The Pressure of Darkness (28 page)

"What are you talking about?"

"Dinky Martin, damn it. Don't yank my chain. You left me in the dark and holding my dick, here."

Burke blinked. "Somebody wasted Dinky?"

"And the Arena Bowl Elephant, too. Down in Sherman Oaks somewhere. You trying to tell me it wasn't you who did it?"

"No way. I swear."

"Don't lie to me, damn it." But Burke's shocked face was convincing. Tony slowly relaxed. "Maybe you'd best tell me what transpired."

Burke sighed. "He and the big guy tailed me out of a restaurant and braced me. We danced a little, sure, but I left them both breathing."

"You wouldn't shit me?"

"Tony, I've done some strange things in my time, but I don't kill people for no reason. And if it had been me, it would have been in self-defense. And don't you think I would have called you and put you in the loop?"

Monteleone pondered. After a time, he relaxed. "It didn't sound much like you, Red. You don't like knives and I never heard of you strangling somebody, either."

Burke was worried, deep in thought. "Down in Sherman Oaks, you said. That bothers me, man. Because it must have happened right after I got into it with them. Did he owe big anywhere else?"

Monteleone dabbed his forehead again. "Not half what he owed me! I'm the biggest sucker around. And now I'm out a lot, and that means my bosses are out, too. They are not happy campers."

"Tony, it wasn't me. We were talking about two different things at the start, there."

Monteleone squinted. "Okay, but answer me this, then. What the hell did you mean when you said it wasn't my business?"

"That was about a girl," Burke offered, weakly. "And . . . well, she's married."

"Pussy? You were going to croak for
pussy?
" Monteleone snapped his fingers. "Down, boys." A rectangle of pale light appeared on the curtain as the first man stepped through the front door. He smiled amiably at Burke and walked back outside. The one in the kitchen quietly closed the door; his footsteps slapped the damp flooring as he exited through the back.

Burke forced a wry grin. "Why do I feel a sudden and almost overwhelming urge to go to confession?"

Straight-faced and dour, Tony Monteleone responded. "Because you were maybe a pubic hair from being dead."

"Well, no wonder."

Tony squinted. "Okay, then here's how it is. I want to hire you to find out who hit him. Who the fuck wasted a client on my turf without asking. Whoever it is, he took bread out of the mouths of my family. I want him notified that his behavior is unacceptable."

Burke drank some coffee. He was surprised to see that his hand was steady. "I guess that brings us to a second topic."

"Which is?"

"I'm out."

"Say what?"

"I'm out." Burke put the cup down, gently. "You've been good to me from the day I hit town from Vegas, Tony. You've looked the other way when I asked you to. You worked with me so I could pick up a government job or two. Never bitched when I had to turn you down for something, never dragged me too far into anything delicate. I owe you big, friend."

"I'm getting an ulcer, damn it." Tony leaned back and rubbed his belly. "It's the stress. Okay, I heard a 'but' in that speech, right?"

"But I just can't do it anymore. I think I can find other ways to make the cash. Maybe I can figure out a way to lower the medical expenses, I don't know. But this tap dancing on the edge, it needs to stop."

"Tell me it ain't so. You're gonna play it straight?"

"Have to."

Monteleone was amused. "And you think
they
will let you walk away, just like that," another snap of the fingers, "whenever you want? Me, I trust you. I might be okay with something like this, but Wee Willie and Sonny D . . . you know how they are."

"I know. So it might please them to know I'm not in a hurry for the rest of the money that is owed me. You can take your time."

Burke was calm and perfectly composed and the reason gradually dawned on Monteleone. He fought down a smirk. "Don't tell me. You have a little insurance policy of some kind put away."

"What we have here is a 'live and let live' kind of thing," Burke replied. "There will be no problem so long as nothing happens to me, or anyone close to me, that could in any way be considered suspicious."

Monteleone allowed the smile to blossom wide. He actually seemed pleased, even proud. "And needless to say, if anyone were to try something and fail, you'd take that very personally."

"Very. I would feel compelled to speak directly to whoever gave that order."

"Like I said earlier, you got balls."

Burke shrugged. "I know I might be putting you in a very awkward position, Tony. Do you mind passing the message for me, or should I fly to Vegas and do it myself?"

"I don't mind. I want to see their ugly faces. And for what it's worth, if anybody can pull off yanking the Corelli brothers by the dick, it's probably you. The government thing scares them shitless, you know. They remember hearing stories about the Kennedy family."

Burke got out of the booth. "Thanks, Tony. You're a good guy. And I meant what I said. I owe you for all you've done for us."

"You and your wife are good people, Red."

"Just take the compliment."

Monteleone considered. "Aw, fuck. I probably owe you, too." A sip of coffee, another dab with the napkin. "But answer me something."

"Okay."

"This married broad. You love her? I mean,
really
love her?"

"Yes." Burke surprised himself. "In fact, I think I always have."

"I kind of envy you that shit," Monteleone said. His eyes changed filters, rolled inward. "Me, I never had it. Been married to Louise since we was both kids in Newark. She was a real sweet piece of ass back then, and I liked her well enough. But now . . ."

Burke waited, politely; wondering where this was headed.

"Now, she's mean as a snake." Monteleone sighed. "What I envy is you got a woman who might really want to be nice to you. That can be a very fucking good thing, important in a man's life. A man needs that shit." He extended his hand. They shook, hard. Monteleone held on for a few extra seconds, clumsy machismo preventing him from voicing his true feelings. Burke nodded, getting it. He squeezed back.

"Red? Good luck."

"Thanks, Tony. You, too."

Monteleone, who had been prepared to do murder only moments before, was embarrassed by the vague hint of real sentiment. He returned to his clutter of papers, face down and shoulders stiff. Burke paused at the back door, looked back at a man truly out of his proper century. Monteleone barked, without looking up.

"Don't be a stranger."

THIRTY-FIVE

TUESDAY

Bowden could still remember when smoking in a city or county building was not considered a mortal sin. But somewhere along the way those tree-hugging, animal-rights, health-food freakazoids wormed their way into state politics. By the time they had completed their rampage, smokers had become an endangered species. Other than a brief, all-too-trendy resurgence of cigar smoking in the 1990s, the zeitgeist had condemned the smoker as foul, filthy, and morally repugnant. Bowden was currently outside the garage entrance, smoking one last cigarette before his meeting with the Deputy Mayor of Los Angeles. He had his back to the parked cars and stood, quietly, inhaling desperately into cupped palms. His cell phone rang.

"Yo! Scotty? It's Doc." His old friend sounds tense, hurried. The dark voice has a flinty edge to it. Doc sounds like a man who just got bad results from a biopsy. "You where you can talk?"

"What's up?" Bowden forces enthusiasm. "How are they hanging these days, my man?"

"Scotty, I don't know who else to talk to. I got specific orders form the ME's office to close the file, but I was fucking around killing time and I noticed something."

Bowden drops his smoke, steps on it. His mouth turns down. "You've lost me, Doc," which is a bald-faced lie, "which file are you talking about?"

"27ME1642," Doc replies. "You know, that writer guy, Stryker."

Bowden kicks the wall in frustration. "Doc, where are you?"

"I'm on a land-line, but it's a pay phone outside the office. Don't worry."

Yeah, but I'm on a goddamn cell phone
, Bowden thinks. He's getting pissed off, but it's really just fear. "I'm worried, believe me. Drop it here, Doc. Please."

"Scotty, I found something really weird."

"You tell anybody about it?"

"I left a message for Burke, but he hasn't gotten back to me yet."

Bowden grunts, runs sweaty fingers through his thinning hair. "Doc, leave him out of the loop. You hear me?"

"Scotty, there's a piece of the guy's bowel missing."

Bowden is speechless. Then: "Say
what
?"

Doc is excited, a bit fascinated. "I was flipping through the files when I came across something so odd it doesn't fit any scenario I've ever seen before, not suicide or homicide. Dude, remember that he did himself in the bathtub, the old
hari kiri
thing?"

"Yeah. It kind of ruined my lunch to read that."

"Catch this, dude. I found an area of the lower bowel where two surgical cuts had been made, neat and clean and professional, one on each side of what was probably about a ten inch section."

"So?"

"So there is absolutely no way the guy could have tortured and disemboweled himself, then made two neat surgical cuts in the mess of his own lower GI. Not a fucking chance. He would have been too deep into shock."

Bowden tap dances. "I read he took a lot of drugs, Doc, all different kinds. Hey, you're the Doc, but, with the right mix of painkillers and stimulants, who knows?"

"Scotty, catch this." He pauses, the timing of a little kid about to give the punch line to a dirty joke. "You know that maybe nine or ten inch long, stinky hot dog of a bowel piece?"

"Yeah?"

"It's missing."

Bowden closes his eyes as the sidewalk collapses around him and becomes a black hole in space. "Doc, don't tell Burke."

"Why not?"

"Don't tell Red, my friend. Please. We need to talk, okay?"

"But . . ."

"Doc, I can't go into this now, but it is not in Burke's best interest that he hear about this, man. It will dig him in too deep. I'm trying to cover him and he's almost out of the woods."

"What woods are those, man? You're not making any sense, here."

"If you tell Red about this, you are going to drop him into one hell of a shit storm. Just take my word on that. Can I come by later?" He looks at his watch with blurred eyes. "Maybe around closing time, five or six?"

Doc's voice loses steam, gains suspicion. "Yeah. I guess."

"And don't talk to anybody else about this before then, okay?"

"Scotty . . ." A warning mixed with growing mistrust.

Bowden interrupts him. "Think Feds, Doc. Think witness protection, top secret, for-your-eyes-only, need to know type shit, okay? And then trust me and keep your mouth shut. I'll explain later."

"Yeah. Okay. Sure thing."

Bowden closes the phone, blows air like a man running track.
Well that is just what I fucking needed.

A bookish brunette in a knit woolen business suit and large glasses strides by with her eyes locked forward. She seems offended. Bowden realizes he's spoken his thoughts. He gives her a weak smile and follows her into the tiled, gilded lobby where footsteps echo and voices generally whisper, but big money shouts. He rides up in a bronze elevator with other city functionaries, all of them jammed together like Vienna sausage.

The buxom receptionist eyes him, bird to worm. Bowden shows his badge, gives his most winning smile and his name. He wanders over to thumb through some out-of-date magazines while the receptionist carries on a hushed conversation with her high-tech head gear. "He'll be with you in a moment."

Bowden grabs
Sports Illustrated
and stares down at an article that attempts to explain the collapse of the St. Louis Rams. He is too preoccupied to read. His descent into hell has been so rapid, so dizzying, that he still finds it difficult to retrace the steps. Now Doc is going to need to know what's up. Bowden doesn't like that. He has already told Jack Burke part of the truth, the part Burke needed to know. He'll have to keep his story straight with Doc. Say just enough.

Because the rest, an embarrassing collection of sordid events involving prostitutes, recreational drugs, and off-duty chores for corrupt city officials like Deputy Mayor Paul Grace, Bowden had elected to keep secret. This is a mess becoming a whirlwind. One thing has to stay under wraps . . . and that's this meeting. Paul Grace is not someone he is proud to know.

Deputy Mayor Grace, a sleek and well-tailored young Harvard law graduate, comes from what was once old L.A. money. His family built its fortune the new-fashioned L.A. way, meaning in the entertainment business. His father, Jack Grace, co-founded Cyclops Productions, a company known for cranking out bad films and worse television. By the time young Paul had graduated from Harvard, his cocaine addled, sex-addicted father had run the family business into the ground. So young master Grace made the logical move. He switched from entertainment to local politics—considered by many to be one and the same. Paul Grace's superior, Mayor James Shelton, does not merely stand on a platform of 'family values,' he paces around ranting and raving about the same. Mayor Shelton is not the sort who handles unpleasant issues personally. Being a man who dreams of federal office, the Mayor, ever conscious of the need to leave himself 'plausible deniability,' delegates those to Deputy Mayor Grace.

Scott Bowden, under pressure from IA for his peccadilloes, suddenly found himself summoned for a personal conference with Mr. Grace. Ever the suave attorney, Grace managed to make the terms clear while keeping the precise agreement completely off the record.

Bowden caught on rapidly. He promptly 'volunteered' to work special assignments for the Deputy Mayor's office. In exchange for that clandestine service, his IA record would be expunged and the charges filed against him deleted from the system. As Bowden thumbed through a magazine he could not see, he remembered a quotation from somewhere—Mark Twain perhaps?—that the 'greatest trick the devil has ever pulled is convincing us that he doesn't exist.'