roof, then swung his left knee up and caught the edge. Heaved himself up once; didn’t make it. Heaved again, then rolled over onto the roof. Hardie took a deep breath, then cautiously made it to his feet and started up the slanting roof.
The delivery van was still out front, but someone had moved it off to the side. It sat behind a white van now. Nobody in either vehicle, far as Hardie could tell. Up here he had a better view of the castle up on the hill. He could make out a name, too: smiley, someone had carved into the stone face. There was scaffolding covering the structure; the owner must have work in progress. Nobody in the windows; no signs of life whatsoever.
Hardie turned to face the opposite direction and… hallelujah, the topless chick with the phone was still there. She had a phone. Her mouth was moving. That meant she had service.
Thank you, God.
Please ignore the bad shit I’ve said about you over the years.
Mann, awaiting confirmation, glanced up at the house. This was taking way too long. Her eye burned and itched like fuck. It had been a long night without a break. Time for all of this to be over.
And then she saw him.
Charles Hardie, standing on the roof, looking down at her.
Hardie knew this moment wouldn’t last forever. Any second now the faceless fuckers who’d put him in a body bag could show up, or the woman could go back inside, or an earthquake could start rumbling, or a wildfire could break out… so he had to move now. He could either go back down into the house and do something really stupid and heroic…
Or he could be smart for a chance and call for help.
Be
Quietly as he could, he eased himself down the slope of the roof and jumped down to the driveway. He took great care to bend his knees as he landed to cushion the blow. He fell over, anyway. Picked himself up, then scrambled out onto Alta Brea and followed it back down to Durand until he was level with the third floor of the Lowenbruck home. Hardie glanced over at it, wondering if Lane Madden was dead or alive. He couldn’t do anything about that except get to this woman and have her call 911 and wait for the cavalry to arrive.
Right?
Hardie reminded himself:
You’ve been stabbed. You’re in no condition for a close-quarters brawl with god knows how many people.
You are not equipped to save people. You are not in the hero business. Remember, this is what got you in trouble three years ago. You’re no good.
You had thought you might be a hero once, but you were wrong. People stronger and smarter and more ruthless taught you that. You are nothing. You’re one of those people in movies who gets killed in the first act. A nameless hood. Someone the screenwriter didn’t even bother to name.
Don’t pretend to be what you’re not.
Hardie hurriedly stumbled down the path toward the nice naked lady with the phone and braced himself for a scream.
He really,
Because if she screamed, then he’d have to somehow convince her to go inside and make the phone call, because those faceless cocksuckers could pop their heads out of a window and start shooting at the both of them. A million bad film-noir scenes flashed through his head—guys slapping their meaty palms over the mouths of screaming dames, their leading-man eyes reassuring them that
Hardie took a few more quick steps, trying to project the most nonthreatening and peaceable version of himself. Hands out—look, see, no weapons.
The woman remained perfectly still, as if she’d fallen asleep and was completely unaware of the bleeding, trembling man barreling toward her. Not like this kind of thing happens every day in L.A. Or does it?
She continued her conversation. Hardie caught the tail end of it:
“… you know me. I like constant updates. Hang on a second.”
Finally Hardie caught her attention, because she turned her head slowly to face him. It was impossible to read her reaction behind her sunglasses. She said calmly:
“Let me get back to you.”
The woman wiggled a little until she’d propped herself up on her elbows. Her breasts hung full and wide from her tight, athletic frame.
“Uh, miss… please don’t panic. I need you to call the police. It’s an emergency.”
“Hi, Charlie,” the woman said.
—Samuel L. Jackson,
HARDIE STOPPED moving. Dropped his hands. Felt a rush of blood to his head.
“Gotta say, I’m a little surprised to see you up and moving around,” the woman said. “But I guess that was a miscalculation, splitting the dose between two grown men. Usually we load those things with enough for just one. Have to make a note for next time, I suppose.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Hardie asked.
“Interesting you didn’t run for it. In fact, you came down here to borrow a phone and call for help. You probably consider yourself the hero type. So if I tell you to just walk away and pretend like none of this happened, you couldn’t, am I right? You just couldn’t. It would run counter to your very DNA.”
Hardie stared at her.
“Well, don’t be rude,” the woman said. “Aren’t you going to say something?”
Hardie could think of nothing to say to that, other than:
“You have very nice tits.”
The woman smiled.
“You like them?”
“Anybody would like them.”
“You probably don’t think they’re real.” She let a fake sigh escape her lips and threw her head back wearily. “Nobody thinks they’re real.”
Hardie shook his head, something approximating a confused smile on his face.
“I honestly don’t think I’m the best judge of what’s real and not real. What happened to your eye?”
“Let’s not talk about my body parts, okay? Let’s talk about our situation. Usually, my inclination is to throw money at the problem. It’s easy, clean, and has been proven to truly motivate people. But I don’t think I can bribe you. Sure, you might go along with it, buy yourself some time. Or maybe you think, worst-case scenario, you can always track me down and seek your revenge later. Because that’s what tough guys do. Still, even if I believed you’d take the bribe and keep your mouth shut, it’s a loose end, and I’m not in the business of loose ends.”
Hardie said, “What about the dead delivery dude in a plastic bag? Was he another loose end?”
The woman smiled. “That’s a sad story, actually. He used to be a comic-book artist, but he had trouble making ends meet. He joined the delivery service a few months ago. About a half hour from now, he’ll be found in North Hollywood, bullet through his brain, victim of a carjacking.”
“That is really sad.”
