Pain Management (26 page)

He wasn’t so much lurking as lounging, his stance as lame as his outfit. Whoever schooled him forgot to mention that predators don’t pose. There’s always bigger ones around. Or smarter ones.

He stuck something in his mouth and fired it up. From how long it took him to get it going, I figured it for a blunt. Pathetic little punk. Then I thought about the white knife, and let the ice come in.

All he did for the next fifteen minutes was watch the street, drag on his maryjane stogie, and fidget like a guy who thought he was going to get stood up. He was about as inconspicuous as a macaw on a glacier.

The Pontiac rolled to the curb. Ann got out, taking her time, as if she was scanning the street for new customers. When nothing showed, she stepped into the lot, walked behind an abandoned sofa, pulled the hot pants down to her thighs, and squatted below my sight line.

I couldn’t tell if she was relieving herself, or just making it look real. The watcher thought it was real—he hung back until she straightened up and pulled her pants back on. When he made his move, I made mine, cutting across his path, hanging just over his right shoulder so I’d be ready to follow him as soon as he split.

I didn’t want to get close enough to spook him. Couldn’t hear what either of them said, but I could see him brace her. Saw the white knife that earned him his rep. Watched Ann open her tiny little purse and take something out, hand it to him.

I saw him turn to leave. That should have been it, then—just follow him to his crib and take care of business. But he changed the game when he reached out and grabbed Ann by the arm. I saw the white knife slash, heard her make a grunting sound and go down to one knee. I was already moving by then, heard him say, “Fucking cunt! Don’t ever forget me!” as he backhanded her across the face.

Ann saw me coming, waved her hand frantically. He took it as a “No more!” gesture. I took it that she wanted me to stay with the plan. He made up my mind for me when he wheeled and headed back toward where he’d come from.

As I merged with the shadows, I caught a glimpse of Ann sticking a small packet in her teeth, tearing it open with one hand, then smearing it all over her arm. Alcohol swab? I couldn’t wait to see—the knifeman was moving now. Not exactly running, but making good time. And plenty of noise. Following him was no trick.

Ann’s guess about his hideout was on the money. He made his way through an alley to the side of an abandoned building. The door was barely hanging on the hinges. But when he swung it open, I could see a metal gate inside. His key opened the padlock. He stepped inside, about to vanish.

“Show me your hands, punk.
Empty!
” I said softly, the Beretta a couple of feet from the back of his head.

He whirled to face me. “I . . .”

“Now!”
I almost whispered, cocking the piece.

His hands came up. Slow and open.

“You made a mistake,” I said, moving toward him, using the cushion of air between us to force him back inside the building. We were in a long, unlit hallway. All I could make out behind him was a set of stairs.

“Look, man. You got the wrong—”

“I don’t think so. They told me, look for a jailhouse turnout who carries a little white knife. And that’s you, right?”

“I’m not no—”

“Yeah, you are. That’s why you hate women so bad. And the white knife, that’s like your trademark, huh?”

“That was your woman? I didn’t know—”

“My woman? I look like a fucking pimp to you, pussy?”

“No, man. I didn’t mean—”

“Where’s your partner?”

“My . . . I don’t have no—”

“I don’t care what you call him, punk. The nigger you’ve been working with.”

“Look, you don’t get—”

“Yeah. I do,” I said, reading his face. “I do
now.
He’s not your partner, he’s your jockey, right?”

“Cocksucker!” he snarled, dropping his right shoulder to swing. I chopped the Beretta viciously into the exposed left side of his neck. He slumped against the wall, making a mewling sound, left hand hanging loosely at his side. I brought my knee up in a feint. He went for it, tried to cup his balls with his good hand. By then, the slapjack was in my left hand. I crushed his right cheekbone with it.

I pocketed the slapjack, then turned him over. It was hard to do with only one hand, especially with him vomiting, but I managed it without letting go of the Beretta. When I saw there was nothing left to him, I went back to work with the slapjack, elbows and knees, all the while whispering promises about how much worse this could get, until he passed out.

Kruger hadn’t asked for a body. And he hadn’t offered enough to trade for one, either. My job was done.

I started to get up and fade away when I flashed on Ann. In that vacant lot. The white knife . . .

A good needle-artist could change the tattoos on his hands. But no surgeon was going to reattach the first two joints of both his index fingers. I took them with me.

The maggot wasn’t going to bleed to death, even in that abandoned building—I used the little blowtorch to cauterize the nice clean amputations his pretty white knife had made.

By the time I got back to the vacant lot, Ann was gone.

“She took off in her own ride. The Subaru,” Gordo told me. “I asked her if she wanted to go to the hospital, but she told me she had it under control. I didn’t know what to—”

“You handled it perfect, Gordo. Let’s get out of here.”

“You have to do the motherfucker?”

I unwrapped the black handkerchief, showed Gordo the two index fingers.

“Should have taken his fucking
cojones.
He cut that girl for no—”

“He didn’t have any to take. Besides, the other one’s still out there.”

“Yeah? You think that
gusano
could describe you?”

“Not a chance,” I said confidently. “His eyes were closed.” But even as I spoke, I knew he’d gotten a real good look at Ann. And if I was right about the black guy being the jockey . . .

“Where you want to toss the fingers,
hombre
?” Gordo asked.

“Anyplace there’s rats,” I told him.

“Never in all my life been no place where there ain’t,” he said, pointing the Corvette toward the waterfront.

“You okay?” I said into the cell phone, relieved that she’d answered at all.

“Fine. It was a clean cut. Shallow. He was just like any other trick, doing whatever he has to do to get off.”

“Look, knife wounds can be—”

“It’s fine, okay? I swabbed it out, put on some antibiotic paste, gave myself a tetanus shot, and butterflied it closed. It was strictly subcue, didn’t get near the muscle. I’ll be fine.”

“You did that all yourself? You didn’t go to the—?”

“Don’t be dense,” she said curtly. “And don’t talk so much on the phone.”

“Okay. When do we get to see—?”

“Meet me at my . . . at the place I use.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Can you drop me at—?”

“No,
hombre.
Here’s what’s up. I call Flacco, he comes to where we park, we leave you the ’Vette. You come back whenever you come back.”

“Why not just—?”

“Don’t be putting us in a cross,
amigo,
” he said, his voice full of that special sadness that works best in Spanish. “Gem asks us—and—you know what?—I don’t think she’s
gonna
ask us, but, if she does—we tell her the truth, understand? We don’t
want
to know where you meet anybody. Especially that woman.”

“It’s just a—”

“Don’t matter what it is. What you
think
it is, anyway. We had your back tonight, yes?”

“Yes. And I’m—”

“You don’t got to be nothing, man. Like we told you; it’s for Gem, bottom line. Get it?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Gordo.”

“De nada.”

As I guided the Corvette to where Ann said she’d be, I turned to one of the blues programs you can find on KBOO at odd hours. Slim Harpo’s “What’s Going On?” growled its way out of the speakers. The way I was going, I might make that one my Portland theme song.

The radio kept it going. Butterfield’s “Our Love Is Drifting.” Then Bo Diddley’s “Before You Accuse Me.” As if the DJ knew I was listening.

But before I could call Hong the other mule, what I had to figure out was . . . if it was really my stall.

Ann was waiting on me, her left biceps wrapped in a startlingly white bandage.

“Pretty sexy-looking, huh?” she greeted me.

Considering the bandage was all she was wearing, I decided not to guess what game she was playing and just nodded.

“What happened?” she asked, following me to the armchair.

“I took your signal, shadowed him back to where he was holed up. He went for his knife,” I lied, planting my self-defense seed just in case. “He ended up getting hurt.”

“Bad?”

“Yeah.”

“Dead?”

“No.”

“Think he’ll go to the cops?”

“Not a chance.”

“And he’s done putting the muscle on the girls?”

“He’s done with muscle, period.”

“So we can go to Kruger now.”

“We’d better give it a few days. No reason Kruger should take anyone’s word for anything. Besides,” I said, watching her closely, “that other one—the black guy—he’s still out there.”

“But he never cut—”

“Listen to me, Ann. I was there, okay?”

“So was I.”

“Not the same way I was. And you don’t come from the same place I do. The white guy, he
liked
doing what he did. But, the way I see it, the black guy, the whole shakedown thing was his idea. And he had a bigger plan in mind than these penny-ante payoffs.”

“What are you saying?”

“That it may not be over. And if it’s not, we’ve got nothing to trade to Kruger.”

“Damn! All this for . . .”

“Maybe not. But for the next few days, I think we have to play it out.”

“How?”

“You go back on the stroll. Or at least be visible. And I’ll be right with you. Only not.”

“Not . . . what?”

“Visible.”

“Like my bodyguard?”

“Not like tonight. If I even
see
him, I’m going to drop him.”

“But you don’t know what he looks like. And neither do I. Those descriptions, they aren’t worth the . . .”

“If it’s like I think, it won’t matter,” I told her, keeping my voice level.

“I don’t—”

I reached over, grabbed the fleshy pad at the inside of her thigh, squeezed it hard, pulling her closer to me.

“You’re—”

“I know I am,” I said. “But you
are
going to listen. And you
are
going to fucking ‘care,’ understand?”

“Yes! Now let me—”

I released my grip.

“You want to kiss it and make it better?” she half-snarled, flexing her thigh.

“You really
are
a stupid bitch, aren’t you?
Fuck
you, listen or don’t. The way I see it, the black guy
can’t
let this one go. He’s got a lot invested. Plus, he has to show his punk he’s stronger, understand?”

“No.”

“Stop pouting and pay attention. The black guy wasn’t the lackey; he was the leader. He’s been watching the street for a while.
He
probably knows you’re no hooker.
He
probably knows your car. And
he’s
probably going to try to take you out.”

“Kill me?”

“At the very least, hurt you. Real, real bad.”

She dropped into my lap. A bruise was blossoming on the inside of her thigh. It took me a minute to realize she was crying.

Gem wasn’t around when I got back to the loft. I realized how I felt about that when I let out the breath I was holding.

It didn’t take me long to throw everything I needed into my duffel. I found one of her cross-ruled pads; wrote:

I spent a minute trying to think of how to close it. Came up with nothing. So that’s how I signed it, too.

The penthouse topped a high-rise in downtown Portland. The woman who let us in looked to be in her early forties—impossible to tell when they’ve got unlimited money and are willing to spend it on their looks. The living room was overpowered by a condo-sized aquarium, densely packed with brilliantly colored fish. I didn’t recognize anything inside it except for what looked like a pair of miniature gray sharks near the bottom.

“It probably started with gays smuggling AZT,” the woman said. “That wasn’t even for pain, necessarily. But the pain of knowing there’s something out there that
could
maybe save you—or give you more of your life—and you can’t
have
it, that’s . . .”

“You’re sure about the Ultracept?” Ann interrupted.

The rich lady didn’t seem to mind. “Absolutely sure. Men just love to boast, don’t they?” she said, talking to Ann while giving me a piece-of-meat look. “It’s not information they’d guard zealously, like some hot stock tip. One thing about those dot-com parties, honey, they’re much more egalitarian than the kind you’d find at a country club. They’re all so very into
mind,
you know? Nerdy little biochemists who wouldn’t get listened to at a backyard cookout behind one of their tract houses, well, they get a
lot
of attention from people who just
come
at the prospect of a new IPO.”