One of the Wicked: A Mick Callahan Novel (13 page)

McCarran International. Chirping slot machines, winking lights, the stench of booze mixed with stale cigarette smoke. Old folks in wrinkled polyester yanked handles or pushed bright buttons mindlessly. Small, unobtrusive signs listed the number of Gambler's Anonymous. The Vegas airport was already mobbed with people heading back to the LA area. Clyde waited in the parking lot, but Eric the cowboy walked me to the escalator. He looked down at the carpet and screwed around with the toe of his boot.

"Guess I owe you one." He stuck out his hand. "We were kind of pissed about what happened the other night at the strip club and Clyde just got carried away. No hard feelings?"

"Sure."

I shook his hand without thinking. I'm a regular Gandhi sometimes.

Eric nodded, turned, and vanished into the crowd. I looked up at the board. The white letters made my eyes hurt. I located my plane, and discovered it was already boarding. I hurried for the gate. The flight was packed. The airline was the last one running without seat assignments, so getting aboard was something of a free for all. Standing on the aircraft waiting to snag a seat always makes me want to moo like a cow.

I didn't have a cell. I asked the blue-haired lady gabbing away in the next seat if I could borrow hers. She shot me a dirty look and turned sideways to look outside. The sun cut through the windows like a clear plastic razor. My head still ached. The flight attendants gave us their usual spiel, pretending we'd survive a real crash or a long float in the water, demonstrated the best way to buckle seatbelts we'd all used a million times before, and passed out stale peanuts and tiny plastic cups full of overpriced booze and flat soft drinks.

The ladies and one gent hurried to the front and back of the cabin and strapped themselves in. The old plane shuddered down the runway, groaned and lifted off to caustic applause. Booze service resumed.

I decided to use the brief flight to rest and think. I had to accomplish at least four different things. First, get in touch with Bud Stone and tell him what was going on. Second, run down Joey Faber and Toole as soon as possible. Third, protect Brandi as I'd originally promised. Finally, I had to pass the word to anyone who might be a target to be extra careful until this was over. My friends would not be pleased. Oh, and also find another job, assuming I'd even have the time to take one on.

Some days it's hardly worth getting out of bed.

I slept for twenty minutes or so during the flight, to my surprise, and my head felt a bit better, especially after I'd downed two small glasses of orange juice and some ice water. The landing was as noisy as the takeoff and the brakes sounded horrible. We taxied to a tall set of metal stairs and deplaned through the front. More cattle-in-a-chute stuff. Burbank airport is pretty efficient, and once out of the aircraft I was able to make pretty good time for the exit. I had no baggage other than a bad concussion, so I went straight to a cab and had it run me home. I tipped well because the money was dirty.

I searched the front yard and found my cell phone in the grass. It was still functioning. It said I had two messages. I let myself in, turned on the air-conditioning. I made some strong coffee, sat at the kitchen table, then punched in my code to listen. The first call was from Darlene, the phone had already announced that by showing her number, but it was a hang up.

The second was from Bone.

I flipped back while it played and read the area code: 310. He was still in Los Angeles. I couldn't make it out at first so I hit replay, sat up straight, punched up the volume. "Mick, it's me checking in. The wife is somewhere safe, and I already have most of what I need. I'll be in touch."
Click.

"Damn it." I tried to dial the number my cell listed, and it rang three times. A machine announced I'd reached a room at the Sunset Inn Motel. My party wasn't in, and the recording said to hold on for the desk operator. I closed the phone and immediately dialed another number.

"Jerry? It's me."

"What up, bro?"

"How's the lady?"

"Lopez checks in every couple of hours. Last time we talked everything was cool."

"Tell Lopez someone raised the stakes, and to be extra careful the next few days."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means watch your ass. That's all I can say for now. How are you?"

"Me? I'm fine." After a moment of reflection. "Okay, I've been meaning to tell you anyway. I bought a gun last week. It's a big old Taurus, just like yours."

I sighed. "Have you ever fired a gun, Jerry?"

"When I was a kid, and I'm going to the range today after what you just said." He got a bit defensive. "You still have yours, Mick. I've seen it up there in the closet."

"True," I said softly. I don't really like guns, they always escalate things, but right now having one in the house didn't seem like such a bad idea. "Jerry, let Lopez handle the surveillance stuff. You get back on Faber and Toole. Fast. I need to run them down, anything you can get, even guesswork. Where are they now? Get the files you've collected over to Darlene Hernandez through her personal E-mail service. I'm about to ask her for help."

"A likely story."

"Don't bust my balls, just move, okay?"

"Will do, Mick."

"Jerry, stay safe. I'll call you later."

I had to leave a message for Hal Solomon; he didn't answer at his hotel or via the computer. Since I was out of a job, I was going to need his money and resources if any serious expenses came along. I gathered myself, which took some doing, and called Darlene Hernandez.

"You are a dick, Callahan, know that?"

"Darlene. . . ."

"You call me up and say you didn't call me, and then push to get together when I asked for space. Then you call me last night and just hang the fuck up."

"I. . . ."

"Let me finish. You are just maddening to deal with, Mick Callahan. What the hell happened last night?"

"I want to fill you in, but you're not giving me the room. Darlene, I need to see you. And I mean now."

"No."

"Look, it's not about us this time."

That got her attention, but her next words also oozed disappointment, which surprised me.
Women
. "Then what the hell
is
it about? Are you in trouble again?"

"You might say that. Please check your personal E-mail; you should have something from Jerry."

"Hang on."

I looked at the clock. She was probably due for a meal break soon. Darlene also had recently transferred from Hollywood to the North Hollywood station on Oxnard. Her office was now just minutes away.

"What is this shit, Mick? Why these two ex-cons?"

"Don't ask. Let's get something to eat. I'll fill you in."

"No can do, Mick. I'm meeting Larry." Her cousin, who'd hired Lopez for me.

"Donato looks good when we talk. How's he doing these days?"

"He gets by without a walker most of the time," Darlene said coolly. Now and then she seemed to hold me responsible for his injuries. She sort of blew hot and cold on that one; I could be an angel or a schmuck on a moment's notice. I guess that was understandable. Larry had been shot down right here in my front yard, wearing my sweatshirt and thus taken for me by mistake.

"I'm glad to hear that." I meant it. "Okay. I have an errand to run anyway. Look at those files, and then how about I stop by the station in a couple of hours, just for a few minutes."

"Give me a hint?"

"I need to find two men. I'd rather not get into the rest."

"Never can tell who's listening?"

"Not these days. Five?"

"Five-thirty," Darlene said. "And you'd best make it quick."

I have such a way with the ladies.

I took Riverside Drive to Laurel Canyon, went south into the hills and over toward Sunset. There was no reason to call the motel back. Bud was unlikely to still be there, and I was certain he would have used a fake name and paid in cash. Traffic was light for the canyon, except for a brief construction bottleneck. Another slowdown happened because both sides of the road were lined with people in orange doing community service over traffic infractions and minor drug charges. I finally hit Sunset, but went the wrong way at first and had to find a place to turn around.

The motel was squeezed somewhat reluctantly in between two supposed LA landmarks; a decrepit drugstore with a famous soda fountain and a tacky bowling alley. It was bright and hot and the day-shift hookers were out in force, offering quickies to the passing drivers. I had a hell of a time finding a parking spot, so I went into the soda fountain and got an egg salad sandwich and cola to go, then left the bag on my front seat and locked the car.

The motel office was an ice box, meaning about that big and easily as cold. The guy behind the desk was pierced in silver and weird enough to resemble Pinhead from the Hellraiser movies. He sat back in a padded office chair, dozing, wearing a black tee with a death metal band logo, black jeans, and boots. His pale arms were crossed, hands folded. He looked recently embalmed. I showed him some money. One bloodshot eye opened.

"I'm looking for a friend of mine. It's kind of off the record."

"Him or you?"

"Both. A hundred bucks to
keep
it off the record."

One hand crawled the worn desk like an albino crab and the money vanished. I described Bud Stone. The clerk closed his eyes again. "You're in luck, 'cause I pulled a double. I checked him in last night. He got in late, paid cash, grabbed some instant coffee here in the lobby at around dawn and took off again."

"What name did he give you?"

"We get a John Smith in here damned near every night, for some strange reason. My boss should inform the
Guinness Book of Records
."

"Did he say anything?"

"Just that LA needs a new football team. Oh, and Mr. Smith won't be back."

"Sure about that?"

The other hand dangled the key to 301. "Dropped this off on the way out, gave me fifty bucks and told me to forget him."

"Apparently that hundred I just gave you isn't going to buy much discretion."

"So I'm an asshole."

I leaned forward over the counter, looked left and right out the windows. A balding man wearing a blue and green aloha shirt was loading luggage into the trunk of a rental car while being assaulted by a distraught wife and two screaming little boys. When he bent over I could see his pate was pink and peeling. The guy glanced over at me as if looking for sympathy. I stood up straight again.
Too many witnesses.

"One last question," I said. "Has that room been cleaned yet?"

The clerk yawned. "Probably not before three, man. Only two of the girls showed up for work today. It's like that sometimes."

I opened my palm. He gave me the key. "Don't slow them down. As you can see, we run a very tight ship, here. Up the stairs and to the right."

I jogged up to 301. The cleaning cart was four doors down and closing fast. Even though I felt silly and paranoid, I stepped to the side of the entrance and knocked twice. The sun burned down on my shoulders. A crow cawed raucously right above my head. Other than that, silence.

I opened the door and went in. The curtains were closed tight. The room was dark and stuffy. The bed was rumpled, the television cabinet wide open. I closed and locked the door, started by searching the bathroom. I had no law enforcement experience, but hoped to get lucky. Bud had taken a shower and left wet towels on the floor. The trash can held some used tissues, dental floss, and an empty book of paper matches from GENTS, which seemed to be yet another strip club. The name had doodles through a few letters. I looked closer. The address said it was located out by the LA airport. I stuffed that in the pocket of my jeans.

The messy bed occupied most of the other room. I looked through the sheets, saw no evidence Bone had brought a girl to his room. I didn't really expect that he'd do that while on the run. He hadn't used any of the cheap stationery in the drawer.

The trash can by the right-hand bed held an empty half pint of cheap rum, one soft drink can, and a tissue with brownish stains. I lifted it out gingerly, sniffed. It smelled like gun oil. I flipped on the tube and it was set for the local news. It appeared Bud had cleaned weapons while watching television, probably looking to see if anyone had managed to finger him for the Gordo mess. He'd thrown out or taken the gun rag, but a bit of oil had gotten onto the bathroom tissue. That scared me. Lots of things seemed to be scaring me of late.

I went around the foot of the bed to look for the other trash can. It hadn't been used at all. I looked under the bed, in the dresser drawers, the closet. Clean as a fake tooth. Even the wooden coat hangers were straight. Of course, he'd be traveling light, maybe one change of clothes to wash in the sink or at a Laundromat.

I let myself back out and almost ran right into the cleaning cart. I smiled at an older Hispanic lady with a round, pretty face. She gestured to see if I was coming back, and I shook my head.

I stepped out of the way. When she went inside to clean up, I trotted back down the stairs and entered the motel office. The pale clerk was dozing again. I looked out both windows. The harried husband was gone and now the tiny parking lot was deserted.

I cleared my throat loudly and dropped the key on the desk. The clerk opened one eye again. "You done?"

I nodded, waved a finger for him to sit up and move my way. "Let me tell you a little secret. What's your name?"

"Bob."

"Bob, come closer."

When he got near enough, I grabbed his neck and squeezed. His eyes bulged wide and the blood left his already pale face. He sputtered and writhed so I squeezed a little bit harder. He stopped moving.