“If you had been there tonight watching that madwoman fire a gun into Guzman, I think it might seem bigger to you.”
“I suppose I would, but that wouldn’t mean it was. Seeing somebody shot gives most people the creeps.”
“It’s more than that. It’s the sense of doom that builds up when a man’s lost it. This is deeper than logic. Human beings have spent ten thousand years working to deny and ignore and get rid of their pure animal instincts and senses. But we still haven’t entirely defeated ourselves, because we can’t help sensing things about people.”
Jimmy was feeling more and more uneasy. “Like what?”
“Things that mean danger. Look at Stacy Grenier. She’s the most beautiful girl anybody has seen working in a strip club in a hundred years. Every inch of her isn’t just perfect, it starts at perfect and extends beyond there to be something your poor imagination couldn’t invent or wish for, so every time you look at her, you’re amazed all over again.”
“She’s a goddess.”
“But nobody wants to go out with her.”
“I went out with her.”
“You did? Why?”
“What you just said. She’s beautiful. And she seemed to be nice. It didn’t work out so well. I took her to a nice dinner at that restaurant down by the concert hall. Everybody was really dressed, the women were attractive, but nothing like her, of course. So afterward, we’re standing outside waiting for the valet to bring my car around. She lights a cigarette, takes a couple of puffs, and then leans really close to me—and puts it out on my hand.”
“There,” said Jerry. “That’s what I mean. People take one look at her—or maybe two—and they sense that something bad is going on behind the eyes.”
“After the burn, she behaved normal for a while.”
“So why isn’t she my sister-in-law?”
“After we slept together, she got abnormal again. She told me she had AIDS and that she only had sex with men to get back at all of us for being such assholes. She wanted to kill all of us.”
“Was it true?”
“Her having AIDS? No. The hating and killing? I think so.”
“As anybody other than you can tell after a minute. But forget her. Manco Kapak is the one I’m thinking about. He’s beginning to give off a bad vibe.”
“You think so?”
Jerry nodded. “I do. In fact, I think you’re right about going to his house to tell him everything in person. I think we better take a close look at him and see whether we ought to do something about what we see.”
“We can’t leave, or it would convince him you stole his money yourself. By the way, do you still have a gun?”
“No. I threw mine away with Guzman’s and Corona’s. You got one?”
“No. I was asleep, and you asked me for a ride. I don’t sleep with a gun.”
“Maybe you ought to start. Maybe we both ought to.”
11
JORGE GUZMAN WAS in pain. He had endured nearly two hours of being wheeled from one place to another in the hospital—x-rays, a surgical area that seemed to be on the same floor as the emergency room where they doped him and cut and stitched, and then a regular patient room.
Corona had been with him for part of the time because the first doctor had the idea that Guzman couldn’t speak English, but one of the nurses was Mexican and could tell Corona wasn’t translating, just talking. She made Corona leave.
The cops had arrived while he was still lying in the little examining room bleeding. They asked him the same questions Corona told him he’d already answered. Then one of the cops took a picture of his face and another one of the tattoo on his neck, and left.
The final move was to bring him up here to the third floor. Now he had a real bed, not as hard or narrow as the thing he’d been on. But he felt his left shin all the time, throbbing with each heartbeat. He couldn’t look at it because it was in a hard bandage like a cast, but it felt as though the bone was exposed. A nurse walked past his door and he shouted, “Hey!”
She took one step into the doorway. “Use the button. You’ll wake everybody up.”
“Hey, you know, I’m not some kind of gangster. I’m a victim.”
She shrugged. “When one of you shoots, the other one is a victim. Next time you’ll get to shoot, and he’ll be a victim.”
“I’m hurting bad.”
“Sure. You got shot.”
“Can’t you get me something?”
She stepped in, looked at his chart, and allowed a bit of compassion to show in her eyes. “I’ll get you something.” She hurried out.
He wasn’t sure if he had dozed off for a few seconds waiting for her or if she had shot him up, but he woke, and it wasn’t as bad. But then the door filled with the shape of a man. Guzman said in Spanish, “Hey, my friend. Thanks for coming back.”
An unfamiliar voice said in flat, toneless English, “I’m not your friend.” He stepped close to Guzman’s bed. “I’m Lieutenant Slosser, LAPD.”
“Did you catch them?”
“Not yet, but we’re looking. You and I need to talk a little.”
“I talked to the cops a while ago, and so did my friend. I told them everything, just the way it happened.”
“Yeah. You did fine. Nobody is saying you lied about it. But they didn’t ask you about what happened to your guns, and where the keys are for the car you took to the bank.”
“I don’t own any guns.”
“I see. And the car?”
“They must have took my keys after I went down. They were thieves.”
“So there wasn’t a third guy with you who took the guns and split so the police wouldn’t find them?”
“No.”
Slosser was tall, with square shoulders and thick arms, so his body looked younger than his face. One of his big hands touched Guzman’s temple and Guzman reflexively pulled away and turned his head, so his tattoo was visible. Slosser nodded to himself. “You and Corona are the last of the Mohicans, huh?”
“Mohicans?”
“The last two from your gang. The Sombres.”
“We are.”
“I remember that. It must be what? Eighteen years? I was working up in Devonshire then, but that night they called every division for extra men. So I’ve seen a lot of tattoos like that one, but until tonight, not on anybody alive.”
“I got shot, and I don’t feel so good. Is there some reason why you want to talk about eighteen years ago?”
“Maybe. It explains what your doctor gave us for a preliminary report—that you have three other bullet scars.”
“He didn’t look hard enough. I got four.”
“I’ll correct the record in case we have to identify your body sometime.” He stared into Guzman’s eyes. “How long have you worked for Manco Kapak?”
“About five years.”
“What’s your job?”
