No Rest for the Wicked (8 page)

“You forgot your gun,” I told him, thumbing the button on the remote idly.

“I didn't forget it, for Chrissakes.” He stomped back into his bedroom to get it.

The news began with the now-familiar image of Orville Suits speaking to the press about Lake's death. He was now “assisting the LAPD with the investigation,” I noted. I flicked past that channel to the local morning news, which showed a stream of traffic from the vantage of a traffic helicopter.

“There's a mess on the 101,” I called to him. “You'll be sitting in a parking lot if you leave now.”

Peter reemerged from the bedroom. “I've got to go
now
, Adam.” He had on the trench coat.

I idly wondered if I could get him to wear it without any clothes underneath some time. Of course, that thought only made me crankier.

“I might as well be a bat,” I whined, pressing the button on the remote so the channels flew by.

“I'll see you later,” he said. He was busy with his keys, so he didn't catch the glare I shot at him.

“You still have a lunch date?”

Peter frowned at the waspish sting in my words. “Adam, you said you'd try to get along with him.”

“I
am
trying.”

“If last night was your idea of trying…”

“He gets on my nerves.”

“I'll bet the feeling's mutual. It's only lunch.”

I pressed the remote over and over. The damned thing must have had low batteries or something. I tossed it onto the couch. “Of course. You have to eat.”

I was too cranky to answer when he called out his good-bye and left.

I'm a nocturnal creature.

Not that I wasn't before the change, mind you. The workaday world of drug dealers and vice cops pretty much starts after noon and rolls on into the wee hours. But these days it seemed I could barely keep my eyes open when the sun was up.

So, after I heard Peter's Mustang pull out of his garage, I sort of dozed in front of the tube for a while. Finally, I dropped off completely and only woke when the remote fell from my hand and hit the wood floor.

The morning edition of the news was long gone, and an afternoon soap was on.

“
You told me you weren't seeing her anymore
.”

An emaciated woman with stiff blonde hair stalked up and down inside a living room. The actor she was shouting at looked ashamed.

“
It was only coffee
,” he said, looking guilty as sin. “
I felt sorry for her and then
…”

“
Timothy told me he saw you leave the hotel with her
!” screamed Blondie.

I picked up the phone and dialed Drew.

“I need a ride,” I said.

“I'm busy,” said Drew.

Over the phone I could hear the
clickety clack
of his fingers on a keyboard.

“Busy playing that stupid game?”

“Busy researching your stiff, as it happens. Everybody is online, freaking out about Justin Lake.”

“He's not my stiff. Who does
everybody
think killed him?”

“Oh, you know, Bill Gates. The government. Some dude claiming that Lake was working with the Pentagon on something top secret…”
Clickety clackety click
. “The entire world is

looking for his code. Rumor has it he hid it on an obscure server. Every kid in Hong Kong is searching for the host site as we speak, hoping to find the pot of gold.”

I writhed with impatience. Hey, I can writhe. I'm a frickin' creature of the night. We writhe.

“I've got to get the hell out of here.”

“Betsy's still pissed off at you.”
Clickety clack clack
went Drew's fingers. “I gave her your message and she gave me a message to give back to you. Um…” He chuckled. “I don't think you want to hear it.”

“Pick me up and I'll talk to her face-to-face.”

A while back Betsy had had the brilliant idea of sealing up the rear of an old ice-cream truck so the interior was light free. Only the driver and passenger seats were exposed to the sun.

Since Drew was the only human in our group, he was, by default, the driver. The fact that he drove like a confused old woman was not factored into this brilliant plan.

Still, it beat sitting trapped in a condo imagining Peter and Jonathan sharing shots at the Academy's Revolver bar.

“Give me the address, and I'll try to get over there,” said Drew.

Here's the thing: given that my associates are a species that survive by sucking the blood of human beings, I was loath to hand Peter's address out to any of them. Caballo knew the alley where I sometimes hid my bike, but he didn't know the name of the man who lived in the building or his specific condo address.

“No way,” I said.

“Dude,” said Drew in a tone that adequately expressed a paragraph of dismay, irritation, and amusement.

I'd been spinning through channels while we talked. Besides the disturbing soap opera, the only game was a rerun of the championships. The news was on a loop, Oprah smiled out at me in a satisfied way, and I clicked the thing off.

“Get Caballo to show you the location of the alley. I'll meet you there.”

* * *

I was a rotten kid.

I grew up in a northern rural part of the United States, the youngest of too many, and made my mother's difficult life just a little more so. I still remember her trying to get me safely dressed to go out in the cold. I'd whine and fidget and fight her while she tried to get my coat buttoned, my mittens tucked up into my sleeves, a scarf adequately sealing off the opening to the coat.

See, it's karma. The fact that, now, just going outside on a cloudy but warm day in Southern California required extensive preparation—and the clouds were the only reason I could attempt exposure at all.

I had a heavy wool coat and big waders. Thick work gloves. Then I wrapped a scarf around and around my neck and face until I resembled the Invisible Man. A big straw sunbonnet and an oversized black umbrella. I opened the door to the condo and waited until I was reasonably sure none of Peter's neighbors were out and about, and then I ran as fast as I could, as close to the walls as possible until I reached the overhang that led down the covered stairs to the back of the building.

Peter has an attached garage, but I didn't feel comfortable with Drew knowing the location of it. Too easy to figure out the unit number from there.

From the narrow porch under which I stood, I gathered my courage and ran like I was under fire to the shed where they keep the trash bins. By the time I'd gotten there, my pants were on fire, so I beat it out with the scarf and caught the hat in the process. I had to throw it on the ground and stomp on it to put that out. The waders had melted a bit, and I looked like a crazy person and smelled like burning rubber, but I was still intact.

I waited there for about fifteen minutes until Drew drove up in the truck.

It rattled down the alley on bad shocks, repainted a dusty white and still bearing the faded outlines of red rockets and Push-Ups around the windows. Those were sealed shut, though Drew had argued that the police would be less likely to notice a working ice-cream truck and had wanted to continue selling goods from it.

They'd actually listened to me on that one. Still, every time some dumb kid ran up to the truck with a dollar, Drew would start whining again.

“You stink, man.” Caballo held the door open long enough for me to squeeze in, then slammed it closed and turned the big handle that sealed it shut.

There were four plush chairs inside, upholstered in black-and-white zebra stripes. Caballo threw himself into one, barely looking at me. He had one of those little plastic boxes in his hands and he was pressing the buttons frantically with both thumbs.

“Better than being flambé,” I said, peeling off my layers and tossing them into the corner.

Caballo's game emitted a sound that I recognized as digital defeat. He swore and tossed the thing on the chair next to him.

“What are you playing?” I asked him.

“It's called Minesweeper,” he said.

“Oh, I play that. What's your high score?”

He made a face. “I don't know, man. That's a kiddie game. At headquarters I'm in a Quake tournament.”

“They have tournaments?” That was something I had to see. I moved to the front of the truck and rapped on the window behind Drew's driver's seat. “I need to make a short stop on the way,” I told him.

“Betsy's waiting, man.”

“It'll only take ten minutes,” I lied.

Drew had taken to wearing eyeglasses with thick green frames and tinted amber lenses.

They were very artsy and almost completely hid his eloquent dark eyes. Still, the lack of trust in his expression was clear.

“Ten minutes,” he said. “And then we move on. What's the address?”

“It's near Elysian Park,” I said, and rattled off the address.

As Drew cruised slowly up Academy Drive, I tried to work out a plan.

The ice-cream truck would definitely attract too much attention parked in the lot, and I couldn't risk an observant off-duty LAPD officer coming over to chat. So I'd have to have Drew park down the street where I could see Peter if he came out.

“You asshole,” said Drew suddenly as we cruised around a curve. “Is this some cop hangout?”

“What makes you think that?”

“All those fucking General Motors cars in the parking lot with the 'Support Your Local Sheriff' and 'NRA' bumper stickers,” he said. “Oh, and the sign,” he added, as the REVOLVER

AND ATHLETIC CLUB sign appeared around a bend in the road.

“Just cruise past the lot. I'll tell you when to stop.”

Drew's mouth set in a grim line, but he did as I asked. Sure enough, I spotted Peter's Mustang in the attendant parking lot. I waited until we were almost out of sight and then said.

“Here. Just park it here for a while. Try to look inconspicuous.”

“Inconspicuous? What the hell you up to, man?”

“Just do it.”

From where I sat, I could see the parking lot behind us in Drew's driver's side rearview mirror.

Happily, Peter was a punctual creature of habit. He'd always had the late brunch around three p.m., and, sure enough, just as Drew was beginning to glance at his watch, I saw Peter and Jonathan appear next to Peter's Mustang. They chatted for a minute there by the car.

Jonathan put his hand on Peter's arm.

Peter smiled and shook his head. He unlocked his car.

But Jonathan kept his hand on Peter's arm and said something else. He seemed insistent.

“Dude, Betsy's gonna pierce me a new one,” said Drew.

“Another minute,” I said.

Peter hesitated, listening to Jonathan talk earnestly. Then he planted both feet and stuck his hands in his pockets. He seemed to be considering whatever case Jonathan was pleading.

Drew cranked the ignition and put the truck into gear.

“Don't move,” I commanded. I pulled out my phone and dialed Peter's number.

“Hello, Adam,” he answered. “We were just talking about you.”

“Guess my ears were burning,” I said lightly.

Two blocks away, still I saw his little bat ears prick up and his head raise and swivel as if he could instinctively feel me nearby. Happily, Peter had never seen Drew's truck so he wouldn't recognize it.

“What's up?” he asked.

“Just wanted to say hello,” I said.

A silence and I kicked myself. Now he was suspicious. I never called Peter just to chat. I hated shooting the shit.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“You sure?” Peter was definitely picking up the scent of something hinky.

“Yeah. Um. Gotta go. See you tonight?”

“Your team in?”

“Not sure yet.”

Peter made an impatient noise. “Nancy's sticking her neck out on this. I want to back her up.”

“I just need to finesse things a little.”

In the mirror, I could see him pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. Over the phone receiver, I heard him snuffling into it. “Is there a problem?”

“No.”

He exhaled a disbelieving laugh but said, “She's set to go as soon as we have a location.

Call me soon, okay?”

“You got it.”

We simultaneously disconnected and I watched as he pocketed his phone, saying something to Jonathan, who crossed his arms, looking truculent. Good.

“Dude, Betsy's paging me,” said Drew.

Jonathan was still talking, but Peter was shaking his head, and I knew that expression.

Even from far away and seeing him through two layers of glass, I could tell that Peter was not going to be swayed by whatever Jonathan had to say.

“Okay, we can go,” I told Drew.

Drew pulled out from the curb and kept driving around the curve of Academy Road until we got back to Elysian and hung a left toward the freeway.

After Peter had passed from my limited view, I went back to sit with Caballo, who had taken up his game again.

“We done spying on your hottie boyfriend?”

He was focused on the little toy, thumbs busy, eyes on the screen.

“How do you know he's a hottie?” I asked.

Caballo laughed. “Seen him before, dog. He lives in the condo where you stash your bike, right?”

Caballo dropped the game when I landed on him, one fist holding his throat, the other raised to splinter his face into a million pieces. “Don't you go near him.”

Caballo's mouth opened and closed, but he didn't say anything. Probably because I had his throat squeezed shut in my hand. His eyes bulged.

Then his knee came up and caught me hard enough to knock me loose. I fell back and he jumped me. “You son of a bitch,” he rasped.

The ice-cream truck rocked back and forth as we tossed each other around inside it. Drew drove on, blissfully unconcerned. Truth was, Caballo and I got into fights pretty regularly. About once a week one of us drew down on the other over something. Maybe it was some kind of violent vampiric urges. Maybe the fear of any of these mofobags getting anywhere near Peter.

Maybe I just liked sitting on top of him.

“Fuck, man.” Caballo ducked, then came around in a scissor kick that knocked my head into the side of the van. That quelled my homicidal urges a bit and I sat down hard, ears ringing.