“We haven’t done shit!” the skinny boy yapped.
“Is that any way to talk to a guest?” I motioned with my.38 for big boy to sit on the sofa. “You boys really screwed the pooch this time. You know a man they call the Pope of Figueroa?” They both nodded, worry starting to show. “Turns out he didn’t take kindly to you running a scam in his neighborhood. I may be able to square it with him, if you’re straight with me. Lie to me and you better pack your bags and head to the old country. Did you sweat the girls alone, or did you have help?”
“We’re with the Broadway crew, so if those Italian fucks want…” I didn’t let him finish. I put my.38 in my pocket and went for the door. I had it open before he stopped me. “Hey, where are you going?”
“I told you what would happen if you lied to me.”
“Fuck you and fuck your friends in their fat grease-ball asses, the Italians are over and we’re running this town now bro, or didn’t you get the E-mail?” the skinny boy said, puffing up.
“Only thing you’re running is your mouth. Gonna get you a slow death. See shit for brains, I just came from Pakka supreme Rafael Hakobian’s house, he never heard of you. Have a good life kid.” The skinny kid’s eyes darted wildly around in their sockets searching for the hidden camera and perky host to tell him it was all a big joke.
“Tell him the truth,” the big guy said in a deep baritone.
“We’re alone,” the skinny guy said.
“You sure are,” I said. “Now the six-million dollar question, where did you go after I met you at the club?”
“Where the fuck do. .” the skinny boy started but was shut down by a look from his friend. “We went to Glendale Adventist’s emergency room, they were backed up with a drive by, we didn’t get out ‘til the next morning.” I looked at him long and hard. “Call the hospital if you want, they’ll tell you.”
“I’m going to.” I said and walked out. I didn’t need to make any more threats, they were scared little rabbits as it was, at least the little squid was. As for big boy, who the hell knew what was going on behind his stone face.
I headed home tired, no closer to an answer then when I started. Back at the crib I fed Angel a half-pound of ground beef. After watching her wolf down her dinner, I lay down on the bed to play with her. I fell into a dreamless sleep for two solid hours. I woke up, showered, drank a cup of strong coffee and rode into work.
It was a typically dead Monday night at the flesh palace, a few stragglers came in for a quick lap dance, then slunk out with a stain showing on their slacks. I asked Piper if she had ever known any girls that worked at the Cock’s Roost. I guessed right, it was one of Nevada’s infamous legal brothels. She’d known girls who went there, but none had come back to stripping. On the long twisted road of the sex trade, the direction was one way. Most started out bikini dancing, then moved to stripping, some went into porno, and others to prostitution. At every stop they drew lines in the sand, demarcation lines they would not cross, until time and cash blurred the lines and they had to draw new ones.
“You’re a good boy, Moses, why you want to go chasing dragons?” Uncle Manny asked when I told him I needed to take some time off to look for Kelly’s killer. We were sitting in his office, his desk strewn with the week’s books.
“You can have Doc take the extra shifts,” I said. “He can use it, I hear his old lady’s going to give him another rug-rat.” Doc was a huge, bighearted man, with skin as dark as night and a smile that could lighten the darkest room.
“He is a good man, but you I trust. You understand?”
“She was one of ours, Manny, we owe it to her.”
“Very noble.”
“No, it’s just something I have to do.”
“Still, it is noble,” he said, thinking for a moment. Then from the open safe behind him he counted out two thousand dollars. “For you, for Kelly.” Pocketing the cash I shook his hand and went out to the bar. I asked Piper if she could look after Angel for me.
“Mo, I kill house plants. I stay out all night, sleep all day. Do you really think I’m the poster child for adopt- a-pet?” She said.
“No, I guess not.”
“You take care of yourself,” she said in a wistful tone. “You come back to me in one piece.” She ran her hand gently across my cheek, then put on her stripper’s smile and turned away. As she swished off, I realized she meant it.
CHAPTER 7
I hit Helen up the next day while our dogs tore up the park. “I’d love to watch Angel for you. Maybe she can work the extra ten pounds off of Bruiser for me.” I didn’t tell her where I was going. If this thing went south, the less she knew, the better. I left Angel playing with Bruiser. Good-byes weren’t really my strong suit. I sold my bike for six grand to a guy who owned a shop that specialized in Nortons over in North Hollywood. I left him drooling over the flawless black paint and perfect chrome, I had bigger fish to fry. I took a bus ride over to Jason B’s, a wanna be actor who paid the bills by buying cars at the police auction and re-selling them over Ebay. He had a ’05 Ford Crown Vic police Interceptor I bought for his cost of twenty-three hundred dollars. It was big and black with white doors which I spray painted to match the body. With an old school V8 and computer driven fuel injection, the bitch was built for fast takeoffs. It had heavy-duty four-wheel discs to stop on a dime, and a suspension tuned for ripping around corners at max speed. With a twenty gallon gas tank, it was a long range road beast built to take down the bad men. A gaping hole in the dashboard spoke of a missing radio and computer terminal. She wasn’t pretty but she would blend in on most streets and she was mine. For an extra fifty bucks Jason B tossed in a set of prop Nevada plates, they were hand-painted to look punched out. Although they wouldn’t hold up to close eye- balling, if the cops got that close I was screwed anyway. I had him transfer the papers on the car over to Johnny Stahl. He was a clean identity I’d built over the last ten years, with just enough of a paper trail to make him legal. Johnny owned a legally registered.45 automatic, a Visa card with a five hundred dollar limit and a library card. Johnny was twice the square I was. He was almost human.
Back in East LA I had a neighborhood kid hook me up with a car stereo for forty bucks and a six pack of tall boys. If I was going to be rolling long and wide I needed tuneage. He cut a piece of plywood to fill the gaping dash and bolted it in. Like everything else in the Ford it was all go, no show.
My house felt empty with Angel gone. Silly, I hadn’t had her that long but I missed her wagging tail and sloppy face. This is no time to go soft and cuddly so I loaded a Mossberg twelve-gauge riot gun, a Colt.45 1911 automatic, my S amp;W.38 and boxes of shells for all into the trunk of the Crown Vic. I didn’t know where the trail would lead, but I knew I should pack heavy just in case it turned ugly. I filled a gym bag with jeans, tee-shirts and socks. I took out my one and only nice suit. It was gray gabardine with black piping on its country western yoke. I added a white western shirt with pearl buttons, a scorpion bolo and a pair of black Tony Lama boots. Packed and ready, I was almost out the door when I noticed the Marilyn cookie jar with the charm bracelet wrapped around the handle on its lid. If I found Kelly’s sister, she might know what to do with Kelly’s remains. I set her in the back seat and rumbled out of town.
Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros kicked a beat to my retreat from the city. Fuck Mick Jones, Strummer’s drunken growl will always be the heart and soul of the Clash. The only blessing in his death is the world will be spared an embarrassing oldies tour. I almost threw up when I heard Johnny Rotten and a less Vicious Sex Pistols played Trump’s place in Atlantic City. In case there was any doubt that the go-go 80’s had killed punk, that show put the nail in the coffin.
The Crown Vic took to the freeways like a duck to water. It was still early enough so that the quitting traffic hadn’t clogged the road. In San Berdo I took the I-15 toward Vegas, up over the mountains and then a gentle sweep down into the desert. I had made this run enough times in my life, I probably could have done it with my eyes closed. Vegas had been my Camelot, the land where all the rules were clear and fair. Less than a tank of gas from LA and I was in a whole ‘nother world, one full of beautiful women who brought you drinks, lit your cigarettes and laughed at all your jokes. One good run at the blackjack table and I drove home with shiny new boots and two
