Immortality Is the Suck (18 page)

Paolo Spence?”

Albert was trying to light his spliff again. “I might have. He's in Mexican

prison, sí?”

“Somebody killed him, I heard.”

Albert inhaled deeply. Exhaled, and around the smoke, said, “Bad for

him.”

“Well, and then I heard he might not be dead after all.”

Albert raised his left eyebrow so that it matched his scarred right.

“I'm looking for anybody who might have known him. Anybody who might

be a friend who maybe Paolo would call.”

Albert thought about this for a while, smoking. My little spate of activity

and the smell of the weed made the hunger just that much worse.

“You know that theory about the first forty-eight hours on a homicide? It's

like that. I need to find this guy soon.”

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A. M. Riley

“I'll make some calls,” said Albert, squeezing his joint out with his thumb

and forefinger and pocketing the roach.

“Thanks, man.”

“But I don't want you with your monster face pushing your crotch up

against my ass no more, 'mano. Find your own ride.”

“You aren't going to leave me
here
?” We were in a no-man's land. Auto

glass factories, buses, and the prison towers.

I watched him kick his bike into gear, the engine roaring like a lion with

emphysema. “Albert, all I need is a ride to the Wilshire Impound.”

Albert ripped his engine a couple times. It was his own special way of

expressing emotion, I think. “You are a pain in the ass,” he pronounced. “Climb

aboard.” And, as I did so, “Try not to rub off on me.”

* * * * *

rows of Hurricane fencing topped by barbed wire and 1930s-style LAPD

bunker-style buildings on three sides.

Albert parked his bike a block down La Brea and followed me up the

street, chains ringing on his boots as he strolled.

Two truly ugly pit bulls threw themselves at the back fence and caught the

attention of an officer in a light blue shirt and shining new police cap who

immediately started over toward where Albert and I loitered.

He and I scooted back across the street and hopped over the low fence

surrounding an outdoor bistro. I sat and lit a cigarette while Albert looked

down at me, laughing. “No way you're getting in there, 'mano,” he said.

“Shut up.” I flicked ash, studying the lot. Big stadium lights lit every nook

and cranny. Cars were stacked on metal trestles and I couldn't even guess

what they had done with the bikes. Getting in there would be only a tiny part of

the battle. Getting the bike
out
would be the bigger problem.

“I can get in, but we need someone to bring the bike out.”

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119

He straddled a chair. “Easy enough. Just ask them.”

“Yeah, I think I will.” I hopped to my feet. “You keep an eye on that officer

and see where he goes while I go into the office and talk up the desk clerk.”

The desk clerk was one of those LAPD career paper jockeys. She wore the

uniform and a little gold badge above her name tag and probably told her

friends that she was a cop. She probably pulled in twice the salary I did, so

who was I to judge her?

“Excuse me, ma'am.”

She stopped and managed a weak smile. Women always react with a kind

of pleased surprise when they first see me. If they could read my mind they'd

spit in my eye, I bet. I gave her a pained smile back. “I was told I'd find my car

here?”

“Yes, sir?” She started pulling out forms. “If you'll just fill out this…”

“Uh, ma'am.” I lifted the forms in apparent helplessness. “Thing is, I don't

know the VIN number and the registration is in my car.”

“Were you issued a ticket?”

“Ma'am?” I tried to look stupid. It didn't take much acting.

“The information you need would be on the ticket you received when your

car was impounded.”

“Ma'am, I didn't get no ticket. I came out of the bar and my car was gone. I

called the police and they said to come here and git it.” I tried to look both

stupid and drunk. Once again, little acting required.

She was getting pissed off but she still thought I was cute enough to

bother with.

“What is the make and model of your car?”

“Um, well, that's the thing? It's not my car exactly. See, my girlfriend let

me borrow it on account of my other car is in the shop and all's I remember is

that it's green? But, ma'am, if I saw it I could tell you.”

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A. M. Riley

“I'm sorry, sir. If the car doesn't belong to you, we won't be able to release

it to you anyway. You'll have to call your girlfriend and have her come here

and—”

“Oh no,” I said, in horror. “She'll
kill
me.”

“I'm sorry, sir.” She'd had it. She was done. “I can't help you.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sorry, sir.”

I pouted for a minute then said, “Do you know where there's a phone?”

“No, sir.” She turned to the next person in line.

I wandered, stupid, upset, and drunk, around the room and stood vaguely

in the line. I tried a couple more times to get her attention and when I'd made

her determined to ignore me, I sidled up to the side door and slipped through

it.

I was halfway across the lot when a security officer saw me.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“They told me you were getting my bike?”

“Your bike?”

“An '84 Silverado with extended fork and dual carbs,” I said, waving my

arms. “It's taken me four hours to raise the cash to pay the fine, and I've been

waiting for them to bring it out for me.”

The officer looked toward a back corner of the lot. That must be where the

bikes were kept. “I'm sorry, I haven't received a notice.”

“Goddammit. I'm going crazy, man. I heard she was dinged by the tow. Did

you see her when they brought her in?”

“A Silverado Harley?” He looked back toward that back corner again. “I

might have.”

“Just let me look at her, will you, buddy? I just want to know she's all

right.”

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121

“I can't, sir. I'm sorry.” He walked me back to the offices and left me by a

soft drink dispenser then wandered back toward the back corner.

When I came around the corner, Albert was smiling. “He went straight to

it, 'mano. Your ride is right there behind that red Kawasaki.”

I could see my baby's chrome from where I stood.

“Okay, now I need you to go to the other side and try to climb the fence,” I

said to Albert.

“What? You
pendejo
, man.”

“Don't get in, just make a lot of noise trying.”

“Fuck.”

But he did it. I waited until I heard the mild ruckus. Every bored man and

dog on the lot running to join in on the action, then I took a few steps and, half

expecting to fall and crack my head open, I ran up the wall of the bunker.

And I was on the roof.

I'd been thinking about this trick ever since I'd seen Caballo and Betsy

pull it off at the gallery, sort of practicing it in my mind. It was a rush to

actually have it work.

I ran along the roof. Now I could hear and see the dogs and Albert begging

the officers to not let the dogs kill him. I ran and then leaped, easily and lightly,

right behind the space where my bike was stored.

Happily, it had been rolled out for some reason recently. Probably the lab

looking for evidence, and I was able to wheel it behind the other bikes and a

row of cars three deep on racks. Fifty yards from the back gate, I just jumped

on, pumped the clutch, and took her through the gate.

I think one of the pits got out and tore down the street behind me for a few

blocks, but I lost him on the 10. Twenty minutes later, I circled back and found

Albert sitting calmly on his bike, tapping marijuana down in a pipe. A block

from the police station. Arrogant SOB.

“You owe me,” he said.

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A. M. Riley

“Yeah yeah yeah. I'm good for it.”

He eyed me, inhaling deeply; the pot was thick in the air when he exhaled

and offered me the pipe. I shook my head. “I got a call from a dude says he

knew Paolo Spence,” he said.

“What's his name?”

He shook his head. “Said he'd meet with you. Discuss.”

“Okay, where?”

He nodded and straightened, threw one long leg over the bike, and gripped

the choke. “Follow me, 'mano.”

* * * * *

students and struggling actors will meet in, drinking coffee and ordering

enough onion rings and fries to excuse their staying and chatting for hours at a

time.

This Tips had become something of a landmark though. Its age,

impossibly bland Formica-covered interior, and location were still exactly the

same as they had been twenty years earlier when Peter and I had used to stop

for coffee during our breaks.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” He keeps his hair cut very short, in

the LAPD military tradition, but we've been putting in some long hours since the

Prop 13 cutbacks and he's missed a trim. The hair at the temples and sideburns

is white gold and curling.

“Do you have to use that much ketchup?” I ask.

He looks at his plate where a small mound of fries is dwarfed by the puddle

of ketchup. “Yes?”

“It's wasteful,” I say.

He can't believe me. “You're worried about wasting ketchup?”

I take the bottle from him and shake it over my hamburger.

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123

Peter's grinning. “You drive a car that gets about five miles to the gallon and

you're worried about wasting ketchup?”

“Those are two completely unrelated subjects,” I say. I pluck out the pickle

and press the two sides of my burger together so that the juices ooze out onto the

plate.

“Yesterday, you told me you sat in line for an hour to get gas. When was the

last time you sat in line to buy ketchup?” asked Peter.

He's got me and I know it, but I hide my smile behind my burger. “Ketchup

will be the next to go,” I say. “Mark my words.”

The French fry he throws at me gets stuck in my hair.

Albert surveyed the place, then led me to a booth near the windows. The

man sitting in the booth wore a faded green John Deere Tractors cap and

looked up at Albert with pale blue eyes, the whites red around the edges. “Mi

dios,” he said. “What is wrong with
him
?”

“What?”

Albert grinned and put a placating hand on my arm. “My friend always

looks like a fiend,” he said.

A fiend?

I held out my hand. “I'm called Sn—”

“I don't need to know your name,” said the guy. His voice was low and he

scanned the restaurant, furtive and wary, as he spoke. “I'm supposed to be

working for the FBI but those bastards don't pay squat.”

“Okay, but what do I call you?”

“Call me Whitey.”

He glared when I laughed and Albert gave me his charming, diamond-

flashing smile. Okay, whatever. I waved toward the back of the restaurant.

“Let's get another booth. There's a draft here.” And less of a chance of someone

noticing that yours truly not only looked like a fiend, but had no reflection.

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A. M. Riley

We found one in the back, against a wall, and ordered coffee. Tips doesn't

serve espresso or double double caramel lattes.

According to my watch, it was nearly three a.m. Sunrise was at six a.m. “I

haven't got a lot of time,” I told them. “What do you know?”

Whitey rested his hand against his face so that only Albert and I could see

him when he spoke. Really, I figure all informants have reason to be paranoid,

but this fucktard's been watching too much
X-Files
. “There's a rival gang in the

Mongols' territory.”

Great. Another bloodbath. “The Angels swore a truce,” I said. “What

happened?”

“Not the Angels. Not the Mexicans. Somebody new.”

This was hardly newsworthy. Idiots get a few dozen other idiots together

and think they are the kings of their patch of Compton. And then they are

dead. “So?”

“They are a death squad,” said Alberto. “Rumor has it they are up from

Colombia. Nobody knows where they came from.”

“And what has that to do with my friend with the holes in his neck?”

The guy's eyes were such a pale blue, they almost looked white. He leaned

across to whisper, “They say they are the
Chupacabra
.”

“Right.” The mythological vampire dog of Mexican legend.

“No, no, no, that is their gang name. They took credit for killing Richard

Ortiz.”

I leaned across the table and gazed into those almost white eyes. His

pupils were like twin dots. Pinprick-sized holes. Crystal or some meth