Read Online Night Relics by James P. Blaylock - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James P. Blaylock
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He pulled into the post office parking lot and cut the engine, then took a padded manila envelope out from under the seat
and slid a sheaf of papers halfway out of it. He shuffled through them slowly, stopping to scan a line or two on a page or
to glance at a set of figures. He had made the copies in the fifteen-cent Xerox machine at the local grocery store, and some
of them were so badly reproduced that they were edged with black shadows. Klein would get the point, though. It wouldn’t take
more than a couple of clear sentences and he’d get the point as clear and sharp as if he’d been hit with a pickax.
Pomeroy laughed silently, unable to make up his mind. Bills, transcripts, letters—everything he had was pretty good, although
most of the letters and bills wouldn’t mean much by themselves. They were substantiating evidence, really. Finally he decided
on one of the best of the lot, a five-page transcript of a telephone conversation that Klein would no doubt rather not be
reminded of. There were a couple of other choice articles among the papers; could have copies of them in due time, if he needed
them. The extortion business, if you did it right, was like cooking a bird. You didn’t pour the heat to it all at once and burn it to a crisp. You let it simmer.
The transcript itself was ten years old—or at least the original was—and Klein had no idea on earth that it existed, although
Pomeroy was willing to bet that hadn’t forgotten about the phone call itself. Pomeroy hadn’t. He could remember every detail
of it.
The shady little business meeting that followed the call had taken place at Angel Stadium: Angels versus Oakland, September
29, 1983. Pomeroy himself had been there along with old Larry Collier and a contractor out in Tustin who did core samples
and geological surveys. It had even rained that evening, just a few big drops like a warning out of the sky before the clouds
passed on. In the west a rocket had gone up out of Vandenberg, fizzling out and corkscrewing over the Pacific, painting the
sky with a smoke trail that was clearly meant to be handwriting. Going into the game, the Angels had been contenders, two
games out of first, and then lost that night to Oakland eight to two, sealing their fate on the very same night that Klein
was sealing his. That was Klein in a nutshell, always coming close, but never quite making it to the series.
There was a certain synchronicity to things when the game was going right—or wrong, as was the case with Klein and the Angels.
The universe played along, dealing out signs and symbols. If you understood the language, you could read your fate in the
sky or on a baseball scoreboard.
From the glove compartment, he took a cassette taps of Klein’s voice, recorded for posterity, and slid it into a fresh manila
envelope along with the transcript of the recording. He had already addressed the envelope with rub-on letters, very neatly.
It looked pro. Nothing to arouse suspicion in anyone but Klein himself, and Klein was already suspicious. Once he opened the
envelope and took a good hard look at the contents, suspicion wouldn’t enter into the transaction anymore.
Wind shook the car, and people up on the sidewalk turned their faces away from it, hurrying to get inside one of the open
shops.
He moistened a sponge with water out of a plastic bottle, rubbed the gum on the flap, and sealed the envelope. Then he started
the car, drove to the mailbox in front of the post office, and dropped the envelope into the chute. It would probably be routed
through the main post office and get toKlein on Monday. By then Klein would have been simmering long enough, and Pomeroy could turn up the heat.
It was late in the afternoon, and the traffic was fairly heavy through Live Oak Canyon, mostly commuters driving home to
Coto and Santa Margarita. Pomeroy owned condo up there himself: athletic club, tennis courts, pool complex.
He pulled into the post office parking lot and cut the engine, then took a padded manila envelope out from under the seat
and slid a sheaf of papers halfway out of it. He shuffled through them slowly, stopping to scan a line or two on a page or
to glance at a set of figures. He had made the copies in the fifteen-cent Xerox machine at the local grocery store, and some
of them were so badly reproduced that they were edged with black shadows. Klein would get the point, though. It wouldn’t take
more than a couple of clear sentences and he’d get the point as clear and sharp as if he’d been hit with a pickax.
Pomeroy laughed silently, unable to make up his mind. Bills, transcripts, letters—everything he had was pretty good, although
most of the letters and bills wouldn’t mean much by themselves. They were substantiating evidence, really. Finally he decided
on one of the best of the lot, a five-page transcript of a telephone conversation that Klein would no doubt rather not be
reminded of. There were a couple of other choice articles among the papers; could have copies of them in due time, if he needed
them. The extortion business, if you did it right, was like cooking a bird. You didn’t pour the heat to it all at once and burn it to a crisp. You let it simmer.
The transcript itself was ten years old—or at least the original was—and Klein had no idea on earth that it existed, although
Pomeroy was willing to bet that hadn’t forgotten about the phone call itself. Pomeroy hadn’t. He could remember every detail
of it.
The shady little business meeting that followed the call had taken place at Angel Stadium: Angels versus Oakland, September
29, 1983. Pomeroy himself had been there along with old Larry Collier and a contractor out in Tustin who did core samples
and geological surveys. It had even rained that evening, just a few big drops like a warning out of the sky before the clouds
passed on. In the west a rocket had gone up out of Vandenberg, fizzling out and corkscrewing over the Pacific, painting the
sky with a smoke trail that was clearly meant to be handwriting. Going into the game, the Angels had been contenders, two
games out of first, and then lost that night to Oakland eight to two, sealing their fate on the very same night that Klein
was sealing his. That was Klein in a nutshell, always coming close, but never quite making it to the series.
There was a certain synchronicity to things when the game was going right—or wrong, as was the case with Klein and the Angels.
The universe played along, dealing out signs and symbols. If you understood the language, you could read your fate in the
sky or on a baseball scoreboard.
From the glove compartment, he took a cassette taps of Klein’s voice, recorded for posterity, and slid it into a fresh manila
envelope along with the transcript of the recording. He had already addressed the envelope with rub-on letters, very neatly.
It looked pro. Nothing to arouse suspicion in anyone but Klein himself, and Klein was already suspicious. Once he opened the
envelope and took a good hard look at the contents, suspicion wouldn’t enter into the transaction anymore.
Wind shook the car, and people up on the sidewalk turned their faces away from it, hurrying to get inside one of the open
shops.
He moistened a sponge with water out of a plastic bottle, rubbed the gum on the flap, and sealed the envelope. Then he started
the car, drove to the mailbox in front of the post office, and dropped the envelope into the chute. It would probably be routed
through the main post office and get toKlein on Monday. By then Klein would have been simmering long enough, and Pomeroy could turn up the heat.
It was late in the afternoon, and the traffic was fairly heavy through Live Oak Canyon, mostly commuters driving home to
Coto and Santa Margarita. Pomeroy owned condo up there himself: athletic club, tennis courts, pool complex.
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