ate through the chicken picatta – sautéed cutlets in a citrus-caper sauce - followed by chocolate mousse, he studied the hotel brochure.

  In his numerous business trips over the years, he had stayed in many different types of hotel, all with varying degrees of comfort and what was on offer, ranging from little more than motels to one step away from a Hilton. The Stocker was higher-middle range: it boasted two restaurants, two bars, a gym with sauna and two swimming pools, one indoors and one outdoors. There was also a piece on how the Stocker was built with reinforcing steel, to give added protection during an earthquake. Not something Hightower wanted to contemplate from a ninth floor room. After eating he rang Maybeline, and was asleep by ten.

  *****

  The following morning, Hightower set off for the convention after a breakfast of ham and eggs in one of the hotel restaurants. The convention was based appropriately in the LA Convention Center on South Figueroa, a twenty-minute taxi ride from the hotel. The convention itself was a relatively small affair, much to Hightower’s surprise, using up barely a half of the centre’s 720,000 square feet of exhibition space. Nevertheless, Hightower managed to find a few items in which his firm would be interested, including a 1895 edition of Mark Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Apparently, three other representatives had shown an interest in that particular book: the procedure now was for all interested parties to put their bids in sealed envelopes which would be taken back to the owner’s premises in Detroit where they would be assessed. Hightower hoped that his bid of $98,000 would be accepted, as it would not do to go home from one of these events empty-handed.

  The convention was due to end 6pm, but Hightower left earlier. Once the cab deposited him at the Stocker a few moments before five, he decided to take a walk around the vicinity as it was too early to eat, and he had heard Downtown LA was not a good place to be after dark.

  He wandered first across the green to Union Station. Crossing over Alameda, he stood at the edge of the parking lot and looked up at the clock tower, whitewashed with a red stucco roof, its design combining Southern California’s Spanish heritage with Art Deco styling, popular when the station was constructed in 1939. He reflected on how, when train travel was wreathed in glamour, this was a fitting entry point for visitors to the city. Before air travel. Before LAX.

  Hightower turned and walked back across the street, heading for El Pueblo de Los Angeles. He had visited this national monument before on a previous visit, and remembered enjoying it, especially Olvera Street. He walked up Olvera, the oldest thoroughfare in LA, and took in the souvenir stands and shops with their sombreros, handicrafts and piñatas, turning down several offers of fresh tortillas and pandulces, a Mexican sweetbread. He was sure Maybeline would have liked it here, and spent hours here, but Hightower was relieved once he had reached the end of the block, and began a brisk walk back to the Stocker.

  Back in his room, he read through the room service menu. He had enjoyed the chicken the night before, and read down the entrée list to see what else the hotel offered. He decided on a flat iron steak with asparagus and mashed potatoes, but as it was only 6:30 decided to make use of one of the hotel’s pools before eating. He rang Maybeline to tell her about his day and let her know what time his flight got in the next day, changed into his trunks and white hotel bathrobe and, matching towel under his arm, headed to the gym and pool on the twelfth floor.

  One he reached there, he was dismayed to find the pool quite busy: obviously many other business travellers chose to unwind here. Across the other side of the pool, Hightower spotted a couple of men who he had seen at the convention: wishing to avoid them, he decided to try the outdoor pool.

  The outdoor pool was, in fact, one floor above, on the hotel roof. Here it was much quieter: only two other guests occupying the many sun loungers around the pool. He dropped his towel on one of the loungers and looked around. There was no bar, but there was a row of vending machines in a small covered area by the elevator doors. He sauntered over to the machines and checked what they had to offer. Only soft drinks, but plenty of choice. Hightower swiped his key card on the machine and got himself a bottle of root beer.

  Back at the pool, he took a mouthful of the ice cold liquid, took off his robe and climbed into the pool. Being almost 7pm, the heat of the day’s sun was fading and it was pleasantly warm; nevertheless, he found the cold water of the pool refreshing.

  After swimming half a dozen lengths, he got out and returned to his lounger. He had not noticed that while he was in the pool, somebody had occupied the lounger next to his. As he sat down, the girl lying on the lounger looked up at him and smiled. He returned her smile and sat down. He took another mouthful of root beer and picked up the portion of the Los Angeles Times that he had brought up from his room. As he read the article – a piece on the decline of America’s traditional political system – out of the corner of his eye he noticed the girl sit up on her lounger and rub sun block onto her arms and shoulders. She smiled again as her gaze met his.

  ‘It’s a bit late in the day for that,’ Hightower said, feeling he ought to say something.

  The girl spoke as she rubbed. ‘Maybe,’ she replied, ‘but I burn easily and there’s still an hour or so of sun left.’

  Hightower nodded, even though he disagreed with her, and returned to his article.

  After a few moments, the girl spoke again.

  ‘Pardon me, sir, but can I ask you a favour?’

  Hightower put down his newspaper. ‘Surely.’

  ‘I need you to rub some of this on my back, if you don’t mind.’

  He glanced around momentarily before replying. Sitting forward he said, ‘Surely I don’t mind. Where… where would you like it?’

  ‘On my back, if that’s okay with you.’ She unhooked the back of her top and lay down on her front.

  ‘That’s absolutely fine.’ Hightower picked up the bottle of oil and began rubbing it into the girl’s back. She pushed her dark ponytailed hair to one side, rested her head to one side and closed her eyes as he rubbed. He found rubbing the oil in pleasurable; he knew he ought to stop, but thought there’s no harm in just applying some sun block. He used to do it for Maybeline once, many years ago.

  ‘There you are; all done,’ he said after five minutes, wiping the excess oil onto his body.

  ‘You’re very kind,’ the girl said. ‘Let me buy you a drink in return,’ she said, starting to lift herself off the lounger.

  ‘No, no; you stay there,’ Hightower said. He noticed the sides of her breasts as she lifted herself. ‘Allow me. What would you like?’

  She looked at his root beer. ‘I’ll take a water, please.’

  ‘Coming up. Still or sparkling?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘The water. Do you take it still, or sparkling?’

  ‘Oh, still.’

  ‘Coming up,’ he said again, standing up and walking back to the vending machine. As he swiped his card again, he looked back at the girl. She was lying back down on the lounger. Despite himself, he felt excited. Flattered even: here he was, a sixty-three-year old grandfather, and he w
as having a friendly conversation with a what? A girl no older than twenty-five. He took the bottled water back to her, thinking, what’s wrong with chatting to another hotel guest?

  ‘You’re very kind, sir,’ the girl said as he put the bottle on the ground next to her lounger.

  ‘You’re very welcome. Any time.’

  He decided to go back into the pool again. He swam a few more lengths, each time noticing the girl on the lounger next to his. After the sixth length, he decided he had had enough and climbed out of the pool, pausing halfway up the ladder. He felt dizzy, but the dizziness passed momentarily and he climbed out. As he sat back down, he felt dizzy again. ‘Oh,’ he muttered, shaking his head.

  The girl looked up. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. I felt a bit woozy, a bit dizzy, back there. It’s passed now.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, slowly nodding her head.

  ‘Probably the sun, and being tired from my flight yesterday. And it’s time to eat.’

  The girl hooked up her top and sat up. ‘Where did you fly from?’

  ‘Birmingham, Alabama. I’m here on business. Fly home tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ she asked.

  ‘Yup. Catch my flight noon tomorrow.’

  She nodded, as if taking in what he was saying.

  ‘My name’s John, by the way,’ he said. ‘John Hightower. Most people call me J.T.’ He reached down to shake hands with her.

  ‘My name’s Paula,’ she replied. ‘Most people call me Pinky.’ She paused, with a grin. ‘My friends do, at any rate.’

  ‘Why Pinky?’ Hightower asked. She took a deep breath as if to reply, but he stopped her. ‘You know what?’ he laughed, ‘I don’t want to know.’ He took a mouthful of root beer, paused and finished the bottle. ‘What are you doing here? Where are you from?’

  ‘I’m from the Bay Area,’ she explained. ‘I’m here on vacation.’