Tropical Depression (Billy Knight Thrillers 1)

“All right, Billy,” he said, and held out a hand. It was warm, dry, and firm. “I’ll see what I can do. But it’ll be a lot easier without having to explain why you’re in jail all the time. You’d better disappear.”

Chapter Thirty

I drove Nancy back to her apartment, mostly in silence. I felt good about what Dan and I had done. The feeling didn’t last long.

When I pulled up in front of her building she turned sideways in the seat to face me.

“I’m not going to ask you up, Billy,” she said.

“Oh.”

“I don’t think that would be right at this point. Because I don’t know what I’m looking for from you.”

“I know what I’m looking for,” I said. “I thought I’d found it.”

She looked away and nodded. “That’s part of the problem,” she said. “I don’t think it’s the same thing I’m looking for.”

“We slept together once. That’s pretty early in a relationship to decide all this.”

“Meaning we should sleep together again and then decide?” She said it with a mean glint in her eye like she’d caught me trying to sneak a fast one by her.

“That’s not what I meant, Nancy.”

“Isn’t it? Because continuing the relationship at this point means continuing sex, doesn’t it? Which is a pretty convenient coincidence for you.”

“Sex isn’t the only issue here, Nancy.”

“I’m very glad to hear that, Billy. Because as far as I’m concerned there isn’t going to be any more.”

“All right,” I said. “Let’s talk about the other stuff.”

“Damn you, Billy,” she said, and now she was crying. “Would you please just let go of me?” And turning away so I would not see her cry, she opened the door of the car and ran into her apartment building.

I watched her go. I felt like a cold dry wind was blowing through my bones. Long after she was inside I sat there, my hands on the steering wheel at ten of two, looking at the door to her building.

Everything was coming unglued. I had found Roscoe’s killer and he had beat me up and put me in jail. Now I couldn’t even follow up. I had to run for cover.

I had found one small hope for living again, and I had let that slip away, too.

And now I couldn’t even go back to my boat, because everything had changed, the careful shell I had built up had been eroded by the dry brown L.A. air.

My hiding place was exposed, and so was the careful picture I had built up of who I was now. There was a recall order for the new, improved Billy Knight. Coming back to L.A. had brought me partway back to life, but that wasn’t turning out to be a good thing.

I didn’t know where to go, what to do, or even who to be. Every reason I had for living was slipping through my fingers like water.

I went back to the hotel. A police cruiser fell in behind me at Western Avenue and followed me all the way back. I parked in the small lot and waited, but they drove on past.

I went upstairs and packed. The suitcase closed easily. There was much less to put in than I had started with. I wondered if that meant anything. I wondered if the fish were biting, and if Captain Art had any charters for me. And I wondered how it was possible for a reasonably competent human being to screw up everything he touched so completely.

They were all tough questions. I sat on the bed and thought about them. When I couldn’t think anymore, I called Ed.

He was at home. He picked up the phone on the third ring.

“It’s me,” I said. I told him what had happened with Woodstock, the cops, Dan Hoffman. Then I said, “I’m going home.”

He let out what sounded like a half-pack of smoke, a long slow breath filled with pain and loss as well as smoke. “You done all you could, Billy,” he said at last, like it hurt him to talk at all.

“It wasn’t enough.”