Beautiful, Naked & Dead (Moses McGuire) (7 page)

“You’re a poet, sir.”

“Whatever.”

“If these punks are freelancing?” I asked.

“Then you’d be doing me a favor by squashing them.”

“Who do I have to ask before I pull the switch?”

“Rafael Hakobian, he’s running things since his brother took a federal fall two years ago. I’ll have Frankie make a call, an introduction, nothing else. You go in alone, you come out if you’re lucky.” The waiter placed a slice of pizza in front of me. Say what you will about the Wops, they make a mean piece of pie. “No shit, kid, these fucks are some evil pricks, kill cops, kids, girls, they just don’t seem to care. In ninety-four, we had a council meeting after bodies started washing up on Brighton Beach, I said we should take them down, but the New York families wanted to wait and see. Well, we saw. Now, I say go to the mattress and they say we negotiate. When did the world go to the pussies?”

“Maybe they’re all just looking out for their piece of the pie.” I said, taking another bite of the thick-crusted pizza.

“Yeah, and we’re going to lose the whole pizzeria in the deal. You don’t come out of this Russian fuck’s crib, ain’t shit I can do, we’re clear on that, right?”

“I’m on my own, Sir, I got it.”

“And you still want to go in?”

“No, but I have to. Nobody fucks with my girls, you know that.”

“Uncle Manny don’t pay you enough to die, so why?” I could tell he really wanted to understand what would make me do it. I thought about it for a moment looking out the dirty window. On the street a Latin immigrant woman pushed a shopping cart with all of her worldly possessions piled high, her face was deeply wrinkled. I wondered if this was the promised land she had hoped it would be. Two Cholos in a candy apple red Impala rolled by like a cool jet of red steam.

“I guess the truth is, there’s only so much you can let pass, then you start drawing the line. Don’t draw the line somewhere, it all turns to shit. It’s like live and let live, but you cross the line and fuck with what’s mine and you will go down.” He looked at me for a long moment then nodded appreciatively, he motioned for one of his boys and sent him to make the call. While he did, we talked about horses, who we liked, who was overrated. He told me about his son, a big time lawyer, lived up in Santa Barbara. There was no pride when he spoke of him. I think the Pope was aware he was the last of his kind, a dinosaur who could feel the cold breath of the ice age on the back of his neck. The new generation of mobsters had M.B.A.’s and law degrees and when they stole it was all legit. Enron alone made his whole career look like boosting hubcaps. His man came back and whispered in his ear. The Pope nodded briefly then turned back to me, slipping me a piece of paper with an address on it.

“Go with God kid,” he said, making the sign of the cross. “If it turns out freelancers are pissing on my turf, I would consider it a personal favor if you put the hammer down on these stray dogs.” The steel returned to his eyes, reminding me that deep down beneath all his age and ailments was a man who could kill you with a claw hammer and not have it ruin his appetite, such as it was.

CHAPTER 6

T
he address was in the Glendale Hills, expensive sprawling California ranch-style homes littered the steep streets. Most of the houses were designed to cover every inch of available building space, a perfect example of the mansionization craze: take what is already fatally ugly and make it bigger. The thin roads were clogged with gold trimmed BMW’s and Mercedes Benz’s, it was ghetto rich, all flash, telling the world you had made it up the hill, ornate iron fences, huge brass door knockers. It screamed like a ten-pound gold neck chain “I have cash, look at me.” It was all show, no go, just more fools spending every cent they have to prove to the world that they are here, that they are worthy. If they thought all this stuff would protect them from the random spin of the wheel, they had an awakening coming.

Rafael Hakobian’s house was on the crest of the hills. In front of a security gate I spoke into a video camera and waited. A deep voice told me to follow the driveway up to the house. What a house it was, a three-storied box that looked more like a motel than a home. It had to be five thousand square feet of ugly gray stucco with balconies jutting out at odd angles, as if added on as an after thought. The windows were all multi-paned and looked expensive but the brushed aluminum they chose for the frames made them look cheap at the same time. The garden was all grass, not a flower in sight, just a huge expanse of rolling green. In the center of the lawn a tall maiden stood on the back of a sea serpent spraying water up into the air, the mammoth fountain looked painfully out of place in front of the modern house. Beyond the house the view was magnificent, all of Glendale spread out below us and past that, the gleaming glass towers of downtown. Two men, only slightly smaller than Mac trucks stood waiting for me. I’m a big man and not too used to being looked straight in the eye. Under their matching black collar-less jackets were large, not so hidden pistols.

“Here to see Mr. Hakobian,” I said, their expressions didn’t change. I climbed off the Norton and they moved in blocking my path. One of them held a small metal detector, with a flick of his finger, he motioned for me to raise my arms. “Big talkers huh?” I said, the huge man just stared at me with cold dead eyes. So I lifted my arms away from my body and let him give me a quick sweep with the metal detector. The thing went wild when they got to my leg. Both men tensed. “It’s bolts in my leg. Motorcycle accident, titanium rod in the femur, two bolts in the knee,” I told them, but they didn’t relax a bit. “You got a scalpel I’ll show you,” I said with a grin.

“Drop you pants,” one of them said in a thickly accented growl.

“Fuck off.” I said, turning back towards my bike. “Tell your boss it was nice not meeting him.” Two huge hands clamped down onto my shoulders spinning me around and locking me in place, my face inches from his ugly mug. I rocketed my knee quickly up into his crotch, he gasped a stream of hot garlic breath into my face. I pulled the short barreled heavy frame .357 from under his arm, smashing the pistol into the side of his face. He stumbled back and went down. His twin was reaching under his coat when I pulled the hammer back and drew a bead on his forehead. “You really want die over this shit, Huh? Do it! Keep moving that hand and see if I give a fuck.”

“Yuri, kak dela?” A voice came from the front door. I flicked my eyes over long enough to see a large barrel-chested man in a silk shirt.

“Tak sebe,” the standing twin said with a small shrug.

“Horosho,” the man in the doorway said, “Vlady?” The twin on the ground groaned pulling himself up, a burgundy bruise was blooming on his cheek from his eye to his hairline and he was having an uncomfortable time walking. He looked at his boss and tried to force a smile.

“Mr. McGuire, please either shoot my worthless bykis or come inside for a drink,” the man at the door said disappearing into the shadows of the house. Looking from one thug to the other I smiled briefly then opened the cylinder of the .357 and dropped the shells on the ground. Walking toward the house I tossed the revolver over my shoulder in the general direction of the stumbling giant.

The entryway was built to impress, marble tiles and a vaulted ceiling that went up the full three floors, in the center of it hung down a huge crystal chandelier. Tall Chinese vases held dried flowers and gold mirrors flanked the walls in thick ornate frames. The entryway alone was bigger than my entire bungalow. Two slender legs appeared from above, stepping silently down the plush carpet of a wide curving staircase. Bare feet and legs made long by the short purple leather skirt they disappeared into. A tight baby doll tee-shirt with the word “Brat” stretched across her teenaged frame, big-chest, tiny waist, and about a can and a half of hair spray struggling to control her hair. There’s something sweet about a teenager wanting so bad to be a woman and having no idea what it entails. Long black wild hair framing a sad face. Fresh makeup covering a bruise on her left cheek. Her feet left small tracks in the freshly vacuumed white carpet. Hitting the marble floor of the entryway she looked up, surprised to find me there watching her. I shot her my best smile, the one I wish said I’m ok I don’t eat the young. Looking me over she raised her nose in the air like she smelled a bad fish.

“Who the hell are you?” she asked.

“No one important.”

“That’s an understatement,” she said without a hint of humor.

“Maral!” At the sound of her father’s voice her face flashed from arrogance to fear to complacence all in the flick of an eyelid. Without a glance in my direction she walked out of the room.

In a large library, Rafael Hakobian sat in a deep red leather club chair smoking a cigar and looking me over. Behind him the walls were filled with leather bound books I was sure he never read, like everything else in this house it was all for show. “Sit, have a vodka and tell me what you are here for,” he said motioning me to the chair across from him. From a crystal decanter he poured a tall shot of clear liquor into a shot glass and passed it to me.

“To your health, Mr. Hakobian,” I said and powered down the shot. He smiled and drank his. He poured us each another.

“I would drink to your health, but I despise hypocrites,” he said. “And as I may have to kill you, that would be the wrong toast. So we say udachi! Good luck!” Raising his glass we drank again, and again he filled our glasses.

“Kill me huh?”

“Neizvestno, chto teper’ budet.” He blew out a slow stream of blue cigar smoke.

“What’s that mean?”

“There’s no knowing what will happen now. You think that decrepit Italian can protect you here?”

“No, said he wouldn’t. Said I was on my own. He also said you’d probably kill me for coming.”

“This didn’t scare you?”

“Not much. It’s not like I have some swell life to protect.”

“Ha, have you ever been to Russia?”

“No.”

“Too bad, you would fit in very well with all the other weak fatalists.”

“Fatalist, just another word for nothing left to lose,” I said with a smile.

“You think this shit is funny?”

“Yeah, I do. You’re all puffed up showing me how tough you are. Why bother, you want to put one in my brain and drop me off the hill, nobody would give a damn, some would celebrate.”

“Why do you tell me this?”

“I don’t think you have any reason to kill me. That, and I think you know it’s going to cost you heavy to do it. I won’t go down easy.”

“Provda, so why are you here, Mr. McGuire?” he said letting a fresh stream of smoke slip towards the oak-paneled ceiling.

“This,” I said, handing him the skinny boy’s driver’s license. “Two Armenian punks have been poaching on the girls at the strip club where I work.” He turned the license over in his hand looking at it carefully.

“And this involves me how? An Armenian farts in an elevator and the feds come looking for me. You think I have time to worry about what every Armenian does in all of California?”

“Yes I do. Personally, I don’t think an Armenian steals a glance without you hearing about it.”

“Ha, you think I am very powerful, omnipresent almost? And then you blame me for these wild young fools?”

“I don’t blame you for anything.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Out of respect. I’m going to put them down. I thought if they were with your crew I’d give you fair warning.”

“And if I told you not to touch them?”

“I’d leave you my address so you wouldn’t have to look too hard for me after I dropped them.” I looked straight into his hard eyes. It was clear he had seen a lot of bad shit in his time, but so had I. Slowly a deep laugh rumbled up out of his chest.

“Tough guy, huh? I like you, be a shame to gut you like a fish. Lucky for you, I don’t know this boy.” Then he raised his glass, “To your health.”

The twins tried to burn holes in my back with their eyes as I walked out, but they didn’t say a word. Climbing on the Norton I gave them a two-fingered salute and rolled down the hill, heading for the flats of Glendale. The address on the license was one of many graceful apartment buildings built in the twenties, back when craftsmen actually gave a shit about their work. The windows were arched and thick, the lines of the building flowed down to the sidewalk. Even the shit brown the latest owners painted it couldn’t disguise its grace. Moving to the second-story landing, I took out my .38 and knocked. After a long moment the door opened a crack, with the chain still on. I put my shoulder to it with all my weight. The chain ripped out of the jamb and the door flew open, knocking the big boy tumbling onto the tan carpet. I stepped quickly in. Slamming the door behind me I swept the room with my .38. On a stained sofa the skinny boy sat with his leg in a cast from hip to toe. He was scrambling to reach his Glock on the coffee table, but when he saw my gun he gave up. The big boy stood up, he had a plaster patch over his nose, if he was in fear of me he sure hadn’t told his face the news.

“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.