Point Doom (24 page)

“I order you to remain exactly where you are.”

“I’m not moving, Raoul, I’m waiting. See?” Then I lifted my hands above the steering wheel to show they were empty.

“My instructions are to make sure that Miss Swan and Rudolpho are alive.”

“Then do it.”

Raoul moved up next to the Escalade, then looked inside through the rear passenger window.

Then he popped the door open. Sydnye’s contorted face got his attention in the bright light from the car’s interior. She was whimpering.

“Miss Swan is seriously injured,” he barked.

“And permanently blind, too, I hope. My deal was to bring them here, still breathing. I kept my end of that deal.”

Raoul walked around to the other side of the car and opened that door. Rudolpho tumbled out onto the cobblestones, his arms still clamped behind him, banging his head hard as he hit.

“Is he alive?” Raoul barked. “He looks dead.”

“See the blood coming from his face? Dead men don’t bleed, Raoul. This one’s alive. Now I’ll need to see proof of life on my mother and Coco.”

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Raoul took out his cell phone. He clicked a button on the phone’s face and a photograph came up on the screen. “This picture is ten minutes old,” he said.

I looked at the screen, then quickly lifted my Beretta and pointed it between Raoul’s eyes. “Are you interested in dying right here, asshole? Because tonight the angel of fucking death is traveling with Santa Claus.”

“I—I will telephone your mother now,” he sputtered. “If you harm me in any way, Mr. Swan’s men will shoot you.”

The guys in the shadows at the side of the stables stepped out into the light from the open doorway.

“Not before you die, pal. Just make the call!”

Raoul punched in the number on the speaker-phone option to his cell. It rang but there was no answer. Then he tried again with the same result. Finally, he looked at me. “I assure you that your mother is at home. Apparently she is not answering her phone. I’ll try again in a few minutes. Now I will telephone Mr. Swan.”

“No deal,” I said, still with my gun pointed at his head. “In the car. Now! Mom’s house is five minutes away. I’m going to see for myself. Tell your guys that they can keep Rudolpho. Sydnye comes with us.”

Raoul contorted his face. “I cannot act without permission, and Miss Swan is in need of immediate medical attention. Please, let me get someone.”

“She’ll live. Let’s go.”

“Sir, I promise you that your mother is well and unharmed. I escorted her to her home myself. Mr. Swan’s instructions were to leave her unharmed. Mr. Swan is a man of his word. Now please, let me get help for Miss Swan.”

“Last time Raoul—in the car!”

He waved his men off, then got into the Escalade.

A black BMW sedan tailed us as we left the property.

AS I WALKED
up Mom’s thirty-foot entrance pathway with Raoul two feet ahead of me, my gun pressed against his spine, the front door swung open and I was surprised to see one of Mendoza’s men—one who hadn’t been killed in Santa Barbara—aiming a Browning shotgun at us. “Halt, or you’re dead!” Majuski yelled. “Halt or I open up!”

“It’s me,” I yelled, “Fiorella . . . Is my mom okay?”

He lowered the Browning, “Yeah, she’s okay—you okay?”

“Still in one piece. Anybody else in there with her?”

“Your mom’s friend, Coco. They’re both unharmed. Your guy there says he made a deal with you, that he gave you his word and that they will not move on anyone here. Was that the deal?”

“That was the deal.”

Majuski made a face. “Okay, but what about you?”

“Stay here with Mom,” I said. “I’ve got business.”

“No problem,” he said. “I’m here until I hear from you otherwise.”

TWENTY-NINE

O
n our way back to Swan’s house, Raoul used his cell to have a staff nurse meet us at the entrance gate. As the gate was swinging open the woman rushed out, popped the rear door to the Escalade, and pulled Sydnye out. Swan’s murdering daughter was mumbling and delirious. She was a blind gimp now and not dead, as I’d wanted, but I was pretty sure she’d never hurt anyone again. The nurse and two smaller Latino helpers carried her off into the darkness.

Tomas was back with his flashlight. He walked ahead of the Escalade, once more shining his flashlight on the cobblestones, until we reached the stables. Then he disappeared back into the darkness.

Karl Swan was standing in the doorway fifteen feet away facing my driver’s side window; in front of him were two helpers acting as body shields. His expression was emotionless. “Welcome to Grey Fox, Mr. Fiorella. Now, as you have seen, I kept my word to you about your mother.”

“So far,” I said, leaning my head out the passenger window.

“As agreed, your life for hers. She will remain unharmed, I assure you. She has not seen my face and does not know she’s been on my property. Rudolpho is badly injured and unconscious,” he half whispered. “I’m told that my daughter is in even more serious condition.”

I smiled. “It was her own doing, Karl. I’ve just been playing catch-up. Our deal was for me to bring them here alive. I kept my deal.”

“You and I will be playing catch-up, too, I give you my word on that.”

“You’re going to die, old man. I don’t care what happens to me.”

“Oh, but you will care. You will soon care quite deeply.”

MY MIND DID
the math quickly. I saw that I might be covered on all sides. The two guys with the Russian automatics had stepped into the light from the stable door and were coming toward me, and Raoul was now two feet away, holding what looked like a small caliber Smith in his sweaty little hand. In the distance next to Swan I could see the two men blocking him. I had to assume they had guns too. That meant six targets.

It was now or never. I had nothing to lose except my headaches and my shitheap of a life—but I did have an edge: the two with the automatics, and Raoul, had orders not to kill me but to give me alive to Swan. They just might hesitate for half a second when I opened up.

My decision was made an instant later: kill everyone. Do it now! I was close enough with my 93R and had a full clip to take them all out, starting with the guys with the Russian guns. Swan would be among my last targets. Just keep squeezing the trigger. Then, with any luck, I’d also find Sydnye and kill what was left of her.

Fuck it!!

I held the gun out toward Raoul as I feigned standing down from the Escalade in surrender. When he reached for it I mule-kicked him in the gut and he staggered back, off balance.

Now standing fully upright I spun the little shit to face the two goons with the Russian guns, using him as my shield. They were a few feet away and closing. In that instant they could have fired, but they didn’t. I’d been right! I squeezed the trigger: pop pop pop pop pop! I was at can’t-miss range. The taller of the two was not a center hit and he reeled and was able to raise his gun again just as I squeezed off four more rounds. Five seconds had elapsed. Maybe six.

Now I turned on Swan and his body-blockers. I knew I had to make my shots count. The old shit had been quick—my moves had given him time enough to slide farther behind his two guys. I had no clear shot at my main target. Again my solution was simple: keep firing. Kill whatever you can. Pop pop pop pop pop pop!

One of my slugs caught the first man in front of Swan in the arm and stomach. He spun to the left, firing at the ground. My next burst jerked the head of the second man backward. A center hit. He collapsed on the cobblestones.

Now I was able to aim directly at his unobstructed boss, who had begun firing at me from a small-caliber automatic—and missing.

Then, from behind me, came Raoul. I sensed him there an instant before I saw only black.

IT MUST HAVE
been after dawn when I came to. My brain was hammering inside my skull and what vision I had was blurred. I began blinking and realized that my right eye was swollen completely shut, probably from the head butting I had done with Rudolpho.

Trying to move, I discovered that I was shackled to a bed. Spread-eagled. Then I realized that I had little or no muscle control.

Still blinking my only working eye, I could finally see a little better. I understood that I must have been injected with something to calm me and make me cooperative.

Shifting my head with effort I begin to make out the room I was in. It looked like some kind of upscale Motel 6 in Texas or Mexico. It had two beds and oil paintings on the stucco walls: cheesy Mexican art—bullfighters in the one and twirling señoritas in the other. I stared at the bullfighter painting and kept blinking my good eye until my vision finally corrected itself fully.

Now I lifted my head again and looked toward my feet. I discovered that I was dressed in white, loose-fitting cotton clothes—the shirt and pants of a Mexican peasant. There were bloodstains down the front of my shirt. Then I realized that I badly had to take a piss.

Several minutes later I began to hear footsteps and shuffling in the hallway outside the door. Karl Swan came in first, wearing a tan cowboy hat. He looked taller than I remembered and he looked like he hadn’t slept. Then a nurse in a white uniform entered too. The one from last night. I was surprised to see that she was pushing Sydnye Swan in a wheelchair. Sydnye had splints on both her legs and a bandage wrapped around her head with bars on each side to keep her jaw in place. Her eyes were taped shut with large cotton swabs.

It was hard to believe. Blindness, a crushed jaw, and several leg fractures would add up to immediate surgery and put anyone else in the ICU for at least six weeks.

Then I added it up: Sydnye, of course, had access to immediate medical care and primo pain meds. She had willed herself to be in the room.

Swan gestured toward the door and the nurse silently left the room. It was now me, Sydnye in the wheelchair, and her dad. To celebrate the occasion I decided to relieve myself—and a large spot of piss began to stain the front of my white pants.

Seeing what I’d done, Swan made a face. “Had you inquired, Mr. Fiorella, our staff would have been able to accommodate your needs.”

“No problem, asshole,” I said. “I feel right at home.”

Then Swan moved Sydnye’s head in my direction. “He’s right in front of you,” the old guy whispered. “Two feet away. Go ahead, my dear.”

She leaned toward me, then spoke through a taped jaw without moving her lips. “Hii ashed my fazzer fur a favvr. Hii ashed hiiim to let me dooo uuu. Kno whaaa he saaad? Heee saad ho-kay.”

I had to smile. “Too bad my legs are cuffed to the bed, Syd. I’d really like to kick you again—just for old times’ sake.”

“Too guyz . . . spezalizts . . . har on dar way prom Seeeeders. Day gona fizz me hup.”

“Nope,” I said. ”I don’t think so. That bug spray is pretty good shit. Your corneas are fried, bitch. I saw that for myself. And your jaw is busted in at least two places. You’re disfigured, Sydnye. Your face’ll never be pretty, or close to it, again. Better think about changing your photo on crazytwats.com. You’re a hopeless, blind geek now.”

Her muffled hissing continued. “Urrr gonna diii slo-lee, Fi-rella. Hi promisss.”

“No more pretty Hollywood starlets on daddy’s tab, no more cutting your escorts’ cocks off. That is, unless you’re into Braille surgery. I’d call whatever happens to me after this a fair tradeoff.”

KARL SWAN HAD
been staring at me, smiling. He finally spoke. “You know your father was quite an unusual little man, Mr. Fiorella. He worked on a film for me many years ago.”

“That’s crap! He never worked for you, Swan.”

“Unfortunately, he did. Unfortunately for me. I recall Jimmy Fiorella as a pompous, annoying fraud—much like a recalcitrant child who welcomes a good thrashing.”

“That’s bullshit, old man!”

“May I continue?”

“Do what you want.”

“As you may have heard, I have long had a reputation for being a stern taskmaster when I produce a film. The maintenance of that perception has always been important to me and it has held me in good stead during my career in the movie industry. Those who have failed me invariably suffer harsh consequences. Jimmy Fiorella was no exception.”

“Take a good look at your daughter’s profile, Karl. Then tell me about harsh consequences.”

“At the time, I was producing the film
Jailhouse
and I called your father into my office to terminate his employment. He had fumbled and stalled on an important rewrite assignment I had given him and his unprofessional behavior had put my film a month behind schedule. The director and my secretary were there as well that day. They witnessed it all.

“Before Jimmy Fiorella could seat himself I dropped the moronic and preposterous screenplay revisions he’d completed on my desk in front of him. ‘Mr. Fiorella,’ I said, ‘what possessed you to write this drivel? Your take on the main character’s motivation is absurd. And the dialogue between he and his girlfriend is amateurish and decidedly off the mark. What you’ve submitted is hopeless trash. You’re fired, sir.’ Naturally, the pathetic little troll begged me for another chance. It was quite awkward, actually. He wrung his hands and even wept as he apologized for his shoddy work. Of course it was well known at the time that little Jimmy was a skirt-chaser and a gambler and a drunk and I had learned that he had spent the previous weekend in Las Vegas.

“ ‘Jimmy,’ I said, ‘as you know, I am not without influence in Hollywood. I’m going to make it my business to make sure that you never sell another screenplay. By tomorrow the word will be out. Anyone who makes the miscalculation of hiring you will never work for me or this studio again. Full stop.’

“What followed was several more minutes of groveling and self-humiliation. The incompetent little fool even vowed to rewrite the entire first act by the following Monday. But, as you might suppose, I’m a rather busy man and finally—when I could tolerate no more—I stood from my desk. More tears were in your father’s eyes. I actually believe that if I had demanded it, the little coward would have sucked my cock in front of everyone present. The scene was quite embarrassing, actually.”

“The cops know I’m here, Karl. They’re on their way.”

“My only regret is that time passed and it turned out that I had not done enough to sufficiently extinguish your father’s screenwriting aspirations in Los Angeles. Ironically, a few years later, one of my competitors did give him an assignment and the film he wrote managed to receive Academy Award consideration. I was left to suffer a long and unpleasant professional and public embarrassment, one that has remained vivid in my memory.

“So now we move forward in time to the day you encountered my daughter, Sydnye. You vandalized her sports car and humiliated her in a restaurant in front of two dozen patrons. My daughter! My only child. After she described the incident to me and we did some checking, we quickly discovered that you were, in fact, Jimmy Fiorella’s wayward son. Naturally that discovery triggered my recollection of your midget father and his long past-due debt.”

“Screw you, Karl. You’re a butcher and a dead man!”

“You are here to account for what you did to my daughter and, in your own way, to compensate me for the embarrassment I suffered at the hands of your father. After today the slate, as they say, will be wiped clean.”

Swan then tossed his cowboy hat on the bed and folded his arms across his chest. “So tell me, JD,” he whispered, leaning closer, “the dreams you have—your overcompensating personality and those violent headaches—it all seems a bit bizarre. Apparently self-humiliation and mental illness run in your family? Like father, like son, as they say.”

I had to smile. “Go fuck yourself, Pops! You’re the one with the price on his head.”

“The information that I’ve had my people compile on you, although somewhat abbreviated, speaks directly to a singular personality disturbance. I’ve done a good deal of reading and have had some limited personal experience in the area. May I say candidly that your violent nature and consistent substance abuse reveals what any schooled clinician would refer to as a baseline pathology. Self-hatred is the real key here. Perhaps you are even more like your father than you realized. I’m a steadfast believer in genetics. And in your case, apparently, the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree.”

“Tell that to your kid. She’s as crazy as you are.”

Swan’s hands were folded on his lap. He looked directly into my good eye. “I feel I must make an admission to you now,” he said. “Frankly, I have misled you. I did guarantee the safety of your mother and her caregiver, Coco, but given the damage you inflicted on Sydnye and on our young Rudy, I’m sure you’ll appreciate my circumstances. I can no longer honor our agreement. They will also die soon. And I assure you that their deaths will be as painful as possible.”

Swan reached over and pressed a buzzer on the night stand. A second later the nurse reentered the room. She was holding a syringe in her hand. “You may inject our subject now,” he ordered. “It’s time to begin.”

The woman missed the first two times because I was rocking from side to side and twisting my body. But on her third try, I felt the needle go in.

The last thing I remembered thinking was:
Well, okay, here I go. Fuck it!

THE LIGHTS IN
the room I was in were bright and shining in my face as I started to come around. I saw Swan inject me with something and I watched as he put his syringe away.

Thirty seconds later I was totally alert, wide awake.

He was standing next to me dressed in form-fitting white overalls and wearing blue surgical gloves. There was a small metal table next to the larger one I was lying on. It contained surgical tools—scalpels and pliers and a couple of shiny saws.

Looking past the table I could see that the walls of the room were soundproofed, like the walls in Sydnye’s murder room at her apartment. There were no windows.