Sooner or Later by Elizabeth Adler Page B

Ellie that yearned for the closeness she remembered, at the Stagecoach Cafe, and in the big car, driving home. Just the three of them.
    The memory of that day still troubled her. She recalled every detail: the hot leather seat, her mother’s white lizard boots, her father’s last smile and the wink he’d given her. At least, she told herself she remembered everything, but often, in her dreams, she thought therewas something else. Something important, out there, on the blackest edge of her dream. Something she could never capture, because just when she thought she’d got it, all she would see was herself sitting by the side of the road. Alone and crying, with the blood running down her face. And the silence all around her. The silence of death.
    A shiver ran down her spine, raising goose bumps. She swallowed the hot coffee quickly and carried the empty cup into the kitchen. Making sure the alarm was on, she slammed the door and locked it. The old-fashioned bell tinkled prettily as she sprinted down the street to the multistory parking lot, into the Jeep and home. She didn’t sleep well that night.

         14
    B UCK THOUGHT L.A. WAS HOT, MEANING MORE THAN just the sun was shining. He was sitting at a cafe table on Sunset Plaza, taking in the crowded lunch scene.
    Things had changed in the couple of decades he’d been incarcerated, and he couldn’t believe women like this existed outside of magazines. Tall blondes with long, swingy hair and tight-muscled bodies; lustrous dark-haired women with bold eyes and long, long legs and short skirts; short-cropped red-haired women in ankle boots, tight white T-shirts and lacy skirts. It was a passing parade of Hollywood’s finest, and it took his breath away.
    Every now and then, a girl smiled at him as she pushed her way through the crowded tables, and he smiled confidently back. No one would ever dream he’d spent the last twenty years in an institution. With his new look, he fit into the chic, casual crowd as though he belonged.
    It was more than the expensive beige chinos, the light linen shirt, the suede Gucci loafers, and the rented convertibleparked in the lot behind the cafe. Now his red hair was a dark chestnut, courtesy of the smart hairdressing salon down the block. The new dark mustache suited his long, lean face, and the cool steel-framed sunglasses hid the heat in his eyes. He looked like a different man. Rich, sleek, good-looking. He looked like a Californian who had it all.
    Finishing the iced latte, he paid his check, popped a breathmint in his mouth, then swaggered his way through the crowd, smiling as a girl caught his eye. He felt the power buzzing through him again, heard the voice telling him he could be whoever he liked now. He could do whatever he wanted, have whichever woman he wanted, even the girl smiling at him. He turned purposefully away, his mind was fixed on business.
    He was instinctively a man of the streets and he knew how to find what he needed. He drove downtown and took a stroll. He hadn’t gone more than a couple of blocks before he was accosted.
    “Coke, mister?” a voice called from the darkened doorway.
    Buck’s eyes darted quickly around; the street was almost empty. He turned to the man. He was black and big and menacing, but Buck was buzzing with power and had no fear of him. He had the switchblade palmed, ready.
    “What if I told you I was a cop?” He grinned as he said it, enjoying the flash of alarm in the drug pusher’s eyes. He pressed the knife against his stomach.
    The guy didn’t breathe. “I … I didn’t mean nothin’, Officer … it’s nothin’ … I’ll just get going …” Flattened against the wall, he slid sideways, and Buck laughed.
    Suddenly the pusher reached for his gun. With the same speed and strength of the madman who had almoststrangled his guard, Buck slammed the switchblade into his hand.
    The man made no sound, not even a whimper. He just stood there looking at his bloody hand, and at