Bed of Nails (6 page)

“Think about it, Denny. Would you haunt a bar to relax when the patrons are being stalked by a psycho like that? This spot will be as dead as the stiff—is ‘stiff’ a word they use in those noir films?—is upstairs. Will you be able to land another cool job like this? Tending bar at the
in
place for the film industry? I doubt it. Now let’s take a look at the flip side of the coin. Instead of playing the sap—you do know what a sap is?—you could be a Hollywood hero, front and center. Say the shit hits the fan when news of this breaks. Word spreads far and wide, to every mover and shaker in the film biz. Then—
presto!
—the psycho is caught before he and/or she can kill again. Why? Because of the sharp eyes and ears of a certain hero who tends the bar in question. I see a movie of the week in the cards. Hell, maybe even a feature film. And who better to play the hero than the hero himself? Hollywood loves that sort of self-congratulatory stuff. Well, Denny? Whaddaya say? Are you a good enough actor to play
yourself?
”

Zinc caught a glint of starlight in the barkeep’s eyes.

“Well …” drawled Denny.

“Well, what?”

“I might have caught something.”

“Something like?”

“The dead guy talking to a hooker last night.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“A hooker
and
her pimp.”

“Somewhere further.”

“A pimp who also deals coke.”

“Oh, hell, Denny. Forget that feature film. You have a blockbuster on your hands.”

“You figure?”

“The stiff’s an L.A. producer. Work it out. Look what happened to those involved in the O.J. case.”

That was enough for Denny. The cameras were already rolling in his mind.

“The hooker and her pimp are new players in town. They followed the money up from L.A. The pair began coming in about a week ago. To be blunt, we want them gone. They’re too heavy for the ambience of the bar.”

“How so?”

“Rough trade. Black leather and such. She’s into discipline. S&M. He’s into coke. His own supply.”

“What’d you hear?”

“Nothing. The place was packed. Just saw them talking. And I put two and two together.”

“From what?”

“Another deal. One I overheard the first night those two came in.”

“A week ago?”

“Yeah. The guy upstairs. Was he screwed in the ass?”

“You tell me.”

“You’re the cop.”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss details of a case under investigation.”

“A dollar says the stiff was sandwich meat.”

“What’s that?”

“You know. Between two pieces of bread. Pussy fucked in front. Cock plowed behind.”

“And if?”

“It’s them. They’ve done that before.”

“How do you know?”

“Big ears,” Denny said, tapping both sides of his head. “A patron drinks too much, then talks too loud. He does a coke-and-sex transaction at the bar. The barkeep overhears.”

“Overhears what?”

“Remember that director with the gerbil up his ass? It happened in Hollywood a few years back? He had to go to the hospital to get it pulled out. Gerbiling, remember? It was a Tinseltown fad.”

“Can’t say that I do.”

“Hollywood spawns kinks. Anyway,” Denny said, “he’s in town to shoot a film.”

“The gerbil director?”

The barkeep laughed. “I hope they have an animal wrangler on his set. He’s a regular in the bar, Mr. Gerbil. He’s the one I overheard cut a deal with the pair.”

“For a sandwich?”

“Uh-huh.”

“For a two-on-one with the same hooker and pimp you saw talking with the dead man in the bar last night?”

Denny went back to his cop voice. “Is that what you guys call an M.O.?”

“The hooker’s name?”

“Joey.”

“Joey what?”

The barkeep shrugged.

“And the pimp?”

“Gord.”

“Just Gord?”

“I think he’s her brother. Family resemblance. They might even be twins.”

“Know where they live?”

“I know where they hang out.”

“Here, you mean?”

“If they didn’t blow town after last night, the pair should wander in around ten.”

“Hello, handsome. I knew you’d be back.”

“Hi, Mona,” Zinc said, taking the stool beside her at the bar of the Lounge Lizard in the Lions Gate.

“How’s tricks?” she asked.

“Shouldn’t that be my line? Did Stan the Accountant return to count your beans after I left?”

“Shh,” shushed Mona, her index finger bisecting her pouted lips. “That’s a secret. I never betray a client.”

“Solicitor-client privilege?”

“Tsk-tsk, Big Red. Soliciting is against the law.”

A shadow fell across them from the far side of the bar. “What’ll it be, sir?” asked Denny the Barkeep.

“A 7UP.”

“Now
that’s
a drinking problem.”

“And something for the lady.”

“The lady wants you,” Mona said, leaning forward, neck arched as she crossed her legs. Between her décolletage and the dress slit up to her garters, the swath of green suddenly shrank to the size of a torso-hugging corset.

“Ooh-la-la,” Zinc said. “But I’m just browsing.”

“On duty?”

“You could say.”

“I read this book,” moaned Mona.

“Which book?”

“Mailer.”

“Norman?”

“Tough Guys Don’t Fuck,”
she teased.

The 7UP hit the bar with too hard a tap for what you would expect from an experienced barkeep. “Heads up,” Denny whispered as the cop’s attention swung back to him. Though a Wild West gunslinger would not be caught dead in a bar like this for fear of being plugged in the back, the mirror beyond Denny gave Chandler a complete panoramic reflection of the room behind him. Despite his earlier prediction, the bar wasn’t devoid of patrons, for those who feared they might fall prey to a psycho stalker were replaced by the curious, drawn to the excitement of hanging out at a murder scene. At six-foot-two and seated on a high bar stool, Zinc could see over the heads of most of the standing-room-only crowd to where a black leather pair stood just inside the door to the street, surveying the pickings for predators at this upscale watering hole for Hollywood’s meat on the hoof.

Survival of the fittest.

King of the beasts.

The law of the jungle ruled tonight at the Lions Gate.

The beast at the gate reminded Zinc of U2’s Bono. Black hair, cut short like a helmet on his head. Dark wraparound shades, even though it was nighttime and he was indoors. A black leather jacket, designer label, with black leather pants to match. His black boots probably cost Zinc’s monthly salary.

The hooker who had slinked in with the pimp was a lithe, beautiful, blatantly sexual, sado-erotic dominatrix. She too was sheathed in black leather, but hers fit as tight as a glove. Her black hair was short, cut like a man’s, yet there could be no doubt about this night creature’s gender. The tight top, wedged open in a V that plunged almost as deep as her navel, made Chandler want to kick himself for not investing in breast-implant stocks when they first hit the market. As for her pants, they were as hip-hugging as a second skin, and tailored so they subtly outlined her pubic mound. A black belt woven with silver chains hung loosely around her waist. Black boots with spiked heels encased her feet. And encircling her neck was a black choker linked to a silver chain that ran like a leash to the pimp’s clenched fist.

Sniff, sniff …

Flare, flare …

Their nostrils twitched. The pimp and his hooker had coked up to prowl the bar.

“Ooh,” said Mona. “So that’s your type.” She was watching Zinc watch the door in the bar’s mirror. “I see you naked on the floor with her spiked heel on your spine, while a cat-o’-nine-tails in her grip stripes and checks your bottom.”

“Keep my seat warm.”

Zinc swiveled off the stool.

“Mess with her, Big Red, and your seat’ll be warm for weeks.”

“We don’t want a barroom brawl,” warned Denny, as the inspector waded into the crowd.

What makes life dangerous is the unexpected. The “oh no” that blindsides you out of the blue. A whammy like the whammy that hit Zinc now.

“Hey, Inshpector,” a voice in the bar crowd called out.

It was Stan the Accountant, drunkenly waving to Zinc.

Which caught the attention of both the pimp and his hooker.

“Wha’s goin’ down? A big drug busht?”

Oh no, Zinc thought.

And that’s when the coked-up pimp drew his gun.

When you’d been a cop as long as Zinc had, you learned to read the signs. The pimp’s attention focused on him from across this crowded room, and what it expressed was: one, I’ve been to jail; two, I’m not going back; and three, I’m holding a lot of coke to deal to these hungry snouts tonight.

As the gunman raised the .357 to aim its muzzle at Zinc, the Mountie reached into his jacket for the Smith & Wesson holstered at his waist. Pandemonium seized the bar crowd. With the sight of the lethal hardware, all thoughts of heroics died. Patrons were dashing, diving, and scrambling every which way to save their skins, when—
bwam!
—one of them took the slug meant for Zinc. Her face was there, and then it wasn’t, as she spun into the Mountie. Down they both went as—
bwam! bwam!
—the Python Magnum in the pimp’s fist spit again.

Panicked patrons threw themselves flat to get out of the line of fire. The standing-room-only crowd required too much horizontal floorspace, so there was no alternative but to go for a layered effect. Zinc had to bushwhack his way up through a thicket of arms and legs to regain his feet, and by the time the periscope of his head broke the surface of this sea of squirming flesh, the predators were gone.

“Police! Police! Coming through! Get out of the way!” he yelled as he stepped around, over, and sometimes on the melee.

The Mountie burst out of the bar onto Lonsdale Avenue. Wouldn’t you know it? Not a cop car in sight. Standing at the curb on the east side of the street, he turned his head left toward the harbor, a minute’s walk away to the south. Through puffs of fog condensing in the chill night air from his ragged panting, Zinc could see the old ship that used to be the Seven Seas floating restaurant, its lights now snuffed by a financial crisis. Beyond that, the SeaBus chugged across the moon-dappled water toward the distant lights of the port’s loading docks.

But no sign of the pair.

Nor was there any trace of them uphill to the north. The neon strip that marked the skid road of yesteryear ran up the mountainside to hunt the Lions crouched on the ridge. Squinting hard to spot the fugitives if they were fleeing on foot, Zinc caught the rumble of an engine revving in the next-door parking lot. Before he could sprint to intercept it at the exit across the sidewalk, a convertible with its top up came screeching out in a peel of rubber to fishtail up the street.

“Damn!” cursed Chandler.

The lot was full when he’d arrived, so his car was a block away.

At zero to sixty in 6.2 seconds, the car took off in a flash. The rumble-mobile was a 1970 Oldsmobile 442, Indy pace car model. Beneath the hood scoops, a 455-cubic-inch engine and four-barreled carb made it fly. Rebuilt with loving care so “the numbers matched,” it was a white beauty with black and red racing stripes. The rumble came from straight pipes that left Zinc eating its dust, and as the two-door automatic roared away from him, the last detail that mooned the Mountie was the ass-end California plate.

Rumble, rumble …

What an echo, reverberating behind him.

No, not an echo.

An independent growl.

The Mountie looked back to find a chopper angling off Esplanade onto Lower Lonsdale. With a bushy red beard and long rusty locks flapping in the wind behind his horned Viking helmet, the biker could have been the Norse god Thor of Valhalla, who hurls the thunderbolts in Scandinavian myth, out for a putt on his custom-made machine. Built from the ground up for this leather-clad giant—there was so much leather on view tonight that surely cattle would soon be on the endangered species list—the hog was a fat-tire rigid chopper with a 38-degree raked front end. To transfer power to the road, that was the best style of frame. And power there was in the stage-four, 96-cubic-inch S&S stroker engine, the 3-inch open-belt primary drive Primo to thrust oomph from the motor to the transmission, and the one-of-a-kind Teflon-coated driveline. The rake in front made it a bit difficult for high-speed cornering, but with a crotch rocket like that, all ya really gotta do is grab a fistful of throttle, kick her down, and hang on. Baby will always getcha home.

Perfect, thought Zinc.

Hiding the Smith behind his back and fishing his regimental badge from his pocket, the Mountie stepped out into the uphill lane of Lonsdale to stop the chopper. The biker danced a toe-tap tango to gear down, then wrenched the front brake handle and hit the rear brake pedal. Only then—once the hog grunted to a halt—did Zinc realize that Red Beard was all brawn. And twice his size.

“Police,” Chandler barked. “Emergency. I’m commandeering your bike.”

“Fuck you,” Red Beard snarled.

“You’re obstructing.”

“I’ll do more ’n that if ya try t’ steal ma hawg.”

Zinc flashed the pistol.

“What? Yer gonna shoot me?”

The outlaw’s laugh was a blast in a canyon.

“Then start shootin’, Cop. Ya want ma hawg, ya gotta pry it from ma cold, dead hands.”

The Mountie’s glare dropped to the hog. The machine was a work of art. It gleamed from several coats of smoked gunmetal-gray metallic paint and tons of chrome with lots of polished billet aluminum. The seat was a Corbin gunfighter that tapered over the fender. No way would the biker surrender his baby without a fight.

“Okay,” Chandler said. “I’m commandeering
you.
”

“Yer gonna ride bitch on a rigid?”

“That’s the idea.”

“Cop, this is a one-man horse that now and then gets a little skank on the back.”

“Let’s ride.”

“It’s your ass.”

Zinc swung on behind Red Beard.

“Pig on a hawg. Hang on, Cop. Yer really gonna feel it. Ya got just enough padding back there to keep Mama’s clam from sticking to the fender.”

“Shut up and go.”

A squeal of rubber up the hill galvanized Red Beard into action. It wasn’t necessary for Zinc to point out their quarry. To avoid the red light at Third, the Olds took the corner at Second in a skid, then disappeared to the east in a haze of dark exhaust.

The howl as the bike shot forward was what you’d get from a werewolf with its balls crushed in a vise. The Mounties patrol on Harleys—the stereotypical bike gang’s bike—but this machine was born from an evolved gene pool. So unexpected was the rocket thrust that Zinc was caught off guard. Holstering his pistol to call in the chase, he had his portable radio halfway from his belt to his other hand so that he could switch channels from E Com, the Mounties’ central communications network, to North Van detachment’s dedicated frequency to summon backup and direct roadblocks. When the g-force of the chopper launching into hot pursuit almost hurled him from the saddle, Zinc was forced to pincer-grip both arms around the barrel chest of the biker and hang on for dear life.

The radio went flying.

The hog took the corner at Second as the Olds careened off that street onto St. Georges a block ahead to zoom north again. Second was wide, so the bike could really open up, and the Cheers bar and the fast-food joints whizzed by in a blur. Then they too were on St. Georges and heading up to Third when the rumble-mobile took a hard right into a long, thin alley. A man taking the garbage out was almost clipped as the fugitives put pedal to metal to shake off the pursuers. Three-story apartment blocks and cars parked, noses in, flashed past the hog as it narrowed the gap. Bursting out the far end to meet a No Exit sign, the Olds—unable to continue straight—almost flipped as it cornered left onto St. Andrews. Red Beard gripped the clutch on one handle and worked the toe shifter to gear down. From the corner of his right eye as they exited from the alley, Zinc caught a glimpse of the B.C. Rail tracks along the harbor and a burned-out boat moored ashore. Then his vision swung north in a dizzying whirl as the biker popped the clutch and cranked the throttle.

It was launch time.

Holy shit!

If Red Beard was trying to impress him, Zinc was astounded. This man rode his hog as if it were an extension of his body. If Red Beard was trying to scare him, Zinc had his heart in his throat. This was like riding a roller coaster with half the tracks missing. St. Andrews Avenue climbed the mountain until there was nowhere to go but into alpine bush. At this speed, every cross street became a ramp that launched motor vehicles into space. Ahead, the undercarriage of the Olds was putting on a light show, throwing off sparks as metal scraped concrete each time it leapfrogged a level. Arms straight, the biker leaned back like a bat out of hell—reminding Zinc of a rock album he had once seen—but no matter how heavy the metal of the chopper was, it wasn’t heavy enough to keep them on the ground.

Can pigs fly?

The hog was airborne.

Through Third, through Fourth, through Fifth, through Sixth, the all-out chase continued. A car along any crossroad and they’d be creamed. Headlights would flash a warning, but there would not be enough time to brake. Fancy houses streaked by on both flanks. Bow windows. Peaked roofs. Dormer gables. Tudor boarding. Front porches. Shallow lawns. Some dated from pioneer times, while others were retro constructions. All were going up and down in queasy undulations as the airborne, earthbound, airborne, earthbound hog ascended the mountain.

“Yer gonna ride bitch on a rigid? It’s your ass,”
the biker had said. Only now did Zinc fully understand the content of Red Beard’s warning. The tapered seat was wedged in the crack of his butt like a thong bikini. The rigid meant that the bike’s frame had no rear suspension. In other words, no shock absorber to blunt the slam of each hard landing. The bitch—in this case,
him
—was forced to press her tits hard against the outlaw’s back while the rigid shuddered between her spread legs like the world’s most powerful vibrator. Zinc felt as if he were being gang-raped in a prison yard.