There were hotels and hotels. Compared to this one, the Burbank Airport Western was a doll house. Two glass towers, connected by an elevated walkway, rose at least thirty stories in the air. At their foot, an enormous swimming pool glowed turquoise in the beams of giant searchlights, the sort they’d have at a movie premiere. And it was a premiere—only the stars in this case were the two-ton vehicles rotating majestically on turntables with beautiful women beside them to add to their luster.
“Welcome to Los Angeles, and the 1978 Pacific Coast Auto Show!” an announcer’s voice boomed from loudspeakers set up all over the grounds, while on a screen three stories high a projected image showed smiling people enjoying next year’s finest cars. WOOD GRAIN PANELING read one caption. And: RECLINING FABRIC SEATS. And: CARPETED DOOR PANELS. And: STYLED ROAD WHEELS.
March led the way through the main pavilion and into the lobby of the near tower, Healy following close on his heels and Holly playing caboose. March hadn’t wanted to bring her at first, but she’d put her foot down, and, well, fuck it, he figured she’d earned it if that’s what she wanted. Anyway, who could say she’d be safer by herself somewhere? That had almost ended terribly the last time.
After asking at the desk, they rode an elevator up to the ninth floor and found their way to a central atrium. They passed a group of long-haired young men who’d tried to clean up and look more Establishment, but only succeeded in looking like hippies in shoplifted duds. Two were wearing pink suit jackets and the third had on cream over a beige bowtie. They were all taking a cigarette break.
“You guys know where the projection room is?” March asked, figuring these guys for Chet’s peer group.
One of them, the porkiest, aimed a thumb toward a nearby hallway.
“You seen Chet, the projectionist?”
“He just left,” the porky guy said, “like ten minutes ago, went for a drink. And you are…?”
“In a hurry,” March answered, and headed down the hallway. “Thanks, buddy.”
“How’d you know my name was Buddy?” the guy called after him.
But March was past answering. He continued till they got to a locked door marked “STAFF ONLY—DO NOT ENTER.” This had to be it. It was at the end of the hall, and would have a view out the window to the courtyard below. From the hallway window, they could see the projected image currently on display. It showed a car and a man standing before it—Bergen Paulsen, auto industry spokesman—reciting its virtues for the assembled crowds. March couldn’t hear what he was saying through the sealed window, but he assumed the car could not only drive itself but make you a cocktail while you rode. Cars of the future always seemed to do things like that.
“We’ve got to get in there,” March said, and turning back from the window discovered that Healy already had the lock open. He was rising from one knee and slipping a lockpick back into his pocket. Well. That was handy, certainly.
March suggested that Holly stay outside and keep watch, maybe from around that corner there? Holly nodded and took up the position. Healy, meanwhile, had opened the door and gone in.
Inside, they found two projectors set up, both aimed at the open glass doors to the terrace. One projector was running, the footage of Paulsen and his cocktail-making car, and the other had a film queued up to run. Healy ran to that one and unspooled a length, held it up to the light. He just saw frame after frame of—
“It’s just a bunch of cars.” He squinted to read some type in one run of frames. “ ‘Motor City Pride.’ That’s not it. It’s not the film.”
“Shit,” March said. He picked up a few film cans he saw lying on a table, but they were all empty. “Fucking Chet. He’s probably still got it stashed somewhere.” He kicked the leg of the table and one of the film cans clattered to the ground.
The noise covered the sound of the hotel room door unlatching again, and neither of them noticed that someone had come in until they heard the click of a hammer arming a handgun.
They turned, saw Tally kick the door shut behind her.
“Tally!” March said. She was dressed in the most stunning coral dress, gold belt, dangling metal earrings, and she’d done something with her hair—it was no longer pinned back, now it was a luxuriant afro. “My god, you look incredible. How do you get your hair to…? It’s magnificent.”
She waved the gun at him and he put his hands up.
“Listen,” March said, “I don’t know what’s going on here, but there’s been some foul play. Do you know that that suitcase that you gave us, somebody switched it out? There was no money it.”
Healy saw Tally’s eyes roll and felt his own going as well.
“No shit,” Tally said, in a no-nonsense voice—a no-more-nonsense voice, to be specific. “Weapons on the floor. Now.”
Healy reached into his jacket, got his gun out and tossed it on the floor. March reluctantly threw his away too.
“I guess you killed the projectionist, huh?” Healy said.
“No,” Tally said, “my associate is out looking for him now. We’ll find him.”
Healy gave her a serious look, spoke softly. “Tally, let me ask you something. You ever really killed anybody?”
“In Detroit, yeah. Three times.”
“Really?” So much for that approach.
“That’s where this all started,” Tally said. “The Detroit show. That bitch, Misty, shooting her mouth off about her new movie. All the stir it would cause.”
“Tally…this is not you,” March said. “You’re not a murderer.”
“She just said she killed three people,” Healy reminded him.
“I know,” March said, “but I’m saying deep down.” He pointed to his heart, to show how deep down he meant.
“Hey, look, one’s a mistake,” Healy said, “but, I mean, three, you’re a murderer.”
“Don’t paint her with that brush,” March said. “It’s easy to live in your world, right, where everyone fits in their place, you pigeonhole people—”
“See what’s in front of you,” Healy begged him, “she’s got a gun.”
“You just paint everyone with that brush.”
“She’s killed three people. Come on, man.”
“You don’t know her upbringing, you don’t know why she…”
“No, I’m just telling you—”
There was a hammering at the door. A low voice called out, “Room service.”
Well, not a low voice. A high voice, but trying to sound low, like a little girl might.
Tally was momentarily distracted, and March seized the opportunity to drop to the ground and start fumbling with the leg of Healy’s pants. He was patting Healy’s right calf, his shin. Nothing. He started pawing Healy’s left leg, feeling all around.
“Shit!” Healy said. He threw one hand up as Tally turned back and brought her gun up again. “No!”
“What’s wrong with him?” she demanded.
“I…I don’t know,” Healy said. “I’m gonna ask him. March…?”
“Yeah,” March said. He had his hand up inside Healy’s pants, was reaching up as far as he could go.
“Uh…what the fuck are you doing?”
“Did you move it?” March asked. He was pawing Healy’s thighs now, desperate.
“Move what?”
“The fucking gun!”
“What gun?”
“The fucking ankle gun!”
“Who told you I had an ankle gun?” Healy asked.
“You did! In the car, before we crashed! You were like, oh, check out my ankle gun, you slide your pants up, you show me your ankle gun…”
Healy just looked confused. Tally looked confused and slightly disgusted.
“Come on, are you serious?” Healy said. He was starting to look a little disgusted, too. “You fucking serious?”
“Oh, shit,” March said, realizing, “did I dream that?”
“Yeah,” Healy said. “Yeah, you moron, you dreamt it.”
March raised one finger. He was still thinking it through. “No…no…” Then: “Yeah, I think you’re right.”
“Shut up!” Tally waved the gun at them. “Just shut up, both of you.”
The hammering came at the door again. “Room service!”
Tally kept the gun on them as she stepped back and threw the door open. “Holly? You can come in now.”
And Holly did. Wheeling a room service cart. Plates, glasses, a candle, a thermos carafe of coffee.
Tally laughed. “Very clever, Holly.”
“Thanks,” Holly said, “I thought so.” She grabbed the carafe and hurled its contents in Tally’s direction. She was drenched in coffee.
But it didn’t have the desired effect.
“Why did you just throw cold coffee on me?” Tally asked her.
“I got it in the hallway,” Holly said, sheepishly. “I thought it was hot.”
From where he lay, sprawled on the floor at Healy’s feet, March piped up. “I like where your head’s at, sweetheart. That really could’ve worked out.”
“All right: everybody, in the corner,” Tally ordered and strode toward them. One of her platform shoes slid on the slick of cold coffee puddled on the floor beneath her, and then her legs were going out from under her and she landed flat on her back, a little like Amelia had when she’d flown backward off the hood of their car. And with a similar result: her head struck the edge of a table on the way down, and though her finger tightened reflexively on the trigger, shooting a bullet and shattering a light fixture, Tally was unconscious when she hit the ground.
March sprang to his feet. “Well.” He straightened his jacket. “That really worked out.”
“Yeah,” Healy said. He picked up his own gun and grabbed Tally’s while he was at it.
March slid his back into his holster. “Now we just have to find fucking Chet before John-Boy does.”
“Yeah,” Healy said again. “Well, that guy said he was going for a drink. You take the roof bar, I’ll take downstairs.” He patted Holly on the arm. She was still trembling. “Well done, kiddo.”
He headed for the door.
March was tucking a pillow under Tally’s head. He took a second to pet her hair. Holly stared at him.
“No reason she has to be uncomfortable.”
“Right,” Holly said.
He got up and made for the elevators.