The Pressure of Darkness (32 page)

"Didn't catch the game."

"I wish I hadn't. Lost forty dollars on those goddamned Vikings. Man, they sucked."

"On any given Sunday, my man."

"Eat my shorts." Holm's drink arrives. He drops the shot glass into the beer in time-honored, cop-style 'depth charge' fashion and chugs. A long, slow, foul-smelling belch. "Hey, you hear about what went down last night?"

"What?"

"You know that kid Mike Gallo, right?"

Icy cobwebs creep down Bowden's spine. "Yeah, I know him."

"You didn't hear?" Holm reads his face. "I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, pal. The kid got himself blown up catching a house call."

Bowden cannot speak or think. He covers himself by sipping at the now-empty beer mug. "Any idea who did it?"

"Gang pricks, probably."

Bowden examines the ash tray. He feels the beer starting to come back up. "What happened?"

Holm leans closer. "He and this other kid I knew at SC, we called him Bulldog, they go to check out a 182 in some cheese-dick neighborhood. Time it's over, Bulldog has his throat cut. Then poor Gallo gets his brains blown out."

"And they say that's gang bangers?"

"Yeah, I know. It sounds like a pro hit to me, too. But downtown is chalking it up to some North Hollywood Boys who've watched too many episodes of 'The Sopranos.' They figure it's the same bunch of taco-loving dick wads did that old couple and skinned them alive the other night. Like they got a real taste for it, and they're out to do them some rich white folks and cops."

"I guess."

"Think so? Me, I figure that's a crock of shit."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean there must be something else going on. Otherwise, why we sitting on everything in the press? That horror guy, the couple, and now two cops all in a few days? And as far as the public is concerned, nobody out there even knows the gory details. If it's just gangs, why is it such a big secret?"

Bowden raises trembling fingers to signal another round for both Holm and himself; he's having what Holm is drinking this time. Scotty wants a boilermaker. He needs something to numb out as rapidly as possible. "So poor Gallo, he was DOA?"

"Oh yeah. He was deader than Custer's nuts at the Little Big Horn. It was a real shame, man. He seemed like a real nice kid."

"Yeah? Fuck him."

"Huh?"

"Fuck him because he should have been more careful, right? Gallo should have done a better job of watching out for his own sorry ass."

Bowden is snarling, trying to justify the death, does not notice the odd expression on Holm's chubby face. Even Holm, who is a bit of a dullard, catches the rage just beneath the studied indifference, just can't make sense of it. Why is Bowden so calloused about the death of a near-rookie he knew personally? Or just as strangely, be so enraged at the kid?

"Gentlemen, give it up for Lacey!"

The music changes to the grinding, galloping pulse of Rod Stewart wailing "Do You Think I'm Sexy." Bowden does his best to tune out Holm, what he represents and the terrifying message he brings, even more so the image of Mike Gallo lying face-up in a pile of garbage bleeding from the ear, probably with one eyeball engorged and shot through with exploded veins,
yeah well fuck him, he didn't listen to me so fuck him.

Lacey is a peroxide blonde with dark pussy hair, long legs, and impossibly large tits. The boobs are difficult for Bowden to accept. Whenever he buries his face in them he keeps flashing on two bags of silicone. It seems bizarre that when Lacey is an old broad in a rocker, drooling on the porch of some rest home, she'll still have tits to die for. He watches Lacey twirl around the chrome phallus. She licks and humps it and—knowing he has booked a private show for afterwards—flashes him a lewd wink. Bowden winks back, does his best Kiss impression and licks the air. The boilermaker arrives and he downs half in a couple of gulps.

Meanwhile, Holm finishes his first, clicks mugs, and sips the second. Bowden watches Lacey's ass, so perfect in that spangled, thin butt-floss underwear. It occurs to him that Holm has been talking.

"What?" He hears the annoyance in his own voice, is unable to curtail it. Bowden wants to shoot the messenger.

"I said that's pretty cold, man. Saying he should have taken better care of himself. You really mean that?"

Scotty knows he should get up and leave, go dance with Lacey, disappear to take a piss, anything but get it on, but as it turns out, he can't help himself. He grabs Holm by the tie, yanks him closer. He ignores the breath soaked in beer and whiskey. "Just in case you missed the bulletin from God, Holm, you're all alone in this world. You came in that way, you're going to leave that way. So you look out for number one. Those of us that remember that have a better chance of going home alive."

"True shit, man."

He releases Holm, resumes staring at the ash tray. Bowden senses when Holm finishes his drink and gets up to go, but he does not react. A few crumpled bills hit the bar.

"And you have a nice life, asshole."

Bowden feels a flash of insane rage. He gives serious thought to pistol-whipping Holm, sliding his sorry ass face-down on the bar and off into the bottles at the end, then over into the DJ's equipment. Instead, he says: "Yeah, you too." His shoulders tremble as he imagines smashing Holm's chubby face, feeling the cartilage give, maybe ripping off one of his ears for good measure and adding it to the collection.

But he does nothing.

Not a thing.

No, Scott Bowden sits and drinks and contemplates the ash tray and waits for his pathetic solo dance and a quick, condom-inhibited blowjob in the back room. To kill some time, he remembers once upon a time he was a football hero, a first-class solider, even an honest cop. He broods on the wayward course of his life, the great pity of it, and lets Holm walk away untouched, not a mark on him.

Because that Scotty Bowden is long gone, too.

FORTY-FOUR

The sun was setting in the darkened rocks, out by Chatsworth, smearing the lunar mountains with cotton pastels. Burke was stretching on the back porch, getting ready for a long run around his small neighborhood, when he heard a car enter the driveway. The engine was too well-tuned to be Doc's van, not ragged enough to be Bowden's funky car or Gina's little Metro. It purred in a smooth and clearly expensive way, like maybe a top of the line Beemer. Burke hopped onto the back porch, peeked around the corner, spotted the brand new silver Lexus. He reached down under the leg of his sweat pants, palmed his spare .22.

Aren't we being a little paranoid?

The doorbell rang. Figuring most hired killers wouldn't drive up before dark and knock, Burke opened the sliding glass door and went into the living room. He tucked the .22 into the back of his pants and pulled the sweatshirt down to cover it. After a few silent steps across the room and a peek through the eyehole in the door, his jaw dropped. He opened the door without thinking.

"May I come in for a moment?"

"Uh, certainly Professor."

Dr. Mohandas Hasari Pal entered the room. Standing behind him on the porch was the unobtrusive butler, Mr. Nandi. Burke, expression pleasant, slid his hand around the sweatshirt to touch the gun. "Mr. Nandi?"

"My servant will wait on the porch, if that is acceptable."

"All right."

Burke closed the door gently, let the gun go as he turned to face Indira's husband. Mo Pal had a manila folder under one arm. He was dressed impeccably, as usual, in a perfectly tailored gray suit and a black silk shirt with no collar. The effect made his shaved head and severe countenance all the more imposing.

"I hope I am not intruding, Mr. Burke. I need a few moments of your time."

Say something, idiot
. "Can I offer you a drink?"

"No, thank you." Pal held himself tightly, barely containing nuclear emotion. "I will try to be brief. I suspect you know why I have come here."

Oh, Jesus
. Face a blank. "Not really, sir. Is it about my visit the other evening? Have you thought of something else you wanted to tell me about Peter Stryker?"

Pal, clutching the manila folder like a flotation device, strolled deeper into the sparsely furnished living room with the air of Patton on parade. Facing the plate glass door and the back yard, he cleared his throat. "One of the advantages to shaving your head is that no one notices when you begin chemotherapy, Mr. Burke. I have come here to tell you two things. The first thing is that I am dying." His large fingers snare-drummed the folder. "This is a Xerox of my medical file, should you wish to establish the veracity of that statement."

"I-I'm sorry to hear that."

Pal turned with a smile thin as a dime. "Not half as sorry as I am, I assure you. In any event, it is a highly aggressive form of bowel cancer. I have been given a reprieve by the final round of chemo, probably only a few more months. I intend to make good use of that time, Mr. Burke. I intend to spend it with those who mean the most to me." Pal moved closer. His eyes bored black holes. "And that brings me to the second thing."

"Which is?"

"Don't play me for a fool, Mr. Burke. I'm here to ask you to stay away from my wife."

Burke wobbled, dumbstruck. His face turned pale but then flushed. His gut churned with self-loathing and remorse.

"Indira may appear to be a sophisticated woman, but at heart she is still an ignorant savage from a dusty little town in India." Pal abruptly hugged himself, as if cold. He closed his eyes before resuming. "She cannot think properly, and has seen little of the real world. This, I fear, is a failing on my part. You must understand that she is a weak person, Mr. Burke. Do not take advantage of her, I beg you. Or, frankly, of me. Respect our marriage."

Burke tried. "Wait a minute, Mo. I don't know what you're talking about, here. Indira and I are only friends." The protestation sounded jeeringly feeble. He couldn't maintain the façade, caved and looked down.

Pal shoved the folder into his hands. "You can keep this or shred it, that's entirely up to you. I have also told my oncologist that you may call and that if you choose to do so, he is to answer any questions you may have."

Burke glanced briefly the file. It appeared genuine. He was not reading, just stalling for time, and wondering how much, if anything, Indira had elected to share with her husband. Did he know for certain, or was he merely probing?

Pal paced the room. "I don't know that there is any more I can do, frankly. I came here hoping I would be able to reach you, man to man."

Burke decided, closed the file. "You have."

"I see." Pal watched the shadowed garden. Outside, a shiny black crow picked at a dead insect. "Or perhaps this can all be settled for a sum of money?"

Burke dropped the file on the coffee table, gunshot loud. "Go ahead, insult me. I suppose you're entitled."

"May I assume you did not know I was ill?"

"You may."

Pal hitched up his trousers, perched gingerly on the couch, crossed long legs. The calf and ankle seemed shockingly white, belly tissue of a gutted fish. There were some small, discolored patches on the flesh of the lower muscle, like purple nickels and quarters. "Indira does not wish to dwell on that fact," he whispered, mournfully. "It upsets her. She often acts as if she were in a full state of denial, as if nothing whatsoever had changed in our lives."

Burke moved to the easy chair, parked opposite Pal. He leaned forward and clasped his calloused hands. "But something has."

Pal smiled, ruefully. "Oh, most definitely. You know, the most amazing thing about dying is how . . . physical an experience it is. Those of us who have spent decades in academia researching and reading, studying mythology, folklore, and religion as they pertain to death come to think of it as an abstract, metaphysical thing; more of a construct, or an idea, than a fact."

"And it's not."

"Oh, no. It is most certainly not." Pal's eyes burned tiger bright. "When Kali strikes your bones, it is a most grounding thing. The body fails in the most elemental of functions. The soul feels defeated and degraded. All of the abstract concepts turn to dust and blow away."

Burke squirmed. "Are you sure I can't offer you a drink, Professor?"

"Perhaps a little water, then."

Burke sprang to his feet, relieved to have an assignment. He escaped into the kitchen. "Do you mind talking about this?"

"Not at this point," Pal replied. He was up and roaming the living room, condemned man pacing the cell. "What's done is done."

Burke poured some ice water at the cooler. His mind, eager to escape the awkward situation, wandered off on a tangent: why was it that Los Angeles had a public water and power company, paid exorbitant fees for service, yet no one who could afford it ever drank from the tap? He carried the glass back to Pal. "Here you go."

Pal gulped with a Legionnaire's greed and spilled one teardrop-shaped watermark on his coat. "As I said, the final thing I came here to discuss is that I want you to leave my wife alone. At least until I am dead and gone. Do you understand clearly, Mr. Burke?"

"Oh, I understand you, sir. But in the end, doesn't Indira have as much to say about that as either one of us?"

"In a perfect world, perhaps she would." Pal pressed his advantage. "I know you had an affair with her many years ago. I realize there may still be strong feelings between you."

"I won't lie to you. There are."

"But now I am begging you. Please stop seeing her."

Burke stiffened from an intense vision: just pulling the .22, whirling around and drilling Pal through the forehead. The violent idea sprang from nowhere and momentarily seemed to have merit. Cary would probably cover him and dispose of the body. Of course then he'd have to do Mr. Nandi, too, but hell, Indira would never have to know what happened. The fantasy was so sharp and crisp Burke came close to acting it out.

"You have nothing to say to me, sir?"

Burke shuddered. "Professor, I will think about what you have told me."

"Thank you."