City of the Lost (9 page)

The two corpses fall heavily onto a wooden pallet and the sheets open up, the whore rolling out onto the gravel. The wad of towels stuffed into her chest falls out. Pedro gives a little yell and crosses himself.

“The fuck happened to her?” he asks.

“Shit,” I say. “Shit happened.” I roll her back onto the palette, pull the sheets back over her. “Come on, gimme a hand here.”

He steps back. “I’m not fucking touching her. What does that to a person? That’s not normal. Nothing normal does that to a person.”

I grab him, shove my Glock into his face. “Shut up,” I say. “Shut your goddamn mouth and maybe you won’t go in there with her. Got me?”

He eyes the gun, nods.

I throw the rest of the cash I have at his feet, about five hundred dollars. “Take the money. Do your job. Forget about this.”

“Looks like a monster did this,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say and leave.

He thrashed around a good twenty minutes before he died. Screaming the whole time until the smoke from his own body choked the air out of him. Then he just gurgled as his skin turned black and crackled like old paper.

I used a nailgun to pin his wrists to a chunk of new drywall at a construction site outside of Bakersfield so he wouldn’t roll around. Then I lit him on fire, and I watched him burn.

Until tonight that was at the top of my Worst Things I’ve Ever Done list.

I scrub myself raw. Brush my teeth until my gums shred. Go through two bottles of Listerine. I’m not sure it’ll ever be enough.

It’s almost midnight. I’ve been dead almost twenty-four hours. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

I’m still not tired. Guess that’s not really a surprise. Been going all day like I’m buzzing on a tank of coffee. Not feeling any signs of slowing down. So much for resting in peace.

My cell rings while I’m getting dressed. Danny calling from Simon’s club. Guess it’s his now.

“Yeah,” I say.

“You’ve heard, right?” Danny says, a thudding techno bass line in the background. “Tell me you’ve heard.”

“I heard,” I say. “This afternoon. It was on the news.”

“Shit’s moving fast, man. I got calls in from the Armenians, the Israelis, some guy I think is Yakuza. I can barely understand him. You gotta come in, man. We need to have a heart-to-heart.”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“The future. The future that’s happening right the fuck now. Simon’s gone, man. What, you want to work for the fucking Armenians? ’Cause that’s what’s gonna happen if we don’t have a powwow and get our shit together.”

“Christ, Danny, the corpse isn’t even cold, yet.”

“That’s my point,” he says. “The buzzards are out in force, and I need to establish things now.”

“What do you want from me? It’s over, Danny. All things considered I’d just as well hang it up. I got other shit going on.”

“Look,” he says. “I get it. The old man was your friend, we’re all buddy-buddy, but all I’m asking is that you come in, and let’s have a conversation. Face-to-face. Is that too much to ask?”

I haven’t thought about my job prospects. Had more pressing things on my mind. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll swing by.”

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.” I can hear the relief in his voice.

“Sure. That it?”

“Yeah,” he says. “No. Wait. Some guy came in looking for you. Something about a stone. Said it was important. I told him to fuck off but he said he’d be by later. This something I should be worried about?”

I think about that for a minute. Somebody’s looking for Giavetti’s stone? I’m not sure if this is good or bad.

“Yo, earth to Sunday. You there?” he asks.

“It’s cool.” I say. “Side gig. Didn’t know I’d get a caller at the club is all. He say who he was?”

“No,” Danny says. “Didn’t leave a name. So, this isn’t some leftover job for Simon? Because if it is . . . .”

“No. Personal. He say when he was coming by?”

“Just later tonight.”

“All right. I’ll be out there before you guys shut down.”

“Thanks man. I owe you.” He hangs up.

I figured somebody else had to know about the stone. Some shit you just can’t keep secret. And if they know about the stone, maybe they know how to use it.

I reload the Glock, slide it into its shoulder rig. I’m pretty sure I can convince them to tell me.

I make it up to Hollywood Boulevard in a few minutes. It’s a weird place at night. Homeless guy pissing on Marilyn Monroe’s star, Scientologists waving their pamphlets around and screaming at people about their engrams. Simon’s club is off a side street between Highland and Vine.

There’s a line outside the door that stretches twenty feet down the block. From the crowd I’d say it’s bondage night. The name changes based on the theme. Tonight it’s Bête Noir.

The crowd is mostly tourists looking for a thrill and a few in the scene. The club is legit, but that’s not where it makes its money.

Lots of leather. Corsets, thigh-highs, the latest in latex evening wear. A floor show to keep things interesting. Pretty boys and girls tied to crosses, bent over racks.

As long as there aren’t any nipples or bush, and nobody’s actually fucking on stage, the vice squad leaves them pretty much alone. It helps that half the officers who come in are on the take.

I cut to the front of the line, flag down Bruno, one of the bouncers. Built like a Russian wrestler with a nose flatter than a tire on a bed of nails. I’ve worked with him when we needed a little more firepower than Julio and I could pack. Good in a fight, but I’ve never been entirely clear on who paid him—Simon or Danny.

Bruno nods, pulls back the black velvet rope for me. A group of girls, push-up bras and overdone makeup screaming jailbait, are all bitched off until Bruno picks a couple to come on in. A woman in purple leather and thigh-high boots escorts them to the back like they’re VIPs.

Smart money says they’ll be somebody’s private floor show before morning.

The club is a converted warehouse. Three main rooms, each with its own bar. Cement floors, exposed ducts. Wired glass in the louvered windows, all painted over black.

I see the floor show the minute I walk through the curtains in the foyer. Muted spotlights make the stage glow in the center of the main room. A redhead with a back tat of wings and black tape over her tiny breasts lies blindfolded over a padded sawhorse, ass in the air.

The dom’s a guy in a tux and a carnivale mask, teasing her with a riding crop. Plays it across her ass, flicks it against her crotch, then brings it down with a crack I can hear over the music hammering through the speakers.

The scent of the place is overwhelming. Alcohol, sex, the sharp sting of X and coke in the air. I can smell the fucking in the private rooms upstairs, the bathroom stalls in the back.

All that humanity. Meat and sweat. Easy to get overwhelmed. Dizzying. It makes me think of barbeque.

I shake it off. It doesn’t take long to find Danny. He’s tending bar in the back, chatting up the two girls Bruno let in, making them feel special, important. At heart he’s a salesman. They don’t realize they’re the product.

His eyes flick to me as I step up behind them. He continues as though I’m not there. All smiles and free drinks. He says something to them, points at the woman who brought them over. They nod, excited, go off with her.

He looks at me, face changing. “About fucking time.”

“I said I’d be here before you shut down. I’m here. You’re not shut down. The fuck is the problem?”

To hell with him. I’m not here to dick around with Danny’s little empire building scheme.

He leads me up a flight of metal stairs to the office. It’s an impressive room. It should be. Simon shelled out a lot of cash for it. Enormous picture windows take in the whole club. Leather, wood, a billiard table, and walk-in humidor. Simon always had good taste. The place goes almost silent the moment the door closes, nothing but distant bass through the floor. The soundproofing alone must have cost a fortune.

Danny throws himself into a chair, sinks into it. Looks beat.

“You know how it happened?” he asks.

“Only what I heard on the news,” I say. “Some cult thing. I don’t buy it for a minute.”

“Me either. That fucking Italian was there, right? Giavetti? I thought you were supposed to kill him.”

“Would have, but he wasn’t at his hotel. Spent all night trying to track him down. Must have tailed Simon from the house.”

“I wish he’d had a bodyguard,” Danny says in a tone that says exactly the opposite. “Well, there’s fallout and shit’s happening fast.”

He gets up, paces the room. “I’ve had calls from everybody. Russians, Chinese, fucking Israelis. They’ve all heard about him. They’re circling around like goddamn sharks.”

Well, duh. Simon’s death left a vacuum, and everyone wants to fill it. Sooner or later someone will.

Danny must be reading my mind. “I’m not gonna let ’em have it. Any of it.”

“Simon’s dead. They’re gonna take it.”

He waves me off, pulls a pack of Dunhills off a side table, and lights up. Doesn’t offer me one.

“Just because Simon’s gone doesn’t mean the business is gone,” he says. “You know how much of this thing I’ve been running. Simon was a fucking figurehead. And a retard. Wasn’t for me this whole thing’d be in the shitter.”

“So, you’re the man now?”

“I am. And I’ve got a crew to make it stick.”

“Then you don’t need me,” I say.

“The hell I don’t,” he says. “These guys are okay, but they’re not like you. I need everyone to know that you’re still a part of this. Your name carries a lot of weight. No reason why Simon kicking should leave you out in the cold.”

I haven’t seriously thought about working since the shit hit the fan. I’ve had higher priorities.

Speaking of which. “You mentioned somebody was asking about me.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Some guy. Walking a midget.”

“What, on a leash?”

“Yeah, actually. Thing kept sniffing the air like a fucking dog. Thought it was a gimp act. I don’t handle that shit, man.”

Weird, but I checked weird at the door a couple days ago and lost the ticket. “What’d he want?”

“Just that he wanted to talk to you about a stone. So, whatta ya say? You want the job, or not?”

“Give me some time to think about it.”

Danny’s not used to people saying no, or even maybe. His face twists into a sneer. “The fuck is there to think about? You want the job,” he says. “You know it. You’re useless if you don’t have somebody to take orders from. Limited time offer. It’s now, or walk.”

He might not be used to people saying no, but I’m not used to ultimatums. Fuck him. “You think you know me? You know fuck all about me.”

“Fuck you. You won’t last the weekend without me,” he says.

“Whatever. You have fun with those Israeli mobsters. I hear they like bolt cutters and nut sacks.”

“You don’t know the mistake you’re making,” he says.

Anger floods through me. “And you don’t know who you’re fucking with.”

I could crack his sternum open, rip through his heart like I’m eating pulled pork. It’s tempting. It’d shut the little fucker up. See if I can make his corpse dance for me.

I pull the impulse back, flashing back to the hooker and her pimp. That was different. It took me by surprise. This I want to do.

There are too many people downstairs. I don’t want any piece of that fucker in my mouth.

I turn my back to him, open the door. House music floods the room, the bass hammers through me. I close the door on his temper tantrum and head downstairs.

I’m waiting for one of his bouncers to try to kick me out. I could use a fight right about now.

No one shows up.

So I do the next best thing; order an overpriced scotch at the bar.