Angel With a Bullet

Copyright Information

Angel with a Bullet
© 2012
M. C. Grant

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First e-book edition © 2012

E-book ISBN: 978-0-7387-3532-0

Book design by Donna Burch

Cover design
by
Ellen Lawson

Cover art: Background: iStockphoto.com/Juan Facundo Mora Soria, Golden gate bridge: iStockphoto.com/Andrew Zarivny

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Dedication

This one is for the HrtBrkrs,
dreamers and believers.
If we told our younger selves
how bumpy the road ahead,
would we still walk it?
Damn right, we would.

And for Kailey and Karen,
always and forever.

Prologue

Before the blood, the
raw canvas cost twenty dollars. With the squeeze of a trigger, the artist would make it priceless. Quite an achievement for a bronzed urchin who first spoke his heart on the only canvas available: cave walls, tree bark, the flaking curves of abandoned cars, and sun-bleached walls of cursed and neglected huts.

In rural New Mexico, a sable brush was as foreign as indoor plumbing, reliable electricity, or parental rules. His tools came from the earth: shards of mottled flint, stone edges as thin and sharp as any knife. His paint palette surrounded him: charcoal from communal fires; solid bands of red and yellow ochre from ravaged hills, the pigments crushed in the same manner as his ancestors, by brutal force; crumbling yellow-white sulfur in pockets near the natural hot springs where he once saw an alabaster angel, naked and laughing with ripe cherry nipples atop vanilla cream; and the color that dominated most of his work: the rich orange-brown rust that grew over everything, thick as despair.

Some days he became so carried away, scratching his marks deep into charred wood or oxidized metal, he could ignore the pain. A hundred tiny cuts caused blood to dribble from his fingers and fill the grooves and swirls with living color. He became the paint; nature, his canvas.

Nothing since had ever truly recaptured that level of intimacy.

The art was forgotten.

The artist lifted a Remington .12-gauge shotgun. He stroked the warm varnished stock and cold blue-black steel, the pure esthetic practicality of the thing. Hands trembling, he positioned the weapon—aptly named “thunder stick,” a foreboding tool of destruction.

It snaked between legs, unsettlingly phallic, the weight of it resting on stomach and chest, its rubberized, slip-resistant butt firmly anchored to the floor.

The weapon's terrifying black hole slid between soft, dry lips, teeth reluctantly parting as the barrel dug just a little deeper. The artist felt warm tears flowing down ruddy cheeks as he hooked a bare toe through the curved metal guard and settled it on the well-oiled trigger.

He took a deep, calming breath and whispered a final prayer to his neglectful creator.

The trigger squeezed so easily.

One

Some people like to
c
ount sheep; I prefer ex-boyfriends. Bare-chested, tight boy shorts and strong thighs flexing at my command.

I usually have them leap over the bed. I enjoy the perspective. They tense muscles to my left, leap and fly over my prone form in a variety of ways, and land somewhere to my right.

I don't watch the landings, for I hate to see them strut. Few men realize it's not the finish that makes it worthwhile, but rather the anticipation and flight in between.

Poor Andrew, a boy I met backpacking along the border between Germany and France, loved his beer. And when he leaps over my bed, his soft belly jiggles and his freckled skin glows. But he had the gentlest eyes and the softest touch.

Diego likes to show off. His body is athletic, bronzed, and trim, but his eyes are anything but gentle. He needs to dominate, his inner flame bright and hot and … captivating. Perhaps we were too much alike.

Brian was a virgin in every way. He fell in love too easily at a time when love was not what I needed. It ended badly, and he averts his gaze now when he soars.

Johnny was a hockey player, and he grins with bloody teeth as he glides. He was all about speed and danger and taking everything to its limit. There were times I couldn't get enough and times I felt fear.

Salvador …

Brrring.

The phone makes Salvador vanish in midflight.

It rings again as I open my eyes.

_____

Dixie's Tips #1:
When a phone rings in the middle of the night, it's never good news.

Trust me. It's not Ryan Gosling, Hugh Jackman, or Joseph Gordon-Levitt (young, but yummy) making a late-night booty call and getting your number by mistake. If anything, it's some married schmuck who thinks a few slurred overtures on how he can't stop thinking about the dimples on your ass will get him through the door—again.

And if not the schmuck, it's your mother calling about one of her seven sisters who tripped over a rug or slipped in the bathtub and “isn't that terrible, just think, it could have been me.”

But it wasn't, Ma
.

“But it could just as easily and who would be here to find me? Why, I could be lying in my own …”

However, there are always exceptions to Dixie's tips. The main one being that if you're Dixie, you tend not to follow your own advice, no matter how sage. Plus, if instead of getting some badly needed beauty sleep you find yourself counting seven lads a-leaping, almost any distraction is welcome.

Which brings us to
Dixie's Tips #2
:
If you don't have the self-control to follow Tip #1, unplug the damn thing before going to bed. Remember, it's never good news.

I pick up on the fifth ring and use my huskiest phone-sex voice to say, “I can't believe it's not butter.”

Obviously I grew up as a latchkey kid with the TV as my babysitter because my other favorite commercial slogans that, taken out of context, sound just plain dirty are “Where's the beef?,” “Melts in your mouth, not in your hands,” “It's Finger Lickin' Good,” and my go-to line when people are pissing me off, “Don't hate me because I'm beautiful.”

Unfortunately, the person on the other end of the line doesn't share my fondness for advertising nostalgia. Mostly that's because she's the one who allowed network broadcasters to brainwash her susceptible child.

“Do you know what he's doing?” the caller asks. “Right this minute?”

“Mom!” I exhale noisily. “It's polite to say hello before beginning a tirade.”

She ignores me.

“He's on a date. At his age! And you'll never guess who with.”

“With whom.”

“Don't correct me,” she snaps. “I'm your mother, not Jane Austen.”

“OK. With whom is dearest papa out courting?”

“Thelma. She must be in her eighties.”

“Thelma Carson?” I ask. “Your former best friend before the infamous pastrami incident?”

“Thelma Carson
Gonzales
. She's been married twice, you know.”

“I know. You attended both weddings. And you're the same age, so she isn't eighty.”

She harrumphs. “Well, you don't see me buying secondhand tits off the Internet, do you?”

“Secondhand—”

“That's what Marcy says. Pamela Anderson, that bouncy Playmate from
Baywatch
, auctioned her old implants, the extra-large ones, on eBay. Thelma bought them.”

“I doubt that's true.”

“That's what Marcy says.”

“Marcy's your friend. It's twisted, but she's trying to be supportive.”

“Unlike some people I could—”

“Don't start, mother. I've told you before I'm not getting in between you and Dad. It's better that I stay out of the way until you decide what you're going to do.”

“You've always loved your father more.”

“You know that's not true.”

“Do I?” She begins to sob.

“Of course you do,” I say gently. “You're just tired. It's after midnight. You should be sleeping.”

“How can I sleep when he's—”

“You don't know what Dad is doing, and letting your imagination get the better of you won't help. Why don't you hang up the phone and get some sleep?”

“You just want rid of me.”

“No, Mom. I want you to—”

“Fine! I know when I'm not wanted.”

The phone goes dead in my ear.

And that's why it's wise to follow my own incredibly astute advice culled from years of life experience. I've worked horrible jobs, dated selfish men (and enough good ones to have hope there are still a few out there), and eaten dinner with annoying relatives whose photographic memories retain the most embarrassing moments of my tender thirty-six years.

It's this accumulated experience that confirms I don't need to answer the phone to know there's nothing like a guilt trip from your mother to make impossible the sleep of angels.

_____

I am still
tossing and turning when the phone rings again.

Remember Dixie's #1 Tip?

I answer.

“Apology accepted,” I say wearily. “Now can you let me sleep?”

“Dix?” The voice has a wheezy, high-pitched squeak that could easily belong to a laughable cartoon pervert. It is that type of cruel observation, however, that if voiced aloud could make paying the rent difficult. And affordable rent in San Francisco is difficult enough even
with
a job.

“Hmmm, depends,” I say with tongue lodged comfortably in my cheek. “You don't sound like Ryan or Hugh or—”

“This is why I hate calling you, Dix. I get a headache every damn time.”

“Hi, boss.”

“Don't get cute.”

“Too late.”

“You're giving me a migraine.”

“Ahh, but what have you given me lately?”

“How about a job? I even pay you a wage. But that can all end, Dix. Should I get someone else to work on next week's cover?”

“Cover?”

“I don't like to repeat myself.”

“Could you say that again?”

“You want me to hang up?”

“I'm all ears, boss.”

“No, you're all lip. You ever hear of Diego Chino?”

All the moisture leaves my mouth. “The artist?”

“Yeah, I guess that's what you'd call him. I can't get my head around that abstract stuff.”

“I know him.” The memory of him leaping over my bed shimmers and fades. “He does nice work, but it's been marketed to death. He signed a seven-figure deal with Ralph Lauren last year for a line of art-inspired sweaters and a new fragrance. I don't recall if either has made it to market yet, but the success certainly changed him.”

“He's dead.”

I wince. “Jeez, boss, don't pull any punches.”

“What are you talking about? It's a story. I need you—”

“I said I know—knew—argh!” I'm flustered, but my lips keep moving. “We were close. Kinda. We dated. God!”

A heavy sigh drifts over the phone line.

“Oh,” he says. “Sorry, I'll get—”

“Don't even think about it,” I snarl and suck in a deep, cleansing breath. “I want it.”

“If you were close maybe it's not—”

“The operative word is
were
.” My game face is on and I'm back in control of my lips. “I haven't talked to him in over a year. I want the story. He became a big deal in this town. His death will leave a mark.”

The boss sighs again. “You sure? I just received the tip. The body's fresh. No details, except it's messy.”

“Isn't that sweet.” The sarcasm drips off my tongue like venom. “You hear
messy
and think of me.”

Another heavy sigh that sounds more like a wheezy death rattle. “Forget it.”

“Give me the address?”

“No, this isn't a good idea. You'll go in guns blazing and piss off everybody.”

“So?”

“So? You know how tough it is to mend fences once you've plowed them over? The police commissioner and the publisher are golfing buddies.”

“The commish doesn't advertise.”

“So?”

“So our publisher only gives a crap about the people who buy ads, and one of the reasons they buy ads is because they know I don't play favorites.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.”

“It's got nothing to with the other reporters, editors, and photogs, or the calls I make in the newsroom every day?”

“OK,” I relent, sensing he's feeling a touch sensitive. “You make me look good, but you know it's me they're dying to read.”

“I don't know any such thing.”

“Flatterer.”

“What?”

“You know what I always say?”

“Yeah, don't hate you because you're beautiful.”

I laugh. “Give me the address. I can handle it.”

His voice softens. “You really sure?”

“I really am.”

He gives me the address.

_____

I hang up
and stare into the fishbowl that rests on top of the dresser facing the bed. Bubbles, the world's oldest goldfish, having survived now for ninety-two days, turns her back to me in a disturbing show of indifference.

I hit speed dial on the speakerphone and pull on some clothes. Fortunately, I keep my natural copper hair in a frenetic, just-got-out-of-bed-and-couldn't-give-a-damn cut so that when I get out of bed, I look like I don't give a damn.

“Dispatch.”

“I need a ride, Mo.”

“Dixie, baby, I've been thinking about you.” Mo's guttural Bronx accent usually sounds like he has a mouth full of marbles, but tonight it's more like he crunched up a few and gargled the broken shards.

“You sound rough, Mo. The clean air getting to you?”

“Doc says I need to give up the smokes.”

“You should listen.”

“The man puffs more than I do.”

“Then listen to me: Give up the cigs.”

“Yeah, yeah, I've heard it before, but …” He hesitates, a sudden loss for words, which is unusual.

“What aren't you telling me?” I ask.

“Ahh, it'll be nothing. Just the doc did a biopsy. Left my throat sore, you know?”

“A biopsy? For cancer?”

Mo snorts. “Nah, because of my fabulous singing voice, he wants to see what carat gold my tonsils are made of.”

I don't laugh. “Jeez, Mo. Cancer.”

“It ain't for certain,” he says gruffly. “We're waiting on results.”

I exhale noisily. “You need anything you call, OK?”

Mo chuckles. “What you gonna do, hire a cab to drive me somewhere?”

“No, but I'm a good listener.”

“Don't be sweet, you'll ruin both our reputations.” He sniffs, sucking in a lungful of air through his nose. “Now what you got?”

Back to business.

“Dead body.”

“Juicy?”

I wince, but try not to let it show in my voice.

“An artist. High profile.”

“Ooh! How did he snuff it? Paint up the nostrils, a brush down his—”

“Don't know yet,” I interrupt, sharper than intended. “That's why I need a cab.”

“Relax. Dispatched one as soon as I saw your number. He'll be there in two.”

“You're a doll, Mo.” I try to insert a little levity. “We should run away together.”

“Forget it. Non-smokers make lousy lovers. After sex, they want to talk, talk, talk.”

“I'm hurt.”

Mo laughs the throaty cackle of a Shakespearean witch. “Go get your cab, Dix. My boys hate to wait.”

_____

The taxi pulls up as I exit the front door of the postcard-pretty, three-story Painted Lady where I lease one of six apartments. King William of Orange—who along with his human, Mrs. Pennell, owns the building—stretches full out on the kitchen windowsill of his main-floor domain like an African lion spied through the wrong end of binoculars. When he hears me leaving, he opens one eye and winks approval.

I am dressed for battle: notepad and pen tucked in the back pocket of slim-fitting jeans; a point-and-shoot camera and digital voice recorder neatly stowed in the pockets of a vintage tea-brown leather bomber. For emergencies, I also carry Lily, a small, pearl-handled switchblade that slips into a moleskin pocket sewn inside a pair of russet biker boots. The scuffed and scarred leather boots are secondhand, the knife a don't-tell-your-mother present from an over-protective (though rarely present) father.

My one concession to the chilly San Francisco night is the addition of a gray lamb's wool scarf that curls around my neck with the warmth and comfort of a purring kitten.

I give the driver the address where I expect to find the dead body of my former lover.