Hard Play (15 page)

Then he pushed her forward through a space in the hedge and onto the sidewalk. He walked her down the street to a restaurant on the corner. The neon sign flickered and flashed red and blue high over the street, strobing the words
Pico Fresh
. Three flashing arrows pointed down toward the Spanish-tiled roof, casting glimpses of colorful, elongated shadows across the rippled gray pavement. Inside, the chairs were stacked atop the tables and the lights were clicking off one by one. Fresh corn tortillas dominated the air as Frank and Felicia entered the small parking lot behind the restaurant.

It wasn’t lit like the hospital’s lot. It was dark and nearly empty. Frank’s Ambassador sat alone in the far corner of the lot, painted in shadows. As they crossed to his car, the back door of Pico Fresh burst open. Frank ignored the bustle of kitchen workers as they flooded through the doors.

His keys had just entered the door and clicked up the lock on the passenger door as Felicia’s legs began kicking. She threw herself to the pavement and sprawled out the best she could. Thrashing her legs, she flopped up and down like a fish out of water. Her writhing motions tangled Frank’s jacket around her waist, binding her arms tighter to her side.

“Rape!”

Felicia screamed the words as she tried to escape the wool coat. She turned on the water works and tears flowed behind her curdling screams.

She cried out again, “Rape!”

She
was
a pretty good actress. Tears poured from her big blue eyes and it wasn’t long before the mascara started to run and she actually looked the part. It was enough of a show to catch the attention of the fat Mexican line cook and six of his buddies.

“Goddammit,” Frank breathed as they looked over.

“Hey,” the Mexican shouted to his friends,
“Miren! Que hace a esa chica?”

Frank threw his hands up and backed away from Felicia who had finally freed herself from his coat.

“I’m not raping her,” he said to the approaching group of men tired from a long shift in the kitchen.

Felicia scooted ’til her back was pressed against Frank’s whitewall tire. They looked to the teary-eyed blonde girl who was shaking her head back and forth and holding up her chained hands.

“Help me,” she cried and let the tears flow again.

“Not what she says,” another of the men shouted, turning to face Frank.

The fat man in the lead spoke again.

“Just let her go,” he said.

Frank replied in a whisper on the verge of a growl, “I can’t do that.”

He dropped to a knee and reached for his coat. Tucking it over his arm, he fished out his wallet.

Flipping it open he recited, “Frank Black, PD.”

The group back up. A few of them nodded and there was a moment of silence.

Then the big one snatched the wallet from Frank, saying, “Let me see that.”

Frank grabbed for the wallet but the burly cook was already holding up to his moustache, squinting down into the folds of the leather.

“Miren,”
he said, “
Esta es una deli carta.
It’s not a badge.”

He laughed out loud to his friends and held the wallet up, shaking it, saying,
“Es un imán para el refrigerador.”

Frank smiled and took a step back.

“Let her go,” another of the men hissed.

“I can’t do that,” Frank repeated to the crowd.

Felicia whimpered behind him, wrapping her cuffed wrists over her knees and hugging herself as she continued her show.

Then Frank saw one of the busboys, a skinny Mexican with a blue cap backwards on his head. He darted out from behind the big oaf. His fist was full of a serrated blade.

Frank threw his jacket in the air, arching the folds over the fat man’s head and slammed his open palms into the side of his bulging head, boxing his ears. Stomping downward, Frank collapsed the outside of the fat man’s knee, sending him to the ground with a muffled scream.

The glint of metal darted past Frank’s cheek. Ducking, he threw his elbow upward, knocking the butt of the blade and sending the knife into the air. His leg followed through in one solid motion, sweeping the busboy in the ankles and sending him backwards into the crowd. Three fell under the flailing limbs of the busboy.

Frank stood while they struggled over each other. All but the fat man, he still held his knee as he twisted on the ground, crying beneath Frank’s coat. Stepping back, Frank held his fists up. His left bobbed before his cheekbone and his right held firm below his jaw. He perched his body on the balls of his feet, bobbing up and down and stepping back and forth as though his boots were made only of springs. His eyes darted back to the car. Confirming Felicia was still watching her little drama play out, he turned back to the crowd.

The cook’s kneecap and the busboy’s elbow were sign enough that one-on-one wasn’t going to cut it. The five men advanced on Frank, piling on him. They tackled him like a frontline and dropped him to the cracked pavement. Frank felt the searing hot pain as his ankle twisted beneath the weight. He felt the sting as their elbows and fists barraged his ribcage. He gasped as one of the ribs cracked beneath the pressure. The pain was enough to make him move. Frank’s hands reached for the first thing they could grab. Finding a hunk of meat he could hold, he twisted as hard as he could and pulled. Fabric ripped as Frank felt warm liquid flow over his fist. Then he pulled again and let go of the wet mass. Screams radiated in the huddle as one of the men crawled away, gasping and clutching his side. Blood spurted from between his fingers, pooling in the fabric of his flannel shirt, streaking the ground in red as he scooted across the lot.

Frank moved again. This time his jabbed upward. His straightened fingers met the rounded lump of an Adam’s apple and Frank pressed forward. The man’s neck crunched loudly beneath the blow. Another squirmed from the pile, this one gasped for air holding his throat. His breaths rapid and shallow, he tried to clamber to his feet but failed.

Now three men had Frank on the ground. The largest of them delivered two blows to Frank’s face before Frank could roll away. Free of his falling punches, Frank latched his legs around the big Mexican and twisted, sending him reeling to the pavement. His skull met the concrete with a fleshy thud.

Only the busboy and a skinny guy with a thin mustache remained. The two men still standing backed away and took their stances. Holding up their fists in a standard boxing style, they started for Frank. The busboy threw a wild left-handed punch. Frank dipped low and met his upper gut with an open palm, sending the busboy down with a low groaning hiss. Pivoting on his good ankle, Frank threw the back of his leg across the chest of the skinny guy, dropping him to the pavement like a sack of rocks.

The seven men were scattered across the small parking lot. Frank’s coat lay at his feet and Felicia still huddled against the tire of his Ambassador. The big Mexican cook had made his way to the other end of the lot and the rest of his coworkers were gravitating toward him.

“Scram,” Frank shouted, waving his hand at them. “I can keep going. And you don’t want that.”

He huffed and puffed as he wiped spit from his lip and sweat from his brow. He shifted his collar, loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the black Kevlar beneath. Blood dripped from his right sleeve as he gripped his fists and took his agile stance again, shifting the weight from his sore ankle.

The six men hugged their bruises and held their wounds, huddling together like a group of penguins in the cold. They looked Frank over. Then they looked at each other. After a brief mumbling between them, the group scattered to their various vehicles that lined the street. One simply walked down the way to the bus stop at the corner, arriving just in time to limp onto the next bus.

Frank lifted his tie over his head and let it drop. Then he shed his shirt and turned to Felicia. Her mouth was agape and her eyes were wide. If only she’d have waited in line, purchased a ticket, sat through forty minutes of advertisements and swapped the cuffs for popcorn, you’d think she was watching the climax of an action film at the local multiplex.

“You’re quite a man,” she said, out of breath, panting almost.

Frank slumped his shoulders and narrowed his eyes. He picked up his coat and fished his Pall Malls from the pocket. Glaring at the crumpled pack, he peeled back the top. Amongst the broken cigarettes, he found one intact and put it to his lips. He lit his cigarette, threw his coat over his naked shoulder and swept his wallet off the ground. Hugging his ribs, he limped across the lot. His biceps still bulged. His veins still ran thick with blood.

“Dammit,” he seethed as he noticed the long, serrated blade sticking from his flattened rear tire.

He yanked Felicia up by the cuffs and threw open the passenger door.

“Stay,” he growled, tossing her in the bucket seat.

Frank opened the trunk, pulling out a fresh shirt. He slid it on and buttoned it up. It didn’t take him much time to jack up the car and toss off the ruined tire. Once he replaced it with the full-sized spare, Frank took his seat behind the wheel.

Tossing his cigarette out the window, he turned to Felicia and said, “We have to make a few stops.”

Chapter 18

The Warner Center
office park was a ghost town of dark skyscrapers punctuated with the occasional row of lit offices high above the street. The sidewalks were lined with young acacia trees poking up from the stone and concrete mosaics on the walkways. Rolling knolls of grass black with shadow separated the buildings from the street.

Felicia sat in the front seat, her hands tucked between her legs. Frank’s smoldering Pall Mall filled the car with smoke.

“Mind rolling that down,” Felicia coughed.

Frank narrowed his eyes and gripped the chrome handle on his door. With a twist, he cracked the window. Smoke spiraled into the night and Frank turned up the radio.

Turning left on Oxnard, the Ambassador lurched to a stop between two cones of light. Coltrane flittered off the radio as the headlights blinked out. Silence took the night. Frank tossed open his door and stepped into the open air.

Leaning back, he said, “Stay.”

He moved to the rear of the car. Frank rubbed his jaw and kneaded his ribs as he lit another cigarette with the butt of his last. He rested his back against his trunk and crossed his legs. He ran his hand through his thick, black hair while his eyes moved up and down the street. A handful of lamps down the road, an unlit concrete marquee marked the entrance of
Still & Wersner Insurance Company
.

This side of Oxnard was lined in stout hills of black and green ivy. It was an older part of the business center. The trees were taller and there were more of them. Norway maples instead of acacias because they brought shade, lots of it, and it was before we all knew about the havoc they wreaked on the concrete. Cracked and uneven, the sidewalk lifted and dipped over the network of roots that stretched beneath them. The street was no better. Potholes and hills made up the old, gray pavement all the way to De Soto.

Something about this side of the Valley made it hotter, ten to twenty degrees hotter than the rest of the Valley on average. The sun spent all day cooking up the oil and tar on the street and even in the late evening, the air was still thick, hot and sticky.

“Frank,” Felicia called out from the passenger seat.

Frank ignored her and climbed atop the trunk. Standing tall, he looked across the tree line at the complex of buildings that made up SAWICO. Turning all around, he took note of the various parking garages and office buildings that poked up from above the maples.

“Frank,” Felicia said again. “I have to pee.”

Frank shrugged at the words. Across the way and between two giant blocks of stacked parking, the symphony of lights that was the northwest Valley played and danced. Intersections blinked green and red and yellow. Cars zigged and zagged, streaming through the streets. The veins of pulsing lights grew from the shadows of the hills in the west and the north and sprawled eastward all across the San Fernando Valley. Billboards and signs glinted in the distance as the windows of homes traded glows. The night was empty and clear—not a cloud or a star in the sky. Just a vague haze of silvery smog reflected over the city, dancing above the shadowy mountains.

Frank stared out over the sparkling movement of the Valley, ignoring Felicia and slowly smoking his cigarette until headlights broke the darkness of his peripheral vision. The two beams pulled to a stop behind the Ambassador and went black. Frank jumped to the ground as Rick Stromwell emerged from the gold and blocky late ’80s Volvo.

“Frank,” said Rick with a nod.

Frank’s eyes went right for Dicky’s feet.

“Sandals?” Frank winced. “Can’t even put on proper footwear for a job? You
are
getting old.”

Rick kicked one foot up at Frank and smiled wide with a shrug and a shake of the ankle.

“You don’t got me climbing anything do you?”

“That’s up to you,” Frank replied, tossing his smoke into the street and holding out his hand. “Thanks for coming.”

The two men shook and Frank pointed out to the Valley.

“Remember when it was all dark?” Frank asked.

“It’s darker now if you ask me.”

“Quieter,” Frank breathed. “I do.”

“Easier,” Rick added as he fished a silver flask from the back of his trousers. “Hell, I remember when they used to test missiles up that way.”

Frank nodded. Rick took a gulp from the can then capped it and slapped the flask into Frank’s hand.

“Thought you might like a bit before we did this,” Rick said.

Frank twisted off the cap. His lip curled into a half smile as the cedar and citrus beckoned him. For a moment, Frank’s bruises didn’t feel that bad.

Sniffing the stainless steel grooves, he said, “Glenlivet. Not bad.”

He swigged back and cleared his throat, saying between two breaths, “Not sure why I never liked you.”

Rick’s head tilted into his shoulder and his eyebrow went aloft, but before he could beg for clarification, Felicia chirped Frank’s name from the front seat yet again. Frank grunted.

“Who you got there?” Ricked ask.

Frank swigged back again, cleared the burn from his throat and wiped his lips on his sleeve.

“Come on,” he said, motioning with his hand.

Standing on the sidewalk, Frank tossed the flask back to Rick and wiggled his fingers at Felicia, taunting her through the passenger window. Felicia bared her teeth like a dog. She glared first at Rick and then at Frank. With a purse of her lips, her pearly white vanished and she heaved her throat, hocking a slimy hunk of spit across the glass. It splattered into a mangled butterfly and slithered down into the door.

“Classy,” Rick quipped.

Frank tapped the window and shook his finger.

“You’ll be good?” he warned. “Seriously, Felicia. Be good.”

She sank into her seat with a sneer and tucked her hands between her legs like they were her tail. Frank tripped the lock and swung open the door. The sting of fresh piss filled Frank’s nostrils.

“When a girl’s got to go.” She grinned up at Frank, cupping the wet spot in her jeans.

“Foul,” Frank said. “Whore, meet Dick. Dick, Whore.” He held his hand out and bowed in introduction.

“Name’s Richard,” Rick introduced with a half salute.

“Fuck you, Frank,” Felicia spat, pulling against her restraints.

Frank cooed, “Afraid we already played that game, my dear.”

He reached toward her soft cheek, his finger bent to stroke her. She nipped at him and showed her teeth. She jerked forward trying to bite him once more. She squirmed and thrashed, snapping her teeth, pulling against the lap belt like a dog on a leash. Frank took his time pulling his hand back, admiring her determination.

“Feisty one, eh?” Stromwell cracked.

“Sure is,” Frank agreed.

Frank slammed the door on Felicia, trapping her with the stench of raspberries and pee. He moved back to the trunk. Rick followed and stood behind Frank. With a turn of the key, the lid popped ajar and Frank lifted it open with one hand.

“Take your pick,” Frank beamed.

Inside the trunk was an array of firearms. A bushel of shotguns lay wrapped in a belt of large ammunition shells on one side of the trunk. Near the front was a milk crate loaded with two MP7s and a variety of semiautomatic handguns. Three Browning nines sat atop the pile. It was a bit easier to fill the trunk with the spare tire taken out. It's empty circle was replaced with a bucket of binoculars, night vision scopes and other optical devices. The ruby red carpet of the trunk could only be seen in patches beneath the jumble of cartridges, the makeshift buckets and the loose brass. You could arm a small battalion with the contents of Frank’s trunk.

“I thought you liked working with your hands,” Rick said through a growing smile.

Frank turned to Rick and said in a matter-of-fact tone, “You never know. You never know.”

“Apparently,” Rick breathed. He reached in the trunk and ran his fingers along the rifle box tucked in the back.

“It’s yours when we’re done,” Frank said as he leaned in and clicked open the box.

A single-shot bolt action AR-50 rifle sat in six parts in the box. At the top, its thirty-inch matte-black barrel was cradled in molded gray foam. Below it were the butt-stock, the oversized scope and the grips. The tripod was folded up beside the other parts, tucked away in the corner of the case. Rick ran his finger along the fluted box on the end of the muzzle, then the length of the gun. He caressed the rifle inch by inch, gliding his finger over the hard edges of black metal. Reaching the trigger, he moaned out loud and pulled back his hand.

“That’s quite a girl you’ve got there,” Rick sighed.

Frank asked flatly, “Will it do the trick?”

Rick replied with his head cocked to one side and his hands shoved in his pockets. His eyes looked the gun over as he said, “It’s more than enough.”

Frank locked up the rifle case and heaved it to Rick. Dipping back into the trunk, he pulled out a box of rounds and a rolled-up mat.

Handing the items to Rick, he said, “Good. You’ll need these too. Find somewhere with a view of the lobby. Wait for my signal. Me and Princess Charming are going inside.”

Frank placed his hand over the rifle case and said, “Once it’s done, disappear. This isn’t your problem.”

“Ten-four,” replied Rick with a salute, then he turned and disappeared up the hill of ivy and behind the tree line.

Frank went back to the front of the car. Tossing open the door, Frank yanked Felicia by the arm, dragging her onto the pavement. She dropped like a sack of potatoes. Frank’s seat was soaked deep with urine.

“Get up,” Frank hissed. “Time to see Daddy.”

He pulled her up by her cuffs and pushed her forward. Walking an arm’s length behind her, Frank jabbed at the small of her back. He forced her over the hills and valleys of the broken sidewalk ’til they arrived at the concrete slab of the entrance. Frank lit another smoke with his butt and mashed the old cigarette into the top of the sign.

“Keep moving,” he growled.

There was no pedestrian path so the two remained in the center of the black road. They wound through shaded concrete benches and rows of low-sitting palms. Shadows stretched across the yellow bumps that peppered the way ahead of them and at the end stood the towering complex of plate glass that made up the front facade of the insurance company. The L-shaped building stretched across the property, meeting with a mirror image of itself on the opposite corner. The three buildings surrounded a large circle where the driveway looped back around on itself. In the center of the circle was a dead fountain, the lights and the water turned off for the night. All it was now was a cumbersome concrete boulder atop an overturned horseshoe.

The two of them moved eastward at the fountain and arrived at the towering glass front of the main building. Frank eased open the door and pushed Felicia inside.

The lobby was dark. Only the small after-hours dome lights high in the corners lit the expanse of the large three-story room. The smell of soot, charred cotton and wool was suspended in the still air. The room was surrounded in columns that reached upward to a second-floor balcony and continued to the arched ceiling of the lobby thirty feet above. Dalton waited for them in the open. Facing the entrance, he stood before the large, half-arc reception desk, leaning against it like he was waiting for his order at the cafe.

“Welcome!” he exclaimed.

Only his mouth moved. His words bounced off the walls, amplifying the thinness in his voice.

Frank could see the glint of the cold steel in Dalton’s hand, an old .44 single action Merwin-Hulbert with an ivory grip—a hundred-year-old antique. Frank watched as Dalton walked along the desk, tracing the gun against the tops of the embossed letters on its face.

S...A...W...I...C...O

As Dalton traced the letters, he stared Frank down. Then, reaching the end of the marquee, he turned his eyes toward Felicia.

Frank’s fist tightened around Felicia’s cuffs, yanking at her wrists as he stepped toward Dalton, letting the glass door whisper shut behind him.

“Drop your gun, Black,” Dalton hissed.

Frank let go of Felicia and lifted his coat with both hands. He twisted in place showing he was unarmed. When Frank had completed his spin, Dalton raised the pistol. A flash lit the dark lobby as he pulled the trigger. The air broke. Frank felt the searing blow of the .44 caliber brass explode against his chest.

He fell to his knees.

He grabbed at his heart.

His ears rang from the echoing gunshot.

Felicia clapped and laughed. Her cuffs clanked. She jumped up and down like a kid on Christmas and her cuffs were the damn sleigh bells.

“Good one, Daddy!” she shouted. “But he wears a vest. Shoot him in the head.”

Vest or not, it still hurt like hell. Frank gripped the entry hole on his chest. Struggling to one knee, he looked up at Dalton. Dalton pointed the barrel down on Frank.

Click.

His lips curled and his brow furrowed.

Click. Click.

Dalton turned the .44 in his hand, checking the chamber.