Hotline to Murder by Alan Cook

I have my own room. And I
won’t be asleep. I’ll be waiting.”
    “That’s a really bad idea. What if I forget
to call?”
    “I’ll go crazy. So promise you’ll call,
okay? Even though we’ve just met, I don’t want to lose
another…friend. I’ll worry until you call.”
    Tony felt trapped. “All right, I’ll call
you.”
    Shahla gave him a hug so quick he wasn’t
sure it had really happened.

    CHAPTER 7
    Beams from a streetlight filtered through tree
leaves to where Tony sat in his car, like water seeping through a
membrane, providing just enough light so that it wasn’t pitch black
inside the car. He had picked this spot for its darkness. The car
would just be an innocuous shadow to a person standing at the
intersection, fifty feet away, and he would be invisible to that
person. The intersection itself was much better lit, with
streetlights on two corners.
    Tony was nervous. He caught himself lifting
his chin in a basketball head-fake movement. Except that he had
never been very good at basketball, because of his lack of height.
The head-fake, which appeared when he was under stress, was modeled
after that of one of the all-time greats, Elgin Baylor, who he had
seen play only in videos, never in real life. Elgin was now an
executive with the Los Angeles Clippers, a hapless professional
basketball team that was not to be confused with the many-times NBA
champion Los Angeles Lakers that Elgin had once played for.
    He looked at his watch. He could just barely
see the hands. Ten minutes past twelve. Five minutes to the meeting
time with Fred the Chameleon. But Fred expected a juicy teenage
girl, not a slightly overweight male marketing manager. What was he
going to do if Fred actually showed? He only had a vague plan.
    What was he doing here, anyway? Why had he
given in to Shahla? At least he had done one thing right; he had
not let her come with him. That would have been a disaster. It
wasn’t that he was afraid. Well, not very afraid, anyway. El
Segundo just wasn’t a very scary place. It wasn’t an upscale
community like Bonita Beach, but the few people he had seen on the
street didn’t look like hoods or gangbangers.
    He had Josh’s gun, a nine-millimeter. And it
was loaded. He had fired it only one time when he had gone with
Josh to a firing range. But Josh had given him a quick review, and
he felt fairly confident about using it. He patted the hard bulk
stuck in his belt, underneath the sport coat he had donned, and
wondered for the tenth time whether the safety was really on so
that he wouldn’t accidentally shoot himself in the balls.
    Josh had been surprisingly good about not
asking too many questions. Tony had told him he had a midnight
meeting, about which he was somewhat apprehensive because of the
location, but he hadn’t mentioned that it was in connection with
Joy’s murder. Josh would have volunteered to come along, and
knowing him, Tony was afraid he might cause trouble. Josh pictured
himself as a vigilante.
    Tony heard footsteps as somebody approached
from behind and walked past his car on the sidewalk. He froze,
wondering whether he was really invisible. At least he was on the
other side of the car from the pedestrian. And it was difficult to
see into a Porsche with the convertible top down. As the person
came into his field of vision, Tony saw that he was a man wearing
jeans and a light jacket, possibly leather, against the Los Angeles
night chill. He was also wearing a baseball cap. He walked rapidly,
his body slouched, his hands in his pockets.
    Did he look like somebody who was expecting
to meet a girl he didn’t know? Not really. He looked furtive, like
a person who was afraid of human contact. Tony watched to see if he
turned the corner or crossed the street when he got to the
intersection, but he didn’t. He stopped under the streetlight and
glanced quickly around. He reminded Tony of a small animal watching
for enemies.
    Was this the infamous Chameleon? He did look
weird, but