Harvest Moon (33 page)

That blood and pain paid a dividend, too, even when the subject wasn't a sorcerer. The inking ritual had magic of its own, and we skimmed that juice from every customer that walked in the door for a tribal wrap or a tramp stamp.

And finally, human activity and emotion amplifies the potency of the juice that courses through our turf, and we can use the tattoos to augment that effect. Every patron that gets inked in one of our joints acts as a mobile amplifier wherever they go.

Chavez was in the back office talking on the phone. He hung up when I walked in. “Where you been,
chola?
We got a problem here.”

“I went to fucking Disneyland, Chavez, what do you
think? It might be nice if I only had one problem at a time, but until that blessed day comes, you might have to handle some shit on your own.”

“Okay, okay, D, chill out. We're doing the best we can.”

“Tell me what's happening.”

“I guess Alexander found out you were going to bump Carmen ahead of him. He disagreed with the decision, so he smoked Carmen. He says he's leaving the organization and I guess his crew likes the idea. Word is, he's been making contact with some other outfits, looking for a new team. This shit is going to get a lot bigger if someone takes him on.”

“He's a fucking idiot,” I said.

“Yeah, maybe, but he's got some juice and it's a good crew. They produce. There's some outfits that wouldn't mind laying down the welcome mat for him. Not friends of ours.”

Gangsters could be prone to tunnel vision, and this was the kind of thing that happened when a guy didn't see the big picture. From where Alexander was standing, he had something to offer and plenty of interested buyers. What he apparently didn't realize was there was no fucking way I could let it happen.

Alexander himself was replaceable—everyone is—but the crew and its operation were real assets to the outfit. More importantly, you don't have an organization without rules, and we couldn't just stand back and let Alexander flaunt the rules. You give gangsters the idea they're independent contractors, and pretty soon you don't have an organization at all.

“I really hate this fucking guy,” I said.

“I never liked him, either,” Chavez said. “
Mi madre
always told me not to trust white people whose first and last names were reversed.”

“Jefferson Alexander?”

“She had a whole system worked out for evaluating white folks based on their names. Two first names or two last names were bad, but the reversed names were the worst.”

“Jefferson Alexander could be two first names, or two last names, or it could be reversed names.”

“Yeah, so he's triple fucking jeopardy,
chola
. Mama would never have brought him in.”

“Well, he's gotta go now. No question about that.”

“It's not that simple,
chola
. He's got his crew behind him, so you take him out you don't necessarily solve the real problem.”

“Does Rashan know about this?”

“Yeah. He said you could handle it.”

It would be nice if my boss got more personally involved from time to time. Then again, if he was interested in doing that I wouldn't have a job.

“So how do you isolate Alexander and still get his crew back on the reservation?” Chavez asked.

“I guess I've got to sit down with him. Convince him I'll consider his request. Thing is, no one likes the fucking guy. If I can buy enough time for his crew to remember that, they'll back me when I take him out. Hell, they might do it themselves.”

“That could work,” Chavez said. “The main thing is to make sure another outfit doesn't get behind him.”

“Is there anyone in the crew we could give a bump once Alexander's out of the way?”

Chavez shrugged. “Well, you know, we looked at these guys before we decided to bring Leeds in. They're
good, but none of them have upper-level management experience. Kelvin Zimmerman—they call him KZ—has potential. He runs a couple blocks in Baldwin Village, tight shop. But it's a big step from herding gangbangers to running a whole crew.”

“Okay, I can work with potential. I want to know everything there is to know about this kid. And be ready to set up a meeting with him when it's time to move on Alexander. I want a smooth transition when the time comes.”

Chavez nodded. “You want me to get you a sit-down with Alexander?”

“Yeah, soon as possible.”

“Where you want it to be?”

“His choice.”

“I don't think that's a good idea,
chola
. He already ganked Leeds, he might think he can make a move on you.”

“God, I hope so. That would make this real easy, wouldn't it?”

Chavez laughed. “I like the way you think. Okay, I'll call you with the when and where.”

I left the office and walked back through the tattoo parlor. Samael was sitting in one of the booths getting inked by a young Asian woman. She leaned over him, working on his left forearm with the needle gun.

“It's a flaming eyeball,” he said, and grinned at me.

“Real original.”

“Eyes are cool. I like eyes.”

“If you say so.”

“You think this thing with Alexander is going to work out?” he asked. “I'm not sure. If someone were
to tip him off to your play, the whole plan could come apart.”

The artist stopped working and sat up. She looked from me to Samael and back to me. She looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

I gave him a hard stare. “No idea what you're talking about,” I said. “And even if I did, I wouldn't talk about it here.”

Samael shrugged. “I don't see what the big secret is. Everyone here's got to know who they're working for.” He looked at the girl and raised an eyebrow. “Right? You do know who owns this place, don't you?”

“I, uh, just work here, sir,” she said. Smart girl. She
did
know, of course, and she wasn't just a tattoo artist. She had juice and enough of a brain not to talk about it.

“My mistake,” Samael said. “Just a word to the wise, Domino. The clock is ticking.”

“Yeah, it is,” I said. “Enjoy it while you can.”

 

Detectives Meadows and Sullivan were waiting for me at the door of my condo when I got home. I might have guessed.

“Ms. Riley, we'd like you to come downtown and answer some questions,” Sullivan said.

“Why's that? I've still got your card. I'll give you a call if I remember anything that might help you.”

“We have a witness who reports seeing you leaving the scene,” Meadows said. “You're going to have to come with us.”

“Let me guess, white male, early twenties, dark hair to his shoulders, nice build?”

Meadows frowned and glanced at Sullivan. “We can't divulge the identity of the witness, Ms. Riley.”

“Yeah. This guy's lying to you. It's personal with him and me. You're going to find out he's not a very reliable witness. He's wasting your time.”

“Maybe so,” said Sullivan, “but you're still going to come with us.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not yet,” said Meadows. “But we can do it that way if you want.”

I didn't have time for this shit. I tapped the ley line and flowed juice into a spell. “I have with me two gods,” I said, “Persuasion and Compulsion.” The magic would ensure the cops would buy just about anything I was selling.

“Excuse me, Ms. Riley?” said Meadows.

“The fuck are you talking about?” said Sullivan.

“You don't need me to come downtown,” I said.

“The fuck we don't,” said Sullivan.

“I'm not a suspect in this case.”

“The fuck you're not.”

I blinked and looked at the detectives with my witch sight. My compulsion had broken against them like waves against the rocks. Someone had warded them against my magic. The defenses were good—I'd eventually find a hole in them, but it would take a while.

Samael appeared behind the detectives, standing between them. He put his arms around their shoulders, but they didn't seem to notice. He smiled. “I did that,” he said.

My mind raced as I ran through the options. I could get a lot tougher with the juice, but I didn't really want to go there with the cops, and anyway, I wasn't sure
even combat magic could hammer through Samael's wards. I could force them to go get a warrant. I didn't know much about police procedure—I didn't need to when I could rely on magic to get me out of jams—but it seemed pretty likely they had more than enough on me to get one. And being arrested would just dig me in deeper.

In the end, I took a ride downtown. It was the first time since I was a juvenile delinquent I'd seen the inside of a police station. I spent a couple hours in an interview room stonewalling the detectives while I poked holes in the wards. Fortunately, Samael didn't show up to patch them or I might have been there all day.

Meadows managed to score some alone time with me, and she used it to press me on Shanar Rashan and the outfit. She knew there was more going on in the city than met the eye. She didn't have all of it, but she was just aware enough of the supernatural underworld that she couldn't let it go. Even if no one else in the department believed her, she was going to keep digging until she found the truth.

What she apparently didn't realize was that civilians—sensitive or not, cops or not—were never given a chance to find the truth. Eventually, she'd get too close, learn a little too much, and someone or something would make her go away.

When I'd weakened the wards sufficiently, I hit Meadows and Sullivan with the compulsion again. I told them to erase the interview tape and shred the paperwork, and then I walked out of there. It wasn't a perfect solution. Lots of other cops had seen me. I didn't know how much Meadows and Sullivan might have talked about me, or to whom, and I couldn't be
sure how far the paper trail went. Maybe they'd get it all, or maybe there'd be a loose end someone would notice and start asking questions. Even with magic, cover-ups are complicated, which is why it's best to stay off Five-oh's radar in the first place.

I cabbed it back home and got a call from Chavez on the way. Alexander had agreed to meet with me…in a few days, maybe the weekend. It pissed me off that Alexander had such trouble working me into his schedule, and besides, I wasn't sure I'd be available in a few days. I told Chavez to politely request a more urgent fucking meeting.

I'd just gotten back to the condo when Chavez called again. He'd arranged the sit-down with Alexander for that evening. It was at a construction site in Baldwin Village, a low-income housing tract that would be the crack houses and shooting galleries of tomorrow. I had just enough time to grab a shower and a bite to eat.

In the past, the outfit didn't have any interest in construction, but we were trying something new. Build the right way—some creative geometry and the right symbology stamped into the foundations—and we'd be able to pull even more juice from the vice and sin for which these places would inevitably be used. Ordinarily, we had to convert a building—typically with graffiti magic—but that was a suboptimal solution if we could build our juice boxes from the ground up. Construction is all about efficiency and sustainability these days.

Alexander was waiting for me in a trailer at the construction site. Most of his crew was there, too. They were armed and juiced up, but that didn't necessarily mean Alexander was planning to take a shot at me. He might just be scared shitless. I still hoped he'd make a
move and give me an excuse, but I wasn't counting on it, the way my luck had been running.

A gangster with an Uzi and nervous eyes opened the door for me and I climbed into the trailer. Alexander was sitting behind a battered metal desk with a Formica surface. He nodded to one of the folding chairs in front of the desk.

“Chavez said you wanted to sit down,” he said. “Here I am.”

I had to stifle a laugh as I took a seat. Alexander was trying to play the hard guy, but he didn't play it very well. It wasn't really his fault—a real hard guy is hard because life made him that way. You can take the rich white kid out of Pasadena, but you can't take Pasadena out of the rich white kid. Still, he didn't seem frightened or even concerned. He seemed confident, like he already knew what was going to happen. Given that he had no reason to feel confident, that made me curious.

“Yeah, real nice of you to meet with me, Jefferson. I was afraid we were going to lose you.” I left it hanging there, and the look on Alexander's face told me he wasn't sure how to take it. Good. The same look told me it didn't bother him much, either way. Not good.

“Drink?” he asked, holding up a bottle.

“Cuervo?” I said, and shook my head. “I've already had my daily allowance of iguana piss.” I admit, I'm a tequila snob. I can drink just about any hootch ever brewed or distilled and have a pretty good time, as long as you don't try to call it tequila. Alexander shrugged and poured a dirty drinking glass half-full.

“Well, say what you want to say. I got other people to see tonight.”

Was that supposed to mean he was meeting with rival
outfits? Probably, and that meant I'd better do a really good job of changing his mind.

“What happened with Carmen Leeds was unfortunate,” I said. “It wasn't sanctioned.”

Alexander shrugged and took a drink.

“That said, strength demands respect. That's the way it is with our thing. I gotta recognize it. Makes it look like I picked the wrong guy to run this crew.”

Alexander smirked and took another drink. “Yeah, I guess maybe you did.”

I nodded and hoped he wouldn't see the way my jaw was clenching. “Okay, so you win. You run this crew.”

“You're giving it to me?”