Authors: Quincy J. Allen
Tags: #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Science Fiction, #Literature & Fiction, #Contemporary Fiction, #Dystopian
Chemical Burn (20 page)
“Perfect,” I said.
“Where’s your car?” he asked.
I smiled. “I’ve got alternate transportation. It’s all arranged.”
“Gotcha,” Stanley said holding out his hand. “Well, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”
“Same,” I said simply.
“You know,” he said slowly, “I’ve got my hands into a few pots. I’m also a Notary Public and do accounting. Let me know if you need anything.”
I smiled and shook my head. “You’re quite the entrepreneur, aren’t you?”
Stanley smiled back. “You have no idea. I don’t sleep much, rare disorder, and it all keeps me from getting bored. Have a good night,” he said and headed for the back door.
“Hey, Stanley,” I asked.
He stopped and turned with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“If you don’t mind me asking, if the bodies don’t end up on your menu, what do you do with them?” I’d always wondered about that but never asked anyone.
“No, I don’t mind. I know a guy. Has a farm right on the border. Few hundred acres near the Tijuana River.”
“Yeah?”
“Pig farmer.”
“Oh,” I said, the brutal truth that pigs will eat anything dawning on me with gruesome clarity.
“Yeah. Handy that. Best bacon you ever tasted, though.”
“I’ll bet,” I replied slowly. “See ya around. I’ll call you tomorrow about the abatement stuff.”
“Thanks,” he said, smiling. He closed the door quietly behind him.
I looked around the place again, taking in the damage. Even with the bodies gone, the place looked like hell. “God, Marsha’s gonna be pissed,” I muttered.
Determined to do the right thing, I walked through the front door of the parlor into the diner. As I stepped through the door, I saw a black Audi in front of the building. It squealed away, leaving rubber on the pavement as it left. I paused for a moment, contemplating the implications. Oddly enough, I wasn’t as concerned as I normally would be. It was the second time I’d seen a black Audi, and this time where it shouldn’t have been. There had to be a connection. Either they wanted to kill me or they didn’t. If they did, I’d know soon enough, and if they didn’t, it wouldn’t matter that much.
I walked into the diner, turned the corner and went into the kitchen. I went into the office, turned on the light and sat down. Grabbing a pen and paper, I quickly wrote a note.
Marsha,
I know I said you wouldn’t know I was here, but I was a victim of circumstances beyond my control, just like that time at the Maltese. DON’T go back into the parlor without calling me first. Here’s some money to pay for the repairs. I’m also working on finding the folks to do the job and will arrange everything tomorrow.
I’M REALLY, REALLY SORRY!
Justin
I reached into my pocket again and pulled out the rest of the cash I had gotten from the storage locker. I laid the seven stacks down on the desk in two even piles, setting the oddball on top on its end. I propped the note up against the stacks, stood up and left the office, turning off the lights as I went. I could only hope that Marsha went into the office first. It was a safe bet, but if she did, it would ease the shock and reduce the likelihood of her cracking me over the head with an iron skillet … a number of times.
I left her keys beside the cash register where she had told me, walked outside and memorized the plates on the three black Town Cars. I went home, logged into my computer and did some fast research into the license plates of the Lincolns as well as the white vans that had gone into the VeniCorp plant. As expected, the Russian plates got me nowhere: registered to the occupants under phony names, I assumed. However, the white vans were registered to a daughter company of Zapata Tequila, and Zapata traced back a couple layers to a major drug cartel run by the particularly nasty drug lord named Del Gato, whom DiMarco had mentioned. I yawned, planning on digging into Del Gato later. I shut down the computer and headed to Costa Rica.
O O O
I arrived at the house about the time the sun was coming up. I stripped down and showered on the patio, hoping not to wake Xen. The showerhead stuck out onto a corner of the patio and was perfect for keeping sand out of the house. I dried off and lay down on one of the lounge chairs, letting the sound of the jungle put me to sleep.
Xen slept till three in the afternoon, which was about six in LA. I had seen that sort of thing a few times before; the body produces so much adrenaline during a fight like the night before that people simply crash afterwards.
Rachel and Marsha will go through it, too, if things kept going the way they are
, I thought.
When Xen got up, I grabbed the cooler, and we headed out to relax in the sand. Xen had on trunks. I didn’t. Neither of us said a word, letting the surf and the monkeys do the talking. We whittled twelve ice-cold beers down to three, with Xen responsible for most of the whittling.
Finally, with the sun about half a beer off the ocean and well on its way to taking a swim in the Pacific, I asked, “How much can I trust you?”
He paused for a moment, looking at me out the corner of his eye. “If you’re worried about me telling someone about all this, I have no one to tell. You know that.” He finished off his beer, set the dead soldier next to its comrades. He grabbed another, twisted the top fiercely and taking a long swig. “You’re my only real friend in the States besides Natalia. Everyone else is back in China. I told you I was from a village, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, upending my own bottle before lying back in the sand.
“Well, I was being generous. It’s nothing more than a few shacks surrounded by gardens and rice-patties. They’d never believe any of this. I’m having a hard time believing it myself. But seeing is believing, right?”
“Right,” I said quietly.
“I guess when you tell people you’re not from around here, you really mean it, don’t you?”
“Yep.” I sighed. “You’re the first person to really know since I got here. Well, that’s not entirely true. There is one other guy.”
“Friend of yours?”
“Quite the opposite, actually.”
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “You going to tell me your story?”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “but not till Rachel is here, okay? She deserves to know, too, and I might as well only tell the story once.”
“I can wait. I’m still wrapping my head around all
this
.” Xen waved his beer at the beach and the house behind him, and then his eyes lingered on the two bullet wounds in my chest. He remained silent for a while, listening to the surf roll in. “Does it hurt?” he asked.
“Yeah. A lot. I
hate
getting shot. Happens quite a bit. But what can I do? It’s the life I chose … well … more like was chosen for me.”
We sat there like that, just enjoying the feel of the air, the warmth of the sun, and the sound of the surf.
“You said that Natalia came to get you,” Xen finally said, breaking another silence. “Where is she? Is she safe?”
I hesitated and bit my lip. I had thought about what I would tell Xen since the moment Natalia sank beneath the waves in my truck. Both routes I could take would cause harm: one had risk and the other had pain. I made up my mind, dreading the inevitable conversation later.
“She’s not, is she?” he asked quietly. I shook my head slightly, not looking at Xen. “DiMarco?” he asked.
I nodded slowly. “I have to tell you … what happened to you and Natalia was technically my fault, but I had no idea any of this would happen. It still doesn’t make sense … yet. But I’ll figure it out, Xen. I swear.” I looked over at him and saw tears rolling down his cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
“If you didn’t know, you didn’t know,” Xen said tightly, barely controlling his wavering voice. “How’s your cat?”
“Dratar.”
“What?”
“She’s called a dratar. She’s not a cat. And she’ll be fine. She’s asleep around here somewhere. I pulled the triage unit off her when I got in last night. She’ll probably sleep till tomorrow while she finishes up healing. She takes longer to heal than I do.” I rubbed my eyes.
“Oh.” Xen was really struggling with everything. I had said it all so matter-of-factly, expecting him to roll with the punches.
“Think you could stay here a few days?” I asked cautiously.
“I’m not likely to get shot here, am I?”
“A lot less likely than in L.A., I can tell you that much.”
“Then I’m staying.”
“Good. I’m heading back tonight. I have to set a few things in motion. I’m going to take care of this, okay?” I reassured him.
“I believe you. Is there anything you can’t do?” Xen asked with a trace of awe in his voice.
I chuckled. “Lots of things.” My voice was full of a lifetime of struggle. I’d always come out on top, but there were plenty of mistakes and inadequacies along the way.
“You gonna kill DiMarco?” Xen asked quietly, but with hope in his voice.
“Yep.”
“Good. Can I help?” There was that iron resolve in Xen’s voice again, and I was still getting used it. Xen had crossed a threshold and become something more than he was before this all started.
“Yep,” I replied simply. “When I get back, I’ll probably have Rachel with me. You’ll get the whole story. And then we’ll work on killing DiMarco.” It was my turn with the iron resolve.
“Deal.”
“Hey, I meant to ask you,” I prompted, changing the subject. “Do you know a guy named Jackie Shao? He was in the same program as you, just a couple years behind.” In all the chaos, I had nearly forgotten about DiMarco’s chemist.
“Jackie? Yeah, I remember him. That guy was nuts.”
I grinned. Not only did Xen know Shao, he knew him well enough to assess his sanity. I love it when pieces of a puzzle fall together. “Nuts? How do you mean?”
“He was sharp … smart, you know?
My
league.” Xen wasn’t bragging, merely pointing out a fact. Xen had been head of his class for a reason, and for him to equate Jackie’s IQ to his own meant something. “But he liked to make drugs … more money in it up front for him, I think. He was an impatient sort. Got caught working with cocaine in the lab at school … trying to make it better.”
“If he was so smart, how’d he get caught?” I asked.
“I ratted him out,” Xen said simply.
“Oh.” I said quietly. “So, he’s a friend of yours.” I smiled.
“Not bloody likely,” Xen added. “Shao and I were oil and water, not peas and carrots. Is he involved in all this?”
“He works for DiMarco. He met one of DiMarco’s guys in prison, and they hooked him up at VeniCorp when he got his parole. Do me a favor.”
“Name it,” he offered.
“While I’m gone, try and remember everything you can about him, okay? It may come in handy later. We’ll trade stories, and you can tell me and Rachel what happened to you.”
“If it will help bury DiMarco, I’ll tell you anything you want.”
“It will,” I said, standing up. “You’ll find a bag of money under my bed. Down the road about a mile is a small market. How’s your Spanish?”
“Passable.”
“Good. Get anything you want. About two miles past the store there’s a hotel with a casino. If you get bored, you can head there. Tell them you’re my guest, but don’t take more than fifty from the bag if you go. Don’t worry about blowing it all. It’s disposable income.” I smiled sympathetically. “I know how lousy you are at cards.” I smiled. “Always tip heavy if you win.”
Xen gave me half a smile. “We’ll see. The beach is about all I can take right now.” He leaned back in the sand and closed his eyes.
“I understand. Like I said before, if you need anything, call my cell from the house phone. Just keep cool, okay?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Your best is better than just about anyone I know. It should work out.” I headed back into the house and through the front door into my loft.
***
Rule Number One
I stepped up to Rachel’s front door and rang the doorbell twice, following it with a rapid knocking that I didn’t stop. Holding a large bundle of roses in front of my face, I waited for the peephole in the door to go dark. I only exposed the dozen red roses, dark sunglasses and curly blond hair. I hoped she liked the dark blue pinstripe suit I had on.
“Who is it?” she asked through the door.
I spoke with a proper English accent. “I have a delivery for the lady of the house from one Justin Case.” I’m sure she thought it unlikely I would send her roses, although we
had
been growing closer. She unlocked the door and opened it a crack, leading with a taser so she could give me a once over in safety. Although the roses covered my face, she could see both my hands: one holding the roses and the other a fedora and a silver-topped walking stick. I clearly had no weapon, unless she wanted to count the cane, so, keeping an eye on me, she closed the door enough to remove the chain and let it swing open. The taser stayed pointed at my groin, however.
Nice touch, that.
I lowered the roses and placed the hat on my blond curls so she could see that I had a trim, blond mustache. “Hello, my good woman. No need for the electrical appliance,” I said, indicating the taser. “I was simply wondering if you would like to come out and play. Hmmm?”
Rachel stood there staring at me, blinking her eyes. Then it slowly dawned on her.
“You’re wearing a suit,” she said smiling lightly.
“Quite right. It’s the only civilized attire for the discriminating gentleman en route to visit corporate America. You couldn’t expect me to wear that drab little trench coat. What? They’d never take me seriously … and might be inclined towards the most uncouth behavior. Gunplay and whatnot.”
Her smile grew as I continued to put on the show. “Come on in before the neighbors start to gossip,” she said brightly. She opened the screen door, and I stepped in. “I was out back,” she said indicating the patio. “I take it I’m going with you?”
“Of course, madam! Such an adventure into a den of evil would not be as entertaining on one’s own, would it?”
“Den of evil?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and stopping in the kitchen.
“VeniCorp, of course … the corporate offices downtown.”
“Really?” she asked eagerly.
“Yep,” I said, using my normal voice. “Here, these really are for you.” She blushed and accepted them.
“Thank you,” she said only slightly flustered. “Let me get something to put them in.”
“Here,” I added, pulling out a small packet. “Pour that in the water. It’ll keep them fresh longer. That’s what the lady said, anyway. I’ve never actually bought roses before.”
She gave me a funny look and then opened a tall cupboard, pulling out a beautiful crystal vase. She filled it, took the packet, emptied the contents into the water, clipped the ends of the roses and gently placed them into the vase.
“So you want to go?” I asked, my voice full of hope and a twinge of devious temptation.
“Are you kidding me?” She grinned like a kid. Changing to an English accent, she added, “It sounds positively delightful!”
“You sound just like Mary Poppins,” I complimented, “but you’ll need a costume. They can’t recognize us.”
“I’ll return in a jiffy,” she continued with the accent. “Would you be so kind as to amuse yourself out on the terrace? Fix a spot of tea if you like.”
I went out to the patio and reclined in one of the lounge chairs. Setting the cane against the table, I leaned back and propped the hat over my eyes, and enjoyed the sunshine. About thirty minutes later I heard her step out onto the porch.
She cleared her throat. “Excuse me, sir, but have you seen a Miss Rachel Devereaux recently? It’s my understanding she resides in this domicile.”
I pushed the hat off my face with my index finger and took a long look at her. She wore black, metropolitan glasses, had added a mole to her right check and blue contact lenses that covered up her normally brown eyes. Beige, low-healed, Italian pumps adorned her feet. She’d changed into a silky, lavender blouse opened wide at the collar, and she had obviously put on a serious push-up bra that exposed a healthy cleavage. Over that she wore a beige ladies’ business jacket and matching slacks. Her auburn hair lay hidden beneath wig of shoulder-length, curly blonde locks almost identical to mine. We looked like brother and sister.
“Perfect! You look better than I do.” I stood up, placed the hat properly on my head and grabbed the cane, slapping it firmly under my left arm. I held out my right arm in proper, gentlemanly fashion. “May the gentleman have the privilege of escorting the lady?”
“Certainly! You flatter me, sir.” She held out her elbow and we linked arms. We both laughed as we walked into the kitchen.
“We’ll take my car,” I said normally.
We got into my Chrysler and headed for the highway.
“By the way,” Rachel said, “I think I’m being followed. I’ve seen this black …”
“Audi?” I interjected quickly. “Yeah, I’ve seen it, too … and in the damnedest places.”
“Any idea who it is?”
“Not really. When did you first notice it?”
“Yvgenny’s, I think.”
“That’s right. Very good,” I said, impressed. “How many times since then?”
“Twice: once last weekend on the highway and then again yesterday as I came home from grocery shopping.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much. If they were hitters, they’d have done something by now. This feels like surveillance … someone just sniffing around.”
“How did things go with Xen last night?”
“Oh … hit and miss, I guess.”
“What happened?” she asked, figuring the worst.
“The guy Yvgenny told us about … the psycho … well, he showed up. He’d staked out Grady’s and was waiting for me.”
“Oh my god! Are you both okay?”
“I’m fine, and Xen didn’t get hurt too badly. He handled himself really well in there, I gotta admit. Xen surprises me more and more every day.” I smiled.
“You are pretty predictable about that, by the way. Grady’s, I mean.”
“The thought occurred to me, too … anyway, we sorted out our differences with the Russians the way I like to, and that was the end of it. Xen was pretty shaken up by the experience though. I put him in a safe house I know about.”
“Where’s that?” she asked.
“I plan on showing you later on. With things heating up, I want both of you safe.”
“Awwww … how sweet!” she said putting her hand on mine.
“I need you,” I said simply. I decided to bait her a little. “I mean, where else could I find someone with your qualifications: a stunt driver who speaks three languages, does decent research, can kick the crap out of most men, and looks that good in a dress?” I gave her a sideways wink. “You’re not exactly dime-a-dozen, are you? It would take me at least a week … maybe two to replace you.”
“Cretin!” she yelled and smacked me in the arm.
I laughed and then got very serious. “No, really,” I put some emotion into my voice, “the truth is that I need you. Life wouldn’t be the same without you.” I smiled affectionately at her.
She paused for a moment, smiling slightly. “You’re forgiven.” She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.
“Awwww …” I said, mimicking her.
She slapped my arm again, but lighter this time and with more affection.
“Brute,” I added with a mischievous grin. I turned on the radio, and we were silent as I drove us downtown.
It took us another thirty minutes to get into the city, and I pulled into a parking garage one building away from the VeniCorp offices. We got out, exited the garage at street level, and walked up the street towards the office building where VeniCorp had its HQ. There was a wide pay lot full of cars between the buildings. As we approached the end of the lot, I stopped dead in my tracks and looked to my left.
“What?” Rachel asked, bumping into my shoulder.
“Look,” I said, motioning to a car parked one row in.
“Ah.” she said, seeing it immediately. “It’s a black Audi. And I’m sure it’s the only one in the city,” she said a bit sarcastically. “This is, after all, Los Angeles. How many black Audis could there be?”
“Rule, number one: it’s all about the details. What do you see in the back window?”
“Temp tag with a 3, for next month. That narrows it down, sure. But what are the odds?”
“And do you see anything on the bumper?”
Rachel peered at the bumper, not seeing anything at first. “No, I …” Then she spotted a small red patch of paint on the lower left portion. “The red paint?”
“The red paint,” I said with certainty.
“What’s the Audi doing here?”
I narrowed my eyes, mulling over the possibilities. “I’m thinking someone had the same idea as me. Do you see anyone inside the car?”
“Hard to tell through the tinting, but I don’t think so.”
“Me either. Walk with me,” I said and stepped over the low-hanging cable that encircled the parking lot. I casually approached the car with Rachel right behind me. I scratched my head and
accidentally
knocked off my hat. I stopped by the back window, picked up my hat, put it back on my head, and used the black mirrored surface to look at myself, adjusting it to a rakish angle. I also memorized the license number, date of purchase and engine ID. Satisfied with the angle of my hat, I walked past the Audi and exited the parking lot through a gap in the wire. We walked towards the front doors of the building we wanted.
I switched to the English accent. “Alright, madam—we’re here as sales representatives of Livingston, Inc. Reginald and Margaret Livingston, proprietors. Siblings, not spouses. If anyone asks, we inherited the business from our father, Sir Jonathan Livingston. We’re here to discuss exporting rare gases such as xenon and argon for VeniCorp’s commercial use. Our flight home leaves in the morning. Have you got all that?”
“Indubitably, sir,” she replied with her Mary Poppins impersonation.
I tapped the hat on my head, opened the door, and motioned for her to go in. “After you, madam.”
“Thank you ever so much.”
There were no security cameras or gates in the main lobby, but a couple of rent-a-cops occupied a wide information desk in the middle of the brightly lit space. We approached with as much British pomp and circumstance as we could muster, my cane clicking loudly as we walked up.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, but I wondered if you would be so kind as to direct me to the offices of VeniCorp?”
The one in front of us answered, “Third floor. Elevators are down that hall.” The guy pointed behind him with his thumb.
“Thank you very much, my good man. Ta.” I doffed my hat, and we both strolled down the hallway. We stepped up to the elevator doors, and I pushed the UP button.
A few seconds later the doors opened, disgorging a mild assortment of office workers leaving for the day. We stepped in once the elevator emptied. I smiled when I heard “Mack the Knife” coming over the elevator speakers and pushed the button for the third floor. The doors closed, and I whistled along with the tune, snapping my fingers with the rhythm. Rachel turned her head slowly and gave me a mildly irritated look of disbelief.
“What?” I said innocently, but I stopped whistling and snapping.
The elevator chimed our arrival. “Game faces,” I said. As the doors slid open, we both stared directly into the face of Ricky Petri, Gino DiMarco’s financial advisor. We were practically nose-to-nose.
“Can I help you two?” he asked.
***
