It was near midnight when we got rolling.
They spent the time arguing, eating, watching one of Stew’s movies on a big screen in his den. High Timber was the title, in case you were wondering. Not the film ripped from the Westlake novel. All agreed it was one hell of a flick. I thought it may have been just a tiny bit too heavy on exposition. Kind of like what I had just endured.
At ten the four of us slunk along the sand under the cloak of darkness to the guesthouse, where they put on latex gloves and paper booties, provided by Blaney, before entering. They cuffed me to the bed’s headboard, without much conversation, then removed all my stuff from the closet and drawers. They carefully folded my clothes and placed them and my other possessions into my bags.
I asked why they were being so neat, and Blaney explained, “If the cops ever do find your body and the luggage, it’ll slow ’em down a little if they think you did your own packing.”
Ah, that’s where they slipped up. Little did they know, I’m a lousy packer. I had them right where I wanted them.
“Look around,” Blaney said. “Make sure we got everything.”
“What about his computer?” Trey asked. “Shouldn’t we make sure he didn’t put anything on it that could cause trouble?”
“Good call,” Blaney said. He pulled the laptop from a bag and took it into the bathroom, where he began banging it against the tub.
When he tired of that, he returned with the poor thing’s case dented and cracked. He dropped it onto the bag.
“That looks dumb,” Trey said.
“His car is going to take a real long fall,” Blaney said. “Things break.”
“You oughta distress the bag, too, or it won’t look right. And the computer could still work.”
“Fuck it,” Blaney said, and slammed the bag shut.
Eventually, they were going to kill one another. But probably not soon enough to do me any good.
They spent the final hour sullenly eating and drinking the remains of my larder, allowing me a final hunk of Jarlsberg Swiss and a cluster of red grapes. They cleaned everything and, like the good departing guest they assumed I was, left the house keys in their box on a table near the door.
At the Lexus, Blaney popped the trunk and they laid in the luggage. Then Trey departed.
Blaney watched Stew remove the handgun from his belt and get into the Lexus behind the front seats. There was not a lot of room. Whoever designed the floor space had not had the body of a big, raw-boned man in mind.
Stew grunted, twisted, tried to find a position at least partially comfortable, and failed. “Trey had better stop for the switch as soon as we make the turn,” he told Blaney. “Otherwise, I may shoot myself.”
He did something that I assumed was releasing the safety and pointed the weapon at me as I got in behind the wheel.
“Trey should be in his car by now,” Blaney said to me. “A Prius. He’ll make his exit. Give him a minute, then you leave. I’ll be following.”
I watched him open the metal door and depart into the night. The door swung shut behind him with a clang.
“Get going, Billy. And don’t do anything stupid,” Stew said, his voice sounding as if the seat were talking to me.
“You and the security guards.”
“What’s a few more murders, right?” I said.
That shut him up.
I started the car. Through the bars of the gate, I saw a silver Prius ambling past soundlessly, headed for the security kiosk.
I backed until I hit the beam that slid the gate open, then continued backing into the lane. I put it in drive and crept forward until I could see the taillights of the Prius. When they disappeared I counted to fifty, then got moving.
The youthful Rambo was on duty with a guard only a few years older, probably the one MIA the previous night. He was the personification of the surfer dude, tanned, lanky, and slightly spacey. Unlike Rambo, he was hatless, the better to show off his long, curly blond locks. He gave me a funky salute and almost crooned, “Have yourself a merry evening, sir.”
“Thank you,” I said. Then, following the script, I added, “As Rambo can tell you, my name’s Blessing.” Hearing his name, Rambo joined us, waving. “I’m moving out of the Villa Delfina tonight. Please make a note on your log that I left the keys in the guesthouse for the realtor.”
“Sure thing,” the blond said.
“Pleasure meeting you, Mr. Blessing,” Rambo added.
And thus ended my Malibu stay.
“That was nice,” the car seat said.
Round the bend, the silver Prius was parked by the side of the road. I pulled up behind it.
“Oh, man. I hope that means I can get out of this vise,” Stew said.
I did not reply. I just remained behind the wheel as I was told.
Before too long, Blaney’s Mercedes parked behind me, and he got out.
He’d taken off his glasses.
He walked to the other side of the Lexus and opened the passenger door, and I got a good look at those cloudy eyes. Pretty damned unnerving.
“You can come out now, Stew,” he said. “Unless you like it back there.”
“Take this fucking gun,” Stew said, holding the weapon up. When Blaney complied, the actor extricated himself from the well, accompanied by a series of moans, grunts, and curses.
“Now what?” he asked.
“You sit right down on the passenger seat and keep Blessing obedient while he drives.”
“I’m not doing that again. While I was shepherding the musician, I kept thinking: What do I do if he runs a red light or signals a cop in some other way? Do I shoot him? And then what? Shoot the cop? Forget it.”
“What do you suggest?”
“You take the passenger seat, and I’ll drive your car.”
“Nobody but me drives my car,” Blaney said.
“Why don’t we just call this whole thing a mistake?” I said. “I’ll go find a hotel.”
“Let Billy drive the Prius,” Stew said. “Trey can carry the pistol.”
“Forget Trey,” Blaney said. “I don’t think he’s ever held a gun in his life. Here’s the deal. Trey leaves the Prius where it is. We’ll drop him off here after we’re done. He drives the Lexus, and I drive my car with you and Blessing in back.”
Carpooling can be murder.