Get Blank (Fill in the Blank) (30 page)

 So it took me awhile, but I finally pulled into the apartment complex. Abandoned, and not the friendly kind of abandoned. It looked like if someone moved in and started cooking meth, it might actually raise the property value. I pulled my car over, opened the trunk, took out a bag full of Lebanon, and bam. Lights.

The prowler had pulled in right behind me, and I guess my mind had wandered, and there I was. Haloed. The cops.

So I’m panicking. I almost think I should just run. Take my chances. That’s when I realized if I did that, I’d have to burn everything involved with the alias that owned this car, which included my apartment at the time. So instead, I decided to stand pat and answer questions. Just as we were about to get to the fun stuff, gunshots echoed around the complex and one cop’s radio clicked. Never been so relieved for random street crime.

 My contact was very impressed with me, and he even offered to let me hang out and watch him dissolve the body in acid.

I passed.

In the interrogation room, I yawned. It was definitely morning. Meant it was officially Friday. Hell of a week.

Finally, the door opened. I didn’t turn around, letting the guy loom behind me and showing I didn’t really care. He closed the door after a few seconds and sat down opposite me. He had the g-man look down pat. His suit was cheap, and his tie clip even cheaper. He had a haircut that, if he paid more than ten bucks for, should have come with a coupon. The horn-rimmed glasses made me think he was a classicist. His face was scarred, but it was from acne, so I didn’t have to concern myself with some ex-Special Forces badass trying to waterboard a confession out of me. Worst thing this guy was going to tell me was about the time he had to take his cousin to prom.

“You’re in a lot of trouble,” he said, in a very comforting yet moist ’50s TV host voice.

“Am I?”

The g-man fidgeted on the other end of the table, the sleeves of his jacket riding up to reveal a cheap watch and the edge of a tattoo. Well, that was at least interesting. “Oh, I should think so.”

“I hadn’t realized walking around a park was a federal crime.”

“Who said anything about federal?”

“Your haircut. If a barber had done that to an LA cop, his ruthless beating would have been on the news.”

The g-man flushed. “You know you were doing more than walking around a park, and that’s what’s got you in trouble.”

“Was I?”

“There was a shootout in the park right around where you were.”

“So it’s an open-and-shut case. I was within hearing distance of a shooting in Los Angeles. I have to be the only person in history.”

“You were involved.”

“Where’s my gun, then? When I was arrested, I was carrying a phone, not an assault rifle. Unless there’s an app for that, too?”

“And no one in history has ever dumped a gun.”

“Do a GSR test,” I said, holding up my fingers. “Not a bit of residue. I haven’t fired a gun tonight or any other night.” The last time I’d fired a gun was about a year ago up at the Griffith Observatory, and in my defense, it had sort of gone off accidentally and I still felt bad about it.

“Gloves can be ditched, too,” the g-man said.

“Look, I’m really scared about this trespassing beef you have me on. Of course, that doesn’t explain why I wasn’t booked or advised. I can’t help but wonder if I need to request a lawyer.”

He raised thick eyebrows. “You’re saying you need one?”

“To get one over on you? Probably not.”

“What do you have to get over on me?”

“The truth. That you’re trying to stick some kind of gun charge on a trespasser that said trespasser is going to beat and make you look like an idiot. Sorry,
more
of an idiot.”

The g-man leaned back, a reptilian smile creeping over his face. “We both know it’s much more than that.”

“News to me. Hey, I realize this is probably a silly request, but can I see some identification?”

“You’re smart, or so you keep trying to tell me. You tell me who I am.”

“A proud alumnus of the University of Phoenix?”

He ignored the dig. “Something brought you to Griffith Park last night. Someone walking around a park usually does so without a shirt and tie.”

“I like to feel fancy.”

“And usually does it in the daytime.”

“I work days.”

“And what do you do for a living?”

“I’m an airline pilot for Pan Am.”

“That airline has been closed for almost two decades.”

“That explains the lack of calls.”

He sighed. “You were there for a purpose. Another suit was found, almost identical to yours. Empty, but covered in green goo. Care to explain?”

“The man in it melted?”

“You’re not going to tell the truth, are you?”

I shrugged. I thought I
had
just told the truth.

He reached down and put a briefcase on the table between us. With a click, he opened it up and removed a file, then closed the case and set it down by his side again. “Normally, I might believe you’re just some nattily dressed wiseass caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

 “You think I’m natty?” I blushed.

“But if that’s the case, you have some very interesting luck.”

“Call me Zelig.”

“You’ve been around, for lack of a better term.” He removed a picture from the file, a nice eight-by-ten, showing Vassily and me going to the Whale’s car. From the angle, the gun in Vassily’s giant flipper hand was invisible. Our facial expressions were hard to read, mine because of the bandage, and Vassily’s because he was a sociopath who didn’t really have feelings. Vassily’s mugshot was paperclipped to the file. They had to use two pictures to get his whole head.

“That is Vassily Zhukovsky, a.k.a. ‘the Whale.’ The boss of the local Russian Mob.”

“That’s not Bob Hoskins after exposure to gamma rays?”

“Escaped during transit from San Quentin to Los Angeles for his testimony Tuesday afternoon. Here he is Tuesday night, with you.”

“I’m not seeing me.”

“Then a shootout at the headquarters of a cult, and here is your car. Registered to a false name, of course.” He produced another picture of my car. The interior belched flames, the engine block was spewing a cloud of smoke, and all four tires were melted.
Goddamnit. I had it paid off and everything.
I kept the poker face because I’d be damned if I’d admit that car was mine. “I am, of course, assuming Jim Kata is not your real name.”

“It is not. And that’s not my car. I drive a stretch Hummer for a limo company because of my hatred of breathable air.”

“I thought you were an airline pilot.”

“Somali pirate,” I enunciated. “Common mistake.”

“Am I to understand you’re confessing to piracy?”

“Yeah. I need a maritime lawyer. Is Chareth Cutestory available? I hear he’s good.”

“And lastly, someone matching your description assaulted two police officers and a former television star.”

“That doesn’t sound like me.”

“So here you are, in the middle of cult activity, in the company of known organized crime figures, and at the assault of peace officers.”

“And television stars,” I pointed out.

“You’re admitting it?”

“No, I wanted to make sure you have your bullshit story straight so you can hear how ridiculous it sounds before you tell it to a grand jury.”

“You’re Russian Mob, aren’t you?”

“I’d need to check my date book.”

He smiled then, like he’d just caught me in something. “See, I know exactly who you are and what you’ve done. I even know why. You see, I know things. I know you’re Russian Mob, but not Jewish, for example.”

“I’m as Jewish as fuckin’ Castro,” I said, bundling a
Lebowski
reference into a meta-gag no one would get except me and my old pal Lebanon, if he weren’t soup.

“Whatever you say, Mr. Zorotovich.” The smile grew. He really thought he had something here.

“Okay, let’s pretend for a second I
am
this Zoroaster guy.”

“Zorotovich.”

“Right, him. Still doesn’t explain why I wasn’t booked or why I’m being interrogated by a government stooge who doesn’t even have a badge.”

“Racketeering, loansharking, and now links to a couple assaults and murders? You’re moving up in the world, Nick.”

“You’ve got nothing and you know it,” I said, for the first time taking the guy in, trying to figure who he was really working for, and why he was bothering me. “Now why don’t you tell me what you want? This isn’t about putting me away or you’d give what you got to the boys in blue. No, you want a favor like everyone else, and you’re going to lean on me until you get it.”

“You’re a disruptive influence here.”

“I’m minding my own business.”

“How much were you paid for the golf course hit?”

“To my knowledge, there was no golf course hit.” This was true, but I didn’t expect him to believe it. Brady’s people tried to off me because that was her plan all along. I don’t think she got paid for it.

“And to kill Vassily the Whale? Who hired you to do that?”

“Whaling is illegal in the US. I looked it up. Maritime law and all that.” While I kept my face relaxed and mocking, my brain was whirring. He knew some, but not all. And he actually sounded confused and maybe even upset over Vassily’s death and the gunfight at the golf course. He didn’t look like Russian Mob to me, and he sure wasn’t an Ana. If he had a connection to Brady through the government, he would have brought her up. Someone else, then.

“Lot of work for a hitman in Los Angeles.”

“Is there? Maybe I’m in the wrong field. Is there like a class you take, or is it more a weekend seminar thing?”

“Who’s your next target?”

“I’m not a hitman.”

He slammed a palm into the table. “Who’s your next target?” he repeated, shouting this time.

“Settle down, or those cops you convinced to let you in here are going to check on us.”

He glanced over at the door, and I used that moment to slip the paperclip off Vassily’s mugshot and palm it.

“Answer me,” he growled, trying to be scary.

“Worried that another hit is going to destabilize this nice little thing everyone has going here? You worried about all-out war?”

“And if I am?” He seemed too straightlaced to be with Xanadu or the Harmonic Convergence. I’d guess INT-13 if I wasn’t one hundred percent certain the guy got seasick if he even
looked
at a boat. New World Order, maybe? He had that stink on him. They weren’t peace lovers, but their one-world government schtick made them a little more peaceful than the really scary spooks.

“I’d remind you that it’s in no one’s interests to start anything too big. The reason this whole thing works is because we all want it to. The minute someone steps out of line, they tend to get smacked back into it by the status quo.”

“What game are you playing with here, Zorotovich?”

“Would you really believe me if I told you? Here’s some truth for you: I didn’t kill Vassily, I didn’t fire a gun at the golf course or anywhere else, and I’ve never seen that car before in my life. You’re wasting your time with me.” I paused for a fraction of a second, tempted to give up Brady’s name. Do that, and I would lose any little leverage I had. And then Mina might rot in prison. They didn’t care about her. “You’re aiming a little low.”

“Do you know who killed Zhukovsky?”

That cinched it. He was NWO, and they were in the dark about what was happening. They hated being in the dark, since their whole gimmick was being an Orwellian gateway to a dystopian future. I’m serious. It’s on all their internal marketing.

The NWO knew me as Dwayne van Owen, amateur snoop. It’s possible this guy didn’t recognize me. There’s a lot of internal bureaucracy with that order, and a low-level schmuck like me could have fallen through the cracks . He might actually have believed I was Nick Zorotovich.

“I don’t know who pulled the trigger, no.”

“Who made the call, then?”

“Can’t tell you that.”

“Then I’ll give you to the police. Even if they can’t pin that on you, there
is
a warrant for your arrest. Were I to tell them who they have, that would be the end of things for you.”

“And for you, too. Put me away and I clam up. You get nothing else.”

“I’m getting nothing.”

“You’re getting nothing
now.
That might change if you, say, brought me breakfast. It’s got to be, what...”

“Five in the morning.”

“Seriously? Did I doze off before you came in? There’s a Jack in the Box not far from here. Why don’t you get us a couple artery-cloggers and some coffee and maybe I’ll fill you in on everything that’s happening.”

He stared at me, his eyebrows knitting into an admirably stern expression. He really was trying to get me to feel like I was talking to Dad. It might have worked on someone who had one of those. I smiled at him.

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll return as soon as possible. You stay here.” Now he smiled like he’d made a joke. The file went back into his briefcase and he left the room.

I had no intention of sticking around. I gave him five minutes, then straightened the paperclip and popped the cuffs. I stood up and stretched my back out, massaged the cuffed wrist, and generally tried to alleviate the stress of spending the last couple hours in the same awkward position. I placed my improvised lockpick on the center of the table because I’m a dick and cracked open the door.

Outside, the police station ran like nothing strange was going on. Uniforms brought in suspects, did paperwork, or milled around and bitched. A few suspects cursed; most were sullenly silent. A young woman sobbed somewhere. Everyone looked strung out and exhausted. Perfect atmosphere for a guy like me. Fatigue reproduces many of the same symptoms as alcohol, and I had just been handed a way to get out of a station full of, essentially, drunks.

I straightened the tie and brushed off the suit, trying to look a little more respectable, and walked out into the station. The key to looking like you belong is twofold. The first is confidence. Act like you’re supposed to be there and your chances of getting hassled fall like a stone. Dress the part and your chances fall even further. I probably could have used my badge, if only to flash it when needed, but that had been confiscated back at County.