Nothing (3 page)

A knock at the door.

You gotta be fucking kidding me. I smooth down The Girl's hair and close the door almost closed.

Think Motherfucker. Think.

I check the fisheye in the door. It's the Old Cop. Why was he still around? My brain seems to slow down. Slow. Slower. He shouts against the door.

I know you're in there creep. Open up.

I open the door.

He shoves past me straight into the bedroom. He turns and says.

Thought I told you to leave?

Hard of hearing.On certain occasions.

Sure you are. Regular mute when you want to be.

I walk past him and flick on the light that illuminates all the low-key bulbs in the room. Old Cop keeps his eyes on me. He doesn't speak. I don't know what he's waiting for or what he wants. He didn't look the type to set me up with shit like this. I know the type. I have experience. See through them real clear. See it in a twitch, a dart of the eye. It's that type. Not him. He speaks.

You didn't answer 30 minutes ago but you get the door now. S'pose you was sleeping?

I was otherwise engaged, yeah.

Yeah?

He looks around the room. My bag is sat on the luggage stretcher. He looks at it. I take in his saggy features, my hand moves to the pistol in my waistband pressed against my sweat-soaked lumbar. With my thumb I flip the safety to off, nice and slow.

Old Cop turns to the crack in the bathroom door. Think motherfucker. Think. I will fill this old prick with holes as he turns to face me. My hand feels calm and slips around the grip.

Old Cop uses a finger-tip to push the bathroom door a little wider. From his angle all he would see was graying but tanned feet either side of the faucet and a black wedge shape giving her gender away. He says.

Sorry Missy. So sorry.

He pulls the door closed. Speaks.

Why didn't you say you had company?

I can't loosen my grip. I will fill this old prick with holes. I can see the bullets slamming into his body, him dropping to his knees. Black holes in his fucking stupid white shirt. I say.

Didn't know what this was all about. Didn't think it was of police interest what I did on my own time.

He sniffs.

I like assholes what come to my County. I like the same assholes to know I know where they are and that I can be here real quick being a bigger asshole than they are. I like them to know that.

That reassures me. I'm enjoying the California girls and enjoying the build up of my lovely tan.

You don't have a tan.

Give me time.

He takes a step towards me. My hand is still on the grip of the 9mm. I will fill this stupid shit-brick full of black holes. Tells me.

There ain't enough time here for you to get some sun. You be a good boy and get back on that jet plane and slide back into whatever ghetto shit-hole life you came from.

He extends his finger, until it's almost near my face. He is about to tell me something else equally boring but important to him. The doorbell chimes. I say.

I'm expecting someone.

He runs his tongue over his too-white California implanted teeth. Nods and turns to leave. I ask him.

Who's Manolito Santana?

That stops him.

The doorbell chimes again. He says.

Bad fucking news. That's who he is. Why?

You don't know?

He shrugs. I shrug.

Doorbell chimes.

I pass Old Cop and open the room door. Pilgrim is waiting. Old Cop walks past him into the corridor. Pilgrim remains standing there. His head is bowed slightly, as it always is. He wears a white baseball cap and has a large port-wine birthmark covering one entire side of his face. I gesture him to come in. He enters, I push the safety back on the pistol but leave it in my waistband. I close the door, Old Cop is long gone. Go to my bag and take out ten grand. I hand it to Pilgrim in blocks.

He does not speak. I tell him.

Three for the clean. The package is in the tub. Seven is to keep your eyes open and ear close to the ground. You hear my name mentioned in the City, you call me on this number. Clear?

He doesn't speak. I say.

I haven't forgotten about all that shit in New Jersey. I'll take care of it.

He nods and walks into the bathroom. I follow. California Girl's tan has now faded considerably, she is virtually blue-grey. I leave him to work. I grab my bag and head for the door. I stop at the bathroom and say.

Don't forget that 7 grand Pilgrim, because I won't.

He nods.

I walk into the corridor and take the stairs. They smell of fresh paint and feel cool. It takes me 30 minutes to walk to Largo's hotel in the hot night air. When I knock on his door he answers in a white vest and white boxer shorts. He says.

What time is it?

Doesn't matter.

What?

I pass him into his room and throw my bag onto the ruffled bed and turn on the lights. He repeats.

What?

The girl Baba sent. She's dead.

What?

You say 'What?' one more time and you might end up the same way.

He rubs his hair, then his eyes, then his crotch. He says.

I'll get coffee.

I nod.

As he gets dressed I tell him what happened. California Girl. Old Cop. Pilgrim. He's a good listener and nods occasionally, then says.

I'll get coffee then we can talk.

Fine.

He leaves.

I turn on the TV it's all late-night infomercials. A guy with wigs and fake hair jobs that you can swim in makes bullshit promises. They all look like rugs to me. Flip channel. If you use this guys system then you could be a millionaire from selling unwanted crap on Ebay. Total horse shit. Flip channel. I can learn computers. A language. Property Investment. Personal Self Esteem. Remove Nasal Hair. Glue pipe with Silly Putty. Sing with Jesus and Love Myself. Get the Abs I've always Desired. And all for $29.99 or exercise my full 100% money back guarantee and still keep my special bonus free gift. I stop flipping channels. Press the red button on the remote. Drop the room into darkness. It's been a Long

Long

Day.

DEAD LIFE

Largo is snoring next to me on top of the crummy nylon sheet. I'm actually in the bed under the sheets. Don't know how I got inside. Don't care. 2 Starbucks take outs. Venti. On the night stand.

I take one and sip it. Fucking sugar shit. I put it back and take the other. Cold latte. Good. It tastes good. Check my watch. Hit the shower. Largo hits the shower. I get dressed. Largo says.

We walk out of here together people'll think we're fags.

I look at him and say.

They've thought worse. Get your shit.

He crams a sawn-off shotgun, an Uzi, and a new box of shells into a holdall that already contains handguns and silencers. I had made the appointment to meet Iverson at the mortuary for the official ID. My mom was still in the hospital. I didn't want to see her. In my mind she was already dead. Gone. I made sure our lives would never cross again. Never meet. Until now.

Lewinsky Mortuary was a white church style structure squashed back from the main street by a Hollywood video store and a KFC. I left Largo in the car and walked inside. It was a polite respectful environment. Dark wood. Deep red drapes with scarlet velveteen furniture. Magazines on a low table placed symmetrically. Almost muted pipe music echoes from somewhere hidden. A solemn looking thin man with a taught face and deep tan came from a doorway out the back. He says.

Can I help you?

I'm here to meet Detective Iverson.

Ah. He's back thisaway.

I follow the man.

I'm sorry for your loss.

My loss is your gain.

He stops. He smiles a tight smile and says.

I beg your pardon.

Don't give me any God squad shit. You're in this for the cash like all the other vultures. You can look down and tired but when my checkbook gets pulled out, or some other asshole picks up the tab, it'll be steaks all round.

He remains calm. Says.

That is one viewpoint.

Yeah. Mine. Now get on with the fucking tour surfer dude or you might end up business for the competition.

He smiles a pathetic smile. He turns and takes me into a room. Iverson is stood near a window with curtains hanging and a gold braid drawstring. He nods.

Glad you could make it.

Fine. Let's do this.

The lithe tanned undertaker walks into another door.

Iverson seems nervous. He speaks.

I have to mention that your sister took a shot to the head...

I nod. I understand. But not really. Is he telling me she's disfigured. Is she a mess behind those curtains? Did she feel it? Was it painful? Iverson says.

Are you ready?

I nod.

He slowly draws the gold braid drawstring and the curtains part. I feel the tension in my arms. The muscles in my arms and chest contract. Hard. Harder. Pain in my upper pectorals and neck.

The tanned undertaker has a white plastic apron covering his grey suit. A shiny steel gurney with a small rectangular sheet is on its top surface. Beneath the sheet is a shape. A form. Iverson nods at him. He peels back the sheet.

Air leaves my body.

My mind empties. Drains. Falls. My hand in a reflex I don't recognize slaps against the glass leaving a greasy print. My belief is gone. I am empty. Why is she here? I wanted to to say No this is a mistake. The hairs in my nose are on fire. Flared nostrils. My jaw and throat constrict. I feel like I'm strangling myself. Iverson speaks.

Is that your sister Sir?

Close her eyes.

Iverson looks at the man behind the glass. I say.

Close her fucking eyes

The tanned man leans forward and slides his fingers over her eyelids.

A feeling I have felt before surges up through me: It's rage. I'm sure Iverson could not see my rage welling, surging like a power cord. He was looking away from me. So was the man in the grey suit with his stupid fucking white apron. All I say is.

That's her.

That is all I have to say. I walk out of the room. Out of the mortuary. Out onto the street with the palm trees and blue blue sky. Sea spray air. Fuck California.

Largo can see the rage. The fury. He does not speak until I have been in the car a few minutes with the air con blowing. Cooling me. He says.

What's next?

I still cannot speak. I want to kill. Murder something. The bones in my throat feel cracked. I somehow find a small voice in my mouth. It is calm. It is focused. It is fearless. It says.

We are going to find who did this. When we do we'll torture him. Then we will find his mother and father and kill them in front of him and burn their houses. If he has a son I'll castrate him before his eyes, if he has a daughter I'll burn her alive. If anyone owes him money I'll kill them. If he has associates I'll kill them and burn their houses. When there is no one left to kill and blood flows freely down Sunset fucking Boulevard then I will kill this stain. When he goes to hell I want him to wait there for me. For when I arrive that's when the fun really starts.

Largo nods. Speaks.

What next?

There is nothing here. It's like a fucking surf shack for middle aged assholes. Take me to LA, I want to meet Manalito Santana. Take me to my sisters killer. I want my revenge.

I understand. Let's finish this.

Iverson walks from the mortuary. I ignore him. We drive north to meet death and his accomplices.

MISTER DALLAS

Baba Yama was trying to make some kind of statement. I press the intercom on the gate. I see armed security at the entrance to the house. I wait. Stand. Wait. Something electronic clicks and the gates part.

We drive to the entrance. 2 large Greek pillars stand sentinel. Palms sway. Sun burns the ground. Sky blue within blue. A man appears from the oversize doors. He is suited and wears an earpiece. He says.

I am Mister Dallas

He has a British accent.

I will need to search you.

I hold up my arms. Largo holds up his arms. Mister Dallas pats us down in the usual places. We are unarmed. I want to kill something but I swallow it down. I keep swallowing. Swallow more. Dallas stands from rubbing Largo between his thighs. He speaks.

Please gentlemen, follow me.

We walk behind Dallas. He is not a big man but from his movements and the way he carried his frame, you can see his military background even through the designer suit.

Baba's house is bigger than any place I had ever been inside before. Drug wars had been good to him financially. Los Angeles could not move powder: white, brown or yellow without his permission. Several gangs had corners where they thought they controlled the uncontrollable but they existed, only breathed because Baba allowed it.

Mikey, my direct boss, had been given permission from Baba to allow me to come to L.A. To put my sister in the ground. Mikey and Baba were on the same level in this hierarchy of crime: Michael Cappaletti in Chicago and Baba Musashi Yama in Los Angeles. Mikey did not want me here without some kind of gesture. A kind of misguided respect. I could give a fuck about Yama, Dallas, Iverson, The Cops or any other washed-up fucks in this stupid state. But for Mikey I would go along. Be Gracious, Mikey said. It pays off. I said, Fuck that, Fuck grace!

Dallas led us to a room, white walls with a 30 foot high ceiling. One side was glass with a view of a swimming pool on various levels. Girls in bikinis and swimsuits frolicked In and out of the water. Laughter and Cocaine. No men in sight.

The room was sunken into inner layers, descending towards a large couch and a sea of pillows. Sat with his back to us was Baba Yama, talking on the phone. His head: bald and scarred, his body so grossly overweight that he could hardly move. He must just sit here looking at things he couldn't touch. I walk around the edge with Dallas who stops before descending down into the sunken lounge. Yama holds up a hand signaling us to stop. His Japanese facial features folded into a Buddha form. He spoke guttural Japanese staccato to someone then slammed down the handset. He indicated for Dallas to enter. He steps down towards Yama who was swathed in a large silk kimono, leans forward, Yama whispers. Dallas comes back. He tells me.