'Let's hear it,' Alexa said.
'I'd tell ya t'pull up a chair, but since I don't have one, how 'bout we all go across the street and get a cuppa coffee?'
So that's what they did.
Shane didn't get home until almost ten-thirty that night. His mind was picking up the dangerous pieces of Chief Filosiani's plan and then putting them back where he found them.
Jigsaw pieces that had made a convincing picture an hour ago now didn't seem to fit. In theory it could all come together, but the plan was physically dangerous for both him and Alexa. But despite his nervousness, it seemed as if it might be the only way to lure Jody out-the only way Shane could get Jody to trust him enough to let him infiltrate his secret squad.
Shane had the black UHF radio under his arm as he entered his Venice house from the garage. He could feel the reloaded Mini-Cougar heavy on his ankle. He had filled the nine-shot clip with light loads that would protect Alexa when he eventually fired at her per Filosiani's plan. He set the radio down on the kitchen counter and switched it on. Shane had to wait until the rogue unit went hot again; then while they had the UHF satellite radio on, he would step on their transmission, trigger the mike, talk to Jody, and make his pitch. He hoped Filosiani had given him enough information to get Jody to agree to meet him. As the radio hissed softly from the kitchen counter, Shane fished a beer out of the refrigerator and held it up to his face, rolling it along his forehead to cool his throbbing brain.
Then he sensed movement behind him.
He spun around, but he was way too late.
Chapter 17
THE FIRST THING Shane became aware of was a fetid, throat-constricting stench. He was still unconscious; the smell had started in the middle of a confusing, kaleidoscopic dream. The odor filled his nostrils, becoming stronger and more unpleasant as consciousness gradually returned. Getting his eyes open was a little like prying up a manhole cover with his fingernails.
He was finally looking at a damp, rusting metal wall; his hands were locked painfully behind him. Finally Shane realized he was sitting on a metal floor, handcuffed to some kind of structural support… all of this drifting through his thoughts without making much of an impact. The back of his head throbbed where he had been hit, and a sharp pain pulsed behind his eyes, threatening to explode with each heartbeat. Suddenly a moment of panic and a surge of adrenaline. His thoughts focused; his senses returned.
Cold, bluish light hissing from a Coleman lantern hanging from a knotted rope on the ceiling; the radio he took from Shephard's house, on a nearby table, on the edge of his peripheral vision; three… No, two men, talking low.
'Was me, I'd come correct on the man.' The sentence had a Mexican lilt. The second voice was deep and rumbling. Shane recognized the same African American speech rhythm from the UHF radio broadcast he had overheard from the house on Dolores Street. He had to concentrate hard to translate the rich ghetto idiom.
'We all be flossin'. You hear what I be sayin'? Jody's all'a time treating us like we just studio gangstas hangin' round, tryin' t'get served. He ain't da only one bustin' moves here. Know what I'm sayin'?'
'You a tough cabeza when Jody ain't in the room, but you just doin' fake jacks, nigger.' A chair scraped.
'Ain't afraid a'Jody-fuck Jody,' the black voice said, then added: 'I think Casper's over there lyin' in the cut. Check him out.'
Shane heard footsteps, then a face loomed into view. The man had tangled shoulder-length hair and a bushy black beard laid up against dark, swarthy skin. He looked Hispanic, but his eyes were an odd color for a Latin, a strange light gray-hooded eyes, set deep under massive, bony brows. He shoved his chin down in Shane's face and studied him.
Could this be the late Sergeant Hector Rodriquez?
When the man spoke, the Mexican idiom disappeared. Now his tone was condescending, more like a cop talking to a street criminal: 'How's things down there in Shitsville, Scully?'
Shane heard another chair scrape, and a second face swung into view. This was the African American who'd exited the pool-cleaning truck when Shane was trapped in the noise-abatement house. He was ebony black, and now that the man had his baseball cap off, Shane could see that he had shaved his head. From his right ear hung a long chain with a cross dangling at the end of it. His tank top was ripped and dirty.
'How long you been listening Scully?' the African American said.
Shane could smell booze on his breath. 'Where's Jody?' Shane's pinched voice echoed weakly in the windowless space.
'Ain't here,' the Mexican said.
'Are you cops?'
The black man looked at Shane and gave his answer careful consideration before he spoke. 'We was makin' weak-ass music, y'know? Hadda leave da jam. You come along and be tryin' t'collect for the trip. 'Cept now all you be doin' is waitin' on the big bus.'
The confusing ghetto-speak made Shane's head throb. 'Get Jody. I got something he'll want to hear, something important.' Shane was trying to focus, to collect his scattered thoughts. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious. He couldn't see outside and didn't know if it was day or night. As his senses cleared, he began to feel the gentle lapping of water against the outside of the metal wall he was cuffed to. He thought maybe he was on a big rusting boat, somewhere down by the harbor. 'I got something important to tell Jody,' he repeated.
'You don't tell nobody shit. You assed-out big-time, muthafucka,' the African American said softly. 'You shot Victory. Fuckin' guy is moaning and crying'. We hadda smuggle him down t'Mexico t'get him fixed.'
'Victory?' Shane asked.
'Peter Smith. Man calls hisself 'Victory' 'cause he say he never loses. He's the-'
'Hey, Inky Dink,' the Mexican interrupted. 'Shut up. Yer mama ain't here, so who you tryin' to impress?'
'Don't matter… Fuckin' guy's dead anyway.'
Then, either because he had been disrespected or to make his point, the black ex-cop stepped forward and grabbed Shane, jerking him up violently. Shane's hands were still cuffed to some kind of structural support, so his wrists exploded in pain as he came abruptly to the end of the chain. His head and torso were only three feet off the floor, his shoulders aching, barely able to keep his legs under him.
'I told Jody we shoulda capped you when you went to see his old lady… When you talked to the Good Shepherd,' the black ex-cop said angrily. 'But he says no. He's got some fuckin' issues with you. Like what you two white boys did in Little League makes a shitload of difference t'anything. But he ain't here t'cover ya, so guess what? We gonna come correct on yo' white-slice ass.'
He hit Shane with a thundering right cross.
Darkness swarmed, and Shane was knocked back inside his head. For a second he was still conscious, peering out through a tiny hole of light that quickly narrowed.
Then he was swimming in black… Dreamless… unattached… alone.
Chapter 18
You AMAZE ME,' the voice said.
Shane kept his eyes closed; his head was down on his chest. His jaw felt dislocated. He was trying to get his jumbled thoughts in order, standing on the front porch of a disaster, rehearsing opening lines like a teenager on his
