Crush (16 page)

Gail was in there.

Her body was crammed into the corner of the closet. Twisted and bloody, like a piece of boxing equipment used and then tossed away. The ringing cell phone was duct-taped to her naked chest. A piece of butcher's paper was taped across her face—another phone number was scrawled on it. The paper moved, sucked in by her breath.

Ripping the paper from her face, Rush bent down to her. Her breath was shallow and fast but it was there.

“Gail,” he said. “It's going to be all right.”

She mumbled something. Rush couldn't quite make it out, but the sound of her voice made his heart leap.

She tried again. “There were too many of them, Crush.”

“Must have been a hundred,” Rush said, holding her gently.

Gail snorted a laugh. An actual laugh. “Five or six. They took her. I'm so sorry.” She started to cry, and Rush held her to his chest, shaking with relief.

Sirens approached. In a minute, red flashing lights would wash through the room, and he'd be stuck there for hours, answering the same questions over and over, while
they
were out there laughing about what they'd done to Gail and what they were going to do to Amelia.

Gail looked up at him. “Go,” she said. “Go get her.”

Rush stood in the shadows across the street long enough to see the paramedics load Gail into an ambulance. Then he pulled the wadded-up paper from his pocket and called the number scrawled on it.

A harsh, accented voice answered. “Took you long enough.”

Rush kept his voice even. “My friend needed a doctor.”

“You mean she isn't dead?
Chyort
!”

“Where's Amelia?” Rush asked.

“Where's Guzman?”

“I don't know.”

“I call this phone in two hours. That's ten o'clock. If Guzman doesn't answer, we kill her.”

“I—”

“And don't involve anyone else.”

“If you hurt her—”

“Oh, we've already been hurting her.”

The line went dead. Rush ran toward the car.

Philippe's was busy. The legendary sandwich shop was always busy. Had been since 1908. How many places in L.A. could say that?

Rush tromped across the sawdust-covered floor, past the long wooden tables filled with old-timers and new-timers, pushing through the line at the counter to where Bill Ingol was working, carving roast beef
and pork for the multitudes. As Bill used to say at AA meetings, carving meat wasn't that different from screenwriting.

“We need to talk,” Rush said.

“Take a number like everybody else,” Bill replied.

Rush snatched a number from the hipster standing next him. The hipster almost objected, but one glance from the big, angry man made him retreat under his porkpie hat. Discretion, after all, was the better part of cool.

Bill took a cigarette break in the alley out back by the dumpster. Rush didn't have time for preliminaries. He told him that he needed to reach Guzman.

“I'm his sponsor, not his goddamn message service.”

“This is life and death.”

“What isn't?”

Rush grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against a brick wall. Bill didn't flinch. He'd dealt with worse trouble before.

Feeling guilty, Rush relaxed his grip. “I'll start going to meetings again.”

Bill smiled. “Now you're talking, Caleb.”

“So where is he?”

Stubbing out his cigarette, Bill said, “He's at home, genius. That's where he's been all along.”

Rush skidded to a double-parked stop in front of Guzman's Manhattan Beach house, ran up the steep stairs, and hammered on the door.

“Guzman!” he yelled.

He tried the door. It was unlocked. Flinging it open, he rushed inside.

“Guzman!”

He heard a sound coming from upstairs. A woman crying. Rush took the stairs three at a time and burst into the guest bedroom.

Tianna was sitting on the floor by the unmade bed, sobbing.

“Where is he?” Rush asked from the doorway.

She looked up at him, bereft. “He said he didn't love me anymore.”

Rush didn't have time for this. “Where did he go?”

“I don't know,” she wailed.

He went into the master bedroom. Tianna followed him in as he flung open the door of the huge walk-in closet. “What did he take with him?” Ripping through the closet, Rush searched for he didn't know what.

Tianna sniffled. “He's in some kind of trouble, Crush.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he loves me. He wouldn't lie unless.…”

There it was. An open lockbox on the floor of the closet, with a few loose papers inside. He picked it up.

“What was in this?” he asked Tianna.

She wiped her eyes. “Papers. Birth certificates, our
passports.”

He took out the only passport from the box. “
Your
passport.”

He threw the lockbox on the bed and headed out. She scuffled after him, whimpering. “Where are you going?” she moaned. “What do you know?”

Rush stopped on the landing. The view of the ocean from the picture window was stunning.

“What do
you
know?” he asked. “How the hell can you afford this place? Did you go back on the job?”

“No! I'm clean! Tony paid me off! I'm free and clear.”

“How? How did he get the money?”

Tianna grew silent.

Rush pressed. “Did he do a favor for Ivankov?”

“I don't know. All know is, Ivankov said I was free.”

“Do you think a man like Ivankov would ever let you be free?”

“You don't know him. He's a man of honor.”

“I don't have to know him. I know his kind.”

“Ivankov gave me his word. In the Thieves' World, honor is everything.”

Rush turned on her, intensely. “Don't talk to me about the Thieves' World. I know it better than you. If you think you're safe, you're wrong. Run. Go someplace no one has ever heard of you. Lock your door. Never leave.”

“But Tony—”

“You've lost Tony. We all have.”

Tianna watched him go.

NINETEEN

R
ush sped around the traffic circle to Shell Avenue. He thought he could make it to the L.A. airport in fifteen minutes. He had twenty-five left. Twenty-five minutes till the Russians called back. Twenty-five minutes till Amelia died.

As he tore onto Venice Boulevard, he reflected on the idea that the world probably wouldn't be a worse place without Amelia Trask. She was a spoiled-rotten and naturally perverse creature who would no doubt make many men very unhappy in her adult life. Still, when he thought of what the Russians had done to Gail, it made his blood boil, and he wanted to do the same to them, only worse. And if he saved Amelia, he might be able to get his hands on them.

He called Zerbe as he turned right onto Lincoln. His roommate was no help.

“You want to know what flight Guzman's on, but you don't know the airline or where he's going?” Zerbe was irritated. “What, do you think I'm one of those
guys in
24
with a magic computer that can tell you
everything
? In 3-D?”

“The Dominican Republic. He's going back home.”

“All right. That gives me something. I'll call you back.”

He was on 96th Street before Zerbe called him back.

“You can't get there from here.”

“What?” Rush was in no mood for jokes.

“You have to fly to Miami and catch a shuttle to Punta Cana or Santa Domingo.”

“Fine. Who flies to Miami?”

“Delta has the only red-eye.”

“When does it leave?”

“Ten thirty-five.”

“Thanks.” He ripped the Bluetooth out of his ear as he turned into LAX. Traffic slowed—he watched the time ticking away. Twelve minutes to ten.

He pulled up to the curb and quickly divested himself of the things airport security would frown on. A Glock pistol. Two knives. A Beretta. A pair of brass knuckles. These he deposited under the passenger seat. From a false back in the glove compartment, he withdrew an envelope he kept for emergencies. Then he jumped out and ran. Delta was in terminal three, and he was at terminal one, but he could get there faster on foot.

True, he didn't know if Guzman would be there. Maybe he was driving down to San Diego and through Mexico. Maybe he was taking a flight to somewhere
else. Hell, maybe he was taking a Greyhound bus to Canada. But it was something to do while the time ticked away. Something to do while he waited for the phone in his pocket to ring.

Rushing through the sliding doors, he threaded through the crowd, looking around for the security checkpoint. Upstairs. If Guzman was here, he'd undoubtedly already passed through it, into the impregnable security of the terminal. Only one way to get inside.

Rush waited an interminable six minutes in the ticket line, then rushed to the counter when the clerk gave him a bored nod. His turn.

“One ticket to Miami.”

“I'm afraid that flight is fully booked. Would you care to try standby?”

“Sure.”

Rush suffered as the clerk clicked an impossible pattern of numbers on her keyboard. Then she said, “I'm afraid standby is fully booked.”

“Can I have a ticket on the next flight?”

“To Miami?”

“To anywhere.”

She looked at him blankly. “Pardon?”

“Yes, to Miami.”

Another series of relentless clicks. “That flight doesn't leave until 11:35 a.m. tomorrow.”

“That's fine. I'll curl up with a good book and wait.”

He had no intention of getting on the plane. He just wanted to get through the fucking security line.
Ripping open the envelope he'd pulled from the glove compartment, he dumped out a wad of hundreds and bought the ticket.