Dog Eat Dog (22 page)

He decided on the hotel first. As he exited the freeway and stopped for a traffic light, fat dark spots appeared on the concrete. Rain had started to fall on L.A.

The storm had continued off and on through the night and the next day. Troy went to the house in Highland Park that they’d rented to hold the baby and the nanny. Mad Dog had not wanted to take the nanny. “Man, she might identify us.”

“Nobody’s gonna call the police.”

“I don’t like it.”

“So you know how to change diapers, huh?”

“I don’t—but Diesel does.”

“He doesn’t wanna.”

“Fuck it. Do whatever you want.”

Troy playfully grabbed the thin little man by the nape of the neck and gave him a friendly shake—but the moment he touched Mad Dog, Troy remembered the newspaper clipping with the photos of the missing teenage girls and almost snatched his hand away. Mad Dog had murdered four, and probably more. There might be a time to kill, but not all the time.

Troy went to the wine cellar. The house was ancient by L.A. standards, having been built in the twenties during Prohibition, and the wine cellar was as much for hiding booze as storing wine. It had been dug into a hillside and could be reached only by raising a trap door in a hallway. A mattress and blanket were on the floor, and Diesel had purchased a package of Pampers. Troy made sure no water from the storm leaked into the wine cellar and then came back up. His stomach was nervous. Time for the caper was getting close.

Outside, the rain still fell. He picked up the cellular phone and dialed the Roosevelt Hotel, where Diesel and Mad Dog waited. They changed hotels every two or three days. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Right. We’re makin’ our move?”

“No use waitin’, is there?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Later.”

The Jaguar was silent except for the rhythm of the windshield wipers; they became audible when the car stopped for a traffic signal. Each man was wrapped in his own thoughts and the struggle with fear. Mad Dog was the most excited. When Troy’s call came and Diesel said they were going, Mad Dog ducked into the bathroom for a quick toot of cocaine for courage. Because it was the last one he’d have until after the score, he dipped more than usual, and now his brain was surging. He felt powerful, omnipotent. The 12-gauge pump at his feet made him lord of the world. He could kill, and that, to Mad Dog, was the power of God given to man.

In the backseat, Diesel was all too aware of the man in front of him. He’d seen the trace of white powder on Mad Dog’s nose. Even without that, his charged-up demeanor was a giveaway. He thought of Troy’s reaction on sight of the newspaper photo, a grunt of disgust, a moment of reflection, and then: “We’ll decide what to do after the caper. Chill out ’til then, okay?” Diesel had nodded and maintained the façade of camaraderie with Mad Dog. It was difficult to take it when Troy was gone. His hostile contempt was mixed with a smidgen of fear. A 12-gauge shotgun was scary in the hands of a madman. Diesel would keep an eye on him.

They drove slowly past the house. A light was on in the rear.

“Somebody’s up.”

“There’s nobody there but the nanny and the kid,” Troy said. “The broad is out for the night. She goes out every Friday. Look, her car’s gone.”

As he spoke, the light went out, verifying his declaration.

Inside the house, Mike Brennan had turned off the light as he carried a beer from the kitchen to the family room, where ESPN was broadcasting a minor Bowl game. He was waiting for the bitch to come home with her boyfriend. It was delicious to imagine her reaction. She would shit her jeans. He smiled imagining it. The boyfriend better not open his mouth. Mike took the 9mm Browning from his waistband and put it on the coffee table in front of him. It signified that he would call the shots.

Meanwhile, outside the house, Diesel webbed his fingers to lift Mad Dog atop the brick pillar at the corner. Mad Dog jumped down into the bushes. Troy was next. When he was up, he reached down and helped Diesel. The big man had to grunt and strain, but he got a leg up and pulled himself the rest of the way. By then Troy had jumped down, his shoes sinking in the wet lawn. A moment later, Diesel was beside him. “C’mon,” Troy said, leading the way.

All of them were soaked through. At least the rain muffles noise, Troy thought. When they came to a corner of the house, Troy pointed Mad Dog to a niche behind the bushes under an overhang. It was dry there. He was to keep lookout with a walkie-talkie. Troy had a receiver that looked like a hearing aid.

Troy and Diesel moved along the side of the house, passing the family-room French doors. The TV set was on, throwing out its jerky gray light. Both looked in as they went by. Because they weren’t expecting it, and because human nature oftens sees what it expects, neither noticed that someone was in the big upholstered chair facing the TV screen.

Mike Brennan, however, saw the two shadows go by. He thought it was the bitch and her boyfriend back from wherever they’d been. Nobody but the nanny had been here when he arrived. Now he would give them a few minutes and catch them flagrante delicto, whatever that meant. He’d heard it in a movie and it seemed to mean what he thought it meant. He hoped he could catch them fucking … He would sure kick some ass then. The bitch was mother of his kid; he gave her
beaucoup
money. She had better keep her legs crossed.

Outside, the rain surged. Diesel and Troy were soaked. Dirt from a slope behind the house washed down stairs and over their shoes. They wore rubber gloves and hats pulled down. It would never come to a courtroom identification, but such precautions were routine.

At the rear door, Diesel pulled out the short jimmy bar. It would pop the door with one jerk. It proved unnecessary. The doorknob turned when Troy tried it. He always tried a door first.

“Bingo,” Troy said, easing the door open and motioning Diesel to follow him inside. Not expecting trouble, neither had a weapon drawn. It was so easy that Troy felt none of the usual fear at the start of a caper. It was easy, a bird’s nest on the ground.

The door between back porch and kitchen was ajar, as were the folding doors into the dining room. Beyond that was the family room with the TV still on.

Troy pushed open another door. It was a hallway beside the stairway. Ahead was the entry hall and the front door. The nanny and baby were upstairs. He motioned Diesel to follow and swung around the banister and started up the carpeted stairs on light feet. I don’t like doing this, he told himself clearly—but instantly locked out the thought with
he who hesitates is lost
.

The dim glow of a night-light came from the partially opened door. The nanny, a chunky woman in her forties, spoke in Spanish. Diesel was to grab her while Troy took the child.

Troy pushed the door open and Diesel went past. The nanny was removing a diaper from the baby on a changing table. She turned to throw the dirty diaper in a basket, saw the intruders in a mirror, and gasped.

Diesel pounced like a cat. He had a fist clenched to hit her in the ribs, but instead grabbed her arm. “Shaddup!” he said.

“Watch the kid,” Troy said. He was afraid Diesel would pull the nanny away and the baby would fall from the table.

“Got it,” Diesel said, holding the nanny with one hand and putting the other on the baby’s naked stomach. Startled by the sudden intruders and the tension in the air, the baby began crying.

“You speak English?” Troy asked.

She tried to speak; then nodded.

“Take care of him. Get him dressed.”

By the time his words were out, he saw an unexpected man in the doorway. He looked like a Yaqui Indian, and Troy assumed he was related to the nanny.

Brennan frowned in surprise, for what he’d found was unexpected. Which of these jokers was the boyfriend and where was the bitch?

Diesel raised his jacket to pull his pistol—but Mike Brennan had prepared for confrontation: his 9mm Browning was in his hand down by his leg. He raised it and stepped forward before Diesel could get a grip. “Who the fuck’re …” He didn’t finish, but instead cocked the hammer with his thumb. The muzzle with the hole of death was three feet from Diesel’s eye. He pulled his hand free, palm visible. “Take it easy.”

The adults were frozen for several heartbeats; meanwhile the baby howled its plaint.

“Easy! Easy!
Usted’s loco
…”

“Yeah, easy! I got the kid.” As Diesel said it, he swung the baby before him and ducked his head. Unless Mike anticipated the motion, it happened too fast. The hand is not quicker than the eye, but it is quicker than the mind in such a situation.

Mad Dog, from his niche outside, had seen headlights through the wind-whipped bushes. Were they coming in the gate? The wind made too much noise to hear a car. He crossed the road and looked toward the gate. Nothing. When he turned back, through the family room window, he saw a silhouette rise from a chair and move out of sight. Who was that?

He moved fast to the back door and went through the kitchen into the front hall. His wet shoes squeaked; leaning against the wall, he pulled them off and put them down. He was silent going up the stairs two at a stride and at the top he saw the strange man in the doorway, facing the other way. Mad Dog raised his shotgun and pressed the safety button so the red was displayed. It was a ten-foot shot of double ought. Troy was beyond the man in the line of fire. Mad Dog moved forward and to the right on stocking feet. It gave him an angle.

“Nobody has to get hurt,” Troy was saying.

The range was about eight feet when Mad Dog squeezed the trigger. The shotgun sounded like a howitzer and most of Mike Brennan’s head was blown off his torso. It splattered across five feet of wall. The rest of the carcass dropped inert.

The nanny screamed until Diesel banged her head against a wall; then she whimpered and collapsed.

The baby wailed.

“Douse that light,” Troy said. Had the nanny seen their faces well enough to identify them? Very unlikely. She was too distraught to see anything clearly.

Mad Dog hit the light switch. The room dimmed. Troy picked up the baby and carried him to the nanny. “Here. Get him quiet.”

The nanny shook her head. “I can’t.”

Anger rose; Troy didn’t have time for this kind of bullshit. He reached out with one hand, entwined his fingers in her hair, and jerked her around. “Take the little motherfucker,” he said.

She took him. Years of conditioning made her do the right thing to soothe him.

Mad Dog was looking out the window. He began to laugh somewhat hysterically.

Diesel was looking at his own clothes. Was he splattered with blood? He could find none except on his shoes. He stood in a thick pool of it. Its smell was heavy in the room.

“Who was that guy?” Troy asked the nanny.

She shrugged and shook her head.

“A cop?” Diesel asked.

“Get his wallet,” Mad Dog said.

“You get it!” Diesel came back.

Troy turned on him. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t like this asshole telling me what to do.”

Troy looked toward the ceiling with exasperation written on his face. “Man, get the fuckin’ wallet. Let’s find out who he is.”

Diesel did so. Meanwhile the nanny was rocking the baby and trying to soothe him. “Take him outta here,” Troy said; then, to Mad Dog, “Watch her.”

Diesel opened the wallet and came out with a fistful of cards. “Joe Vasquez,” he said, handing Troy the driver’s license. He went into the other room and asked the nanny. She had no idea who he was. Troy was dubious. Should he put weight on her? No. She had to handle the baby. Who was Joe Vasquez? Never once did Troy consider it was Mike Brennan, although he did wonder if the dead man worked for Mike.

Was there anyone else? A moment of fear; then he decided it was most unlikely. How much time did he have? What about the blood on floor and wall? The buckshot holes? He’d think about that later.

Mad Dog motioned him to lean close. “We gotta kill this broad,” he said. “She can identify us.”

“Lemme think about it,” Troy said. The statement had logic but was too repugnant. It was no time to tell Mad Dog, but he knew he could never murder someone so defenseless. The mother would be home in anywhere between fifteen minutes and two hours. He had to make decisions. They would move the body. They needed blankets, or something, to make sure it didn’t bleed all over the car. “We need something to wrap him in,” he told Diesel.

“The baby?”

“No. The body.”

“What about trash bags?”

“Great.”

Diesel went to the kitchen and returned with a package of lawn bags. Perfect. They went around the remains of the head; then they spread blankets and a bedspread on the floor and rolled the carcass on top; then folded the blanket and carried the remains to the front porch. Troy ran down the long drive to the gate, opening it as he went, and brought the Jaguar back. They stuffed the body in the trunk and slammed it shut. That was covered.

The plan had been to take both nanny and baby, but that was impossible. The mother would go out of her mind if she found blood and gore instead of her baby. Troy’s adrenaline still pumped, stirring fear and fury, the emotions of survival, but underneath he could feel the keening anguish of despair. He had to play the cards that came off the deck, but down in his guts, he felt desperate fear. Things had gone awry, the unexpected man, the killing, having child and nanny and mother to decide about.

“Go get the kid and the nanny,” he told Diesel.

“Mad Dog, too?”

“Yeah … of course. Take ’em to the spot. I’ll wait here for the broad.”

“You won’t have a car. You’ll be here stranded.”

“Go on, man.”

Diesel shrugged and went inside. Soon the nanny came out, carrying the now quiet baby and followed by Mad Dog and Diesel. Diesel stepped forward, opened the back door, and motioned the nanny to get in. She hesitated. “No baby seat,” she said.

“Never mind. Get in,” he said. She did so. Mad Dog went to Troy.

“You really gonna stay here, man?” asked Mad Dog. “We can call and say what’s happening.”