Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series) (24 page)

“Okay, okay, okay,” he whined. “Nevada confided to me that you were involved in some shit a while back. A woman that worked…for you? With you? I’m not exactly sure how it all actually worked. Anyway, this woman was”—his voice fell to a whisper—“murdered. What’s her name?”

“Nevada talks too much.”

“For sure,” he agreed. “What’s the woman’s name?”

“Names,” I corrected. “There were two of them. I—”

“Say no more,” he cut in. “I was just testing you. You’re you.”

I frowned. “Where’s Nevada?”

“I can’t talk about this over the phone, brother.”

“Name a place. I’ll be there.”

“The Gables,” he said.

“Where she…”

“Exactly.”

“What is this, Sweet?”

“I’m in two-twelve. At the back. Three long knocks and two short. I’m not opening up otherwise.”

“What?”

“Knock three times with long knocks,” he said. “Then follow up with two short ones.”

“This better not be some trick, Sweet.”

“Darren,” he said. “I’ll be here.”

He disconnected before I could protest.

I PULLED INTO THE budget motel complex at an unreasonable hour in the morning. A new day’s light would color the sky in a few hours. My tires spewed rocks as I drove over rough gravel. The gravel was the highlight of the complex. No greenery to speak of except for the overgrown grass along the fence line of the property. Crumpled napkins, foam coffee cups, used condoms, wine and beer bottles swathed in brown paper bags, that and other detritus trapped in the blades of browning grass. An overflowing Dumpster planted in the middle of all that chaos. The sign at the front did not make it clear, most of its letters were blown out, but the motel went by the unlikely name of The Gables. How the owners came upon that name for the business was a complete mystery that I did not care to try to solve. There was nothing particularly architecturally distinguishing in the motel’s design. No pitched roofs, no triangular touches anywhere. It was just a grouping of four nondescript and connected two-story buildings. Rusted exterior stairways led to the second level. The stucco siding was green instead of once-white. And there was no swimming pool.

I had gotten those last two details wrong when I imagined what had come to Nevada when she had traveled here at a similar hour. Other than that, my vision was spot-on. It was an encyclopedic shithole from A to Z.

I drove past the check-in office and found an empty spot in the back. My muscles came alive as I stepped from the Accord and stretched. Despite the hour, I did not yawn. Too wired. My pulse pounded from a rush of adrenaline. I had actually tracked down Sweet. Nevada was close enough for me to reach out and touch.

I could see the door to 212 from where I stood. It was one of the few rooms with light burning bright through the window.

I closed the Accord, locked up, and headed for Darren Sweet.

Three long knocks and two short. He would not open up otherwise.

My first knock actually pushed the door open. I stepped inside. Sweet was lying on the bed with his shoes on. Mud was caked in the soles and had stained the counterpane. His head had left a worse stain. I could not collect a picture of what the man really looked like. His ruined face and head was a bloody pulp on the pillow and headboard of the bed. Somebody had worked him over good.

I exhaled and backed out of the room, the coppery smell of death strong in my nostrils.

SIXTEEN

IT WAS DAWN BY the time the full reality came crashing down on me. Not shock at Sweet’s murder—death didn’t shock me any longer, never had actually—but rather a deeper understanding, clarity. Two things stood out, really. One, Sweet had met an awful end, so whatever he was involved in was heavy beyond measure. Very few people, even bad ones, killed unless the stakes were impossibly high. The man or men who’d murdered Sweet were under immense pressure. Any insight as to what that pressure might be lay dead in a fleabag motel. And two, Sweet had been my only link to Nevada. Now I was back at the proverbial first square. Couple this hopeless dead-end with the insistent violence of Sweet’s death and my mood was understandably unpleasant.

I drove aimlessly for hours, trying without success to coax my mood into something manageable. As the first signs of pink and lavender light painted the sky and ushered in a new dawn, it became as clear to me as testament that I would remain on the dark fringes of where I wanted to be. I’d worked hard to overcome my past. I’d worked hard to avoid any more death, whether caused by my hands or another’s. And by my own difficult standards I’d largely succeeded. So why was the strong urge to fatally harm
someone
returned?

Nevada.

Finding her had been an unattainable exercise from the very start. I’d just been too determined to admit it. Finding her now, with Sweet dead, was considerably more hopeless.

And I was angry and irritable and murderous because of it.

Nevada.

Taj before her.

A woman was most often my downfall.

I continued to drive without a destination in mind. More than once I found myself on Elm Street. But I couldn’t force myself to find a parking space despite an urgent need for rest. The smell of coconut I knew would be in Nevada’s sheets was more than I could presently handle.

Clearly I understand the concept of time, but how it got to be noon I’m not certain. But there it was on the Accord’s dash—six minutes after twelve. I parked finally, surveyed the surrounding area thoroughly, and got out. Moved across the street and inside a familiar establishment.

He looked up at me, and despite his prior knowledge, managed a reverential nod. A smile would have been asking for too much.

I said, “Snapple.”

IT WASN’T CHERIE THIS time. I hid my disappointment well. The warm rage from earlier had all but dissipated over the time of my wandering ride. My new focus was pure lust.

“Shell at the wishing well,” she said in a sing-song as she opened the door. “Your wish is my command.”

“Long time no see, Butterfly.”

Asian. Slender but not petite. Small-breasted and wide-hipped. Pixie hairstyle. During sex she mewled like an animal in a manner that couldn’t be counterfeit, or so those who shared a bed with her liked to believe. Her exotic appeal drew men like
moths
to a flame, but Butterfly was a much prettier sobriquet.

“You climbed on that bitch, Cherie,” she said, “and I never heard from you again.”

“Speaking of Cherie…”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t know and don’t care. She’s been an unreliable little whore of late. If Jiang had an ounce of sense in that moon pie head of his he’d blowtorch her.”

I frowned.

“Of course I don’t mean that literally,” she said, and smiled.

“I noticed something last time. She seemed troubled. You know of any problems she’s having?”

“I know I want to talk about this about as much as I wanted to talk about Wiener with the last guy.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“Not a boy’s nickname for his tiny little undeveloped penis. The Twitter politician,” she explained. “Though they’re both the same, I suppose.”

“You’re so much more cheerful than I remember, Butterfly.”

“My meds,” she said without mirth.

“I’m this close to a smile,” I said, holding up my thumb and forefinger to demonstrate. “That’s quite an accomplishment, Butterfly. I’ve had a rough couple of days.”

“You do look a little worse for the wear.”

“And you’re as stunning as ever,” I said.

“Ageless beauty,” she said. “I’m actually a year, six months, and some days older than Maraschino Cherry. Hard to tell isn’t it?”

“Maraschino Cherry?”

She smiled again without smiling. “You can find ‘em in any old grocery or convenience store. Usually with dust collected on the jars.”

“Your meds,” I said. “They’ve definitely improved your outlook.”

“Without a doubt. An absolute godsend.”

“So you’re taking over Cherie’s place?”

She nodded. “Jiang read
Who Moved My Cheese?
or some shit and now he thinks he’s some great manager. This is to send Cherry Cola a message when she gets back. If she gets back,” she corrected. “She started like a decade or two before me, so she always had the bigger apartment.”

“If she comes back? You think she might not?”

“Can you believe Schwarzenegger?” she replied.

This time I did smile.

She tapped her empty wrist. “I don’t mean to be insensitive to your need for talk, but if you’re looking to fuck me we should probably get started.”

“You’re a breath of fresh air, Butterfly.”

Another nod. “I just brushed my teeth so if we could skip the oral I’d appreciate it. I have a lube.”

“I was going to ask if you did,” I said, smiling once more.

“My meds,” she said, not for the last time. “You’d be surprised how much clearer my thoughts are.”

SHE WALKED ME TO the door afterward, arm entwined in mine, a sheen of sweat making her honey brown skin glow.

“I can skip Zumba class over at the LA Fitness now,” she said.

“It
was
inspired,” I said.

“That what you call it? It was just good hard fucking to me.”

“I’ll see you around, Cherie.”

“Come again?” she said, removing her arm from my own.

“What?”

“You called me Cherie.”

“A slip of the tongue,” I said. “I apologize.”

She mumbled something.

“What?” I asked.

“That’s where Cherry Bomb lives. You’re worried. I am too, though I hate to admit as much. Why don’t you stop in on her and make sure everything is copacetic. Do people still use that word…copacetic? Did they ever?”

“You’re something, Butterfly.”

She pursed her lips, shook her head. I saw it coming a moment before it happened.

We said, “My meds,” in unison.

AS A PART OF my parents’ wedding ceremony they took a bite of lemon wedge as well as a spoonful of honey, to symbolize both the bitter and sweet moments in a relationship, and the understanding that neither lasts forever. My parents were hopeless romantics, and in some way I suppose I’ve been imbued with that same spirit, though it’s never quite looked the same draped upon me.