Zero at the Bone (7 page)

“The good and the bad, which I guess makes you the ugly, Carlos. Lemme in.” Carlos glanced past him at Jack, his dark, beady eyes sweeping him up and down.

“Who’s the twink?”

“My cousin. Step aside. Dappa’s expectin’ me.”

Carlos shouted over his shoulder. “Boss? D’s here.” D winced when Carlos said his name out loud.
Don't fuckin broadcast it, asshole. Tryin’ ta lay low here.

“Let him in!” came a familiar, reedy voice.

“He got a preppy-lookin’ friend with him.”

“I said let him in!”

Carlos stepped aside, grudgingly. “Hafta take yer weapon,” he said.

D reached under his coat and handed over his pistol. He felt Jack stiffen; likely he hadn’t realized D was carrying. Ought to know by now that D always carried. “Happy?” Carlos just jerked his head, and they entered the workroom.

Dappa’s shop just looked like a regular office, if a cyclone hit it. D had no idea how the man found anything. “He called me a twink,” Jack muttered, as they lurked near the door, waiting for Dappa.

“Shut up.”

“Is that good or bad? What’s it mean?”

“Means a man who knows when ta fuckin’ shut up, so clearly he was mistaken.

Now shut up.”

“Got your message,” Dappa said, scurrying up. “I got things set up; just need to take pictures. You got the money?”

“Got it,” D said, withdrawing most of the roll of bills he’d recovered in Quartzsite.

Jack leaned close as Dappa walked away. “It costs that much for papers?”

“Nah. Dappa’s set me up with a new checking account so we don’t gotta carry cash, usin’ whatever name he’s givin’ me. He’ll take my cash, put it in his front company, and then transfer that much cash inta the new account with papers listin’ my alias as some kinda consultant or investor or somethin’.”

“Huh. Seems so… boring.”

“What’d you expect, sacks a gold coins like in pirate movies?” Jack shrugged, looking out of his element and nervous. “How do you know we can trust this guy?” he asked, leaning even closer, his voice barely a whisper.

D sighed. He hadn’t known he was taking on a full-time backseat driver when he’d taken Francisco on as a pet project. “He owes me in a real personal kinda way. Relax.

Know what I’m doin’.”

“Okay,” Jack said, giving off an
if-you-say-so
kind of attitude.

Dappa took their photos with a little camera, the kind they had at the DMV. “Be half an hour or so, D. Why don’t you guys go upstairs and have a drink? On the house.” D considered this. Exposing himself and Jack made him nervous, but Jack could sure use a drink to calm him down some, and a whisky sounded mighty good to him too.

He didn’t really want to sit here in this basement shop and wait with old Carlos giving him the hairy eyeball the whole time. He nodded curtly and left the shop, Jack sticking to his side like he’d been Velcroed there.

Zero at the Bone | 27

He scanned the crowd as they made their way to a shadowy corner of the bar. No one was paying them any attention. So far, so good. He ordered a whisky for himself, and to his surprise, Jack ordered the same. “Come here often?” Jack said, going for a joking tone and not quite getting there.

“Fuckin’ hate LA,” D said, turning his back to the bar and most of the patrons.

“Me too. Came here once for a medical conference and couldn’t wait to get home.” D watched Jack’s face as a brief shadow of sadness crossed it.

“Ya miss Baltimore?” he asked.

Jack nodded. “Yeah. Guess I’ll never be able to live there again.”

“Probly not,” D said, seeing no need to sugar-coat it for him.

They drank in silence for a few minutes. D was just starting to think that they’d get away with it when he spotted a dark-clad figure approaching from the other side of the bar.

Jack must have felt him tense up. “What is it?” he asked, looking around in a fine display of not-subtle.

“Calm down,” D said. “Jus’ drink yer drink.”

“See somebody?” Jack said.

“Fella in my line a work.”

“Shit,” Jack hissed. “Competition?”

“Nah. A friend, sorta. Did a coupla two-man jobs together.”

“Oh. That’s okay then, right?”

“Don’t bet on it. If the bounty on me’s less than two million it’ll be a fuckin’ insult.

Don’t got no friends when yer hide’s worth that much.” He watched as Signor approached, being casual about it.

Sig walked right up, bold as you please. “D,” he said.

D nodded. “Sig.”

“This him?” He asked, with a jerk of the head toward Jack.

Shit. The word’s out.
“Nah. Jus’ some guy buyin’ me a drink. Mus’ think I’m cute or somethin’.”

“Sure, whatever. The shit’s out on you, D. Hit went up this morning.”

“How much?”

“Three point five.”

D whistled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You better get out of here before someone sees you.”

“You already seen me.”

“I’m not taking that hit. Not on one of the brotherhood.” D snorted. Sig was one of those types that had pipe dreams of some kind of honor-among-thieves bond of fraternity among men who did their kind of work. D thought it was an assload of Hollywood crap, but Sig was a Hollywood crap kind of guy. If it helped, D would nod and smile through it. “Who else is gonna see?”

“Well, Rolan Bartoz just came in with his posse. Sitting at his table like king of the hill. He sees you, he’ll have it to his guys in about five seconds and to everyone else in California in five minutes.”

D knocked back the rest of his whisky. That was not good news. Bartoz’s table was by the entrance. “Hafta go out the back way.”

“You’ll have to go past him to get your stuff from Dappa. Tell you what. I’ll go downstairs and get your papers and meet you around back through the dancers’ door.

Cover you to your car. You park on top of the garage?” 28 | Jane Seville

“Yup.”

“Okay. Better go now.”

D nodded, clapped Sig on the shoulder, and beckoned Jack to follow him. He walked quickly past the stage, through the curtain, and past a few screeching half-dressed go-go dancers, popping out behind the club in a little-used alley. He let the door shut behind him and turned to Jack.

“Nice of your friend to help out,” Jack said.

“He ain’t helpin’. He’s comin’ back here ta kill us.” Jack froze, blinking. “But… he said….”

“I coulda got down to the shop without Bartoz seein’ me. Sig didn’t want me to go because Carlos has my gun and I’d a gotten it back if I’d gone for the case myself.”

“So you’re just letting him….”

“I let him think he was foolin’ me. When he gets here I’ll take care of it. You stay back. Stand next to that Dumpster. You get behind it any sign a trouble, ya hear?” Jack nodded, his face white even in the darkness behind the club. “Christ, D… this is crazy! What if he kills you? What’ll happen to me then? Let’s get out of here before he gets back!”

“I need that case with Dappa’s papers.”

“What if he doesn’t bring it? What if he brings an empty one, thinking he’s just going to shoot us?”

“He won’t. He wants the papers too. That way he can take all the cash in my brand-fuckin’-new bank account.”

“Well… what if Dappa won’t give him the papers?”

“He will. He knows we’ve worked together. Now will you hush up?” D hissed at him. “We gotta act casual when he comes up, like we don’t suspect!”

“Then why did you even
tell
me?”

D blinked. That was a pretty fair question, actually. “Jus’ stand over there and be ready ta duck.”

Jack moved closer to the Dumpster, trying on various “casual” poses. Leaning against the wall, then arms crossed, then one hand on the Dumpster. It would have been funny if the situation were less tense.

Sig came walking around the corner bearing a briefcase. He glanced right and left as he approached. “Here you go,” he said, holding out the case.

“Jus’ put it on the ground,” D said.

Sig hesitated for a moment, then bent and set the case on the ground. D was watching, so he saw Sig’s hand steal into his jacket, and when the hand emerged holding a gun he was ready. He kicked out at the gun hand and the pistol went flying. Sig wasn’t exactly surprised, either, so he just pistoned his shoulder into D’s chest and slammed him up against the wall. D heard Jack yell something, couldn’t tell what. He grabbed Sig’s shoulders and jammed his knee upward into his stomach, then shoved him back.

Sig faced him, pale-faced and sweating. “Should have stayed clear, D,” he said.

“Shouldn’t a fucked with me.”

EVEN though D had warned him (which he kind of wished he hadn’t), Jack was still surprised when the other hit man (he hadn’t caught his name clearly, it had sounded like Ziggy, which couldn’t possibly be right) whipped out a pistol. D seemed to be ready and Zero at the Bone | 29

kicked it away, and then Ziggy slammed D into the wall. Jack heard someone yell, realized it had been himself, and ducked back behind the Dumpster as he’d been told to do.

“Should have stayed clear, D,” Ziggy said.

“Shouldn’t a fucked with me,” D snarled, in a voice that made the hair on the back of Jack’s neck stand on end.

Ziggy backed off, arms up in some kind of martial-arts pose. D just stood there, looking not the slightest bit ready, but when Ziggy came at him with the kung-fu action, D lashed out with one arm, then a leg, then a fist. Jack tried to watch but it was dark and they were moving so fast. Ziggy pulled a little knife out of his belt buckle and jabbed it at D, who just waited for him to swing it, then stepped forward, turning so his back was to Ziggy, grabbed the man’s arm and cracked his wrist back, forcing him to drop it. D

kicked it away as Ziggy staggered back, wrist hanging limply, cursing.

Jack was terrified, horror-struck, and afraid for D’s life, but a part of him was fascinated. He wondered what kind of training D had. Ziggy seemed to be expending a lot of energy whipping himself around while D just stood there, relaxed, making a minimum of movements; the ones he did make were quick and decisive. It didn’t look like karate, not that Jack was any kind of expert apart from having watched
The Matrix.

Ziggy wasn’t done, despite having what looked like a broken wrist (
scaphoid
fracture possible ulnar fracture likely tearing of the ventral ligaments
). Jack guessed that 3.5 million could buy a gold-plated wrist splint. He came at D again but his balance was off. D swept the guy’s leg out from under him and then grabbed him around the neck with his arm. D made a quick motion with his arm and his other hand, Jack heard a crunch, and Ziggy dropped like a stone.

Before Jack could even begin to process the fact that D had just broken the guy’s neck, D was pulling him to his feet by his arm. “D… you… he….”

“He ain’t a problem no more,” D growled, picking up the briefcase and dragging Jack toward the mouth of the alley. “Smarten up. Look normal.” Jack somehow composed his face and clamped his arms firmly across his chest to still their shaking. He stuck close to D’s side as they crossed the street, passing the crowd of people waiting to get into Del Muerto (he would have laughed at the appropriateness of the name if he wasn’t so fucking petrified). They made it into the shadows of the parking garage and D quickly opened the briefcase, checking that his papers were there, and pulled out his gun. He tucked it into the back of his pants and they continued to the car. Jack stumbled a little. His arms and legs felt numb and his head was swimming. D’s hand was suddenly holding his arm tightly. “C’mon, keep it together,” he muttered in Jack’s ear.

He tried, he really tried. He was gasping like he’d just inhaled something awful, trying to get the smell out of his nose. They climbed the stairs to the top where they’d left the car. “Oh shit,” Jack choked, feeling it rise up his throat. He staggered into the corner and let go, everything coming up from his stomach. He shut his eyes and hung on to the wall until it was over then stayed hunched over, coughing and watching the stars dance in front of his eyelids.

He sensed D standing next to him, and then he felt a hand between his shoulder blades. “Y’all right, there?” D said, his voice surprisingly gentle.

“Fuck,” Jack choked.

“Take a deep breath. Jus’ relax.” D’s hand was rubbing the center of his back, almost like a father would to a sick child.
Is that how he sees me? Childlike?
In any case, 30 | Jane Seville

the motion was comforting and Jack didn’t want him to stop. The warmth of his hand through Jack’s shirt and jacket was seeping into his spine, traveling up to his neck and flushing him with the contact.

Jack tried to relax, as D said, turning away from the puddle of vomit he’d left. D

kept his hand firm on his shoulder. Jack swiped at his streaming eyes. His chest was hitching all by itself, like a rapid-fire case of the hiccups. “I’m… suh-suh-sorry….”

“S’okay. You jus’ take it easy.” D led him around to the passenger door and opened it for him like they were on a date. Jack folded himself in, his stomach still cramping, and D shut the door. He got in the driver’s side and within a few moments they were blocks away.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said again after a few minutes’ recovery time. “I’ve just… never seen anything like that. Somebody getting killed right in front of me.”

“But yer a doctor. Ain’t ya never seen….”

“I’ve seen plenty of people die. Just… never like that.” Jack sighed and made himself look at D.
He’s a killer. That’s what he does.
Jack wondered if deep down he hadn't hoped that it was just a figure of speech or something, that he didn’t
really
kill people, that it was all just an abstraction. Well, the proof was in the crunching sound that guy’s neck had made, the sound that was still in Jack’s ears. “He was going to kill us, right?”

“Right.”

“But… did you have to kill him? You broke his wrist. He couldn’t have done much damage.”

“No, but he could have told every lowlife in a hundred-mile-radius we were around.

This way, hopefully no one else seen me.”

Jack sat tucked into the corner of the seat, feeling weak-limbed and wrung out. “I guess. I just….”