10
Jack sat through the end of High Noon and revisited Fort Zinderneuf and the Geste brothers in Beau Geste. He was too restless to enjoy them, but felt he had to stay. Any suspicions Goren had about him would be confirmed if he’d walked out after their conversation. So he hung on.
But he sat in a back row where he could get up every so often and squint through the crack between the doors for a peek at the manager’s office. Goren had opened the door again and Jack could see a bit of the desk. He was banking on him not trusting the teenagers to close up and staying to do that himself.
As the closing credits began to roll after Beau Geste’s bittersweet final scene, Jack took his time exiting with the thirty or so other patrons. As he passed the manager’s office he tapped on the door and stuck his head in. Both Goren and his daughter jumped at the sight of him.
Why were they so spooked?
“Great to see those on a big screen,” he said. “Change your mind about the Bronson tour?”
Goren swallowed as he shook his head. “No.” His voice sounded hoarse and tight.
Jack could only describe Alice’s expression as a frightened glare.
“Well, you have my number if you do. And I’ll up the price to two hundred bucks.”
Baffled by their frightened reaction, he gave a friendly wave and headed out, wondering where he’d gone wrong. Had Alice remembered him from the flight, or were they wary of any stranger who seemed overly friendly? Jack didn’t think he’d been overly anything but geeky. Had he let too much of his inner movie geek shine through?
Well, since Godot would probably call before Goren, Jack would have to follow them home. But first to check for possible escape routes.
On his way in he’d spotted an alley along the building’s left flank. He checked that out now and was relieved to find it blind. Exit doors, litter, a Dumpster, a beat-up motorcycle chained to a standpipe, and high walls all around.
Two ways out—the front or the alley—both onto Melrose. Excellent.
He slipped behind the wheel of his car down the street to watch and wait. He got his first inkling that things might go sour when the two teens left the theater and walked away. He’d assumed one of them owned the motorcycle.
Then the entrance went dark, followed quickly by the marquee. A few minutes later the motorcycle with two helmeted riders—the passenger obviously female—roared out of the alley headed east on Melrose. Jack hung a U and followed.
For a guy living off the books and trying to limit expenses, a motorcycle made a lot of sense. Even more sense if the legendary L.A. traffic jams lived up to their hype. The junker at the airport probably belonged to the driver. No room for luggage on a bike. Must have dragooned a friend into picking up his daughter.
He followed them along Melrose for a few miles, then onto the 101 South ramp. Jack didn’t get much farther than the ramp. Traffic was stopped. Umpteen lanes going nowhere.
Welcome to L.A.
But worse, the motorcycle was unaffected. It kept moving, leaving him behind as it wove between the stagnant lanes. Jack sat and watched helplessly as it disappeared from view.
He banged on the steering wheel a few times—just to make himself feel better—then began planning how to rent a motorcycle for tomorrow night.