Cicero's Dead (15 page)

He blanched and licked his dry lips. “How do you
know about that?”

“Dominique had a therapist. Jade and I met her in
San Francisco.”

“Oh my God.”

“Richard never forgave her. It broke her heart and
she cracked, and pulled the trigger.”

Halladay seemed genuinely moved. Then again, I’ve
been wrong before.

“That’s why she did it?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Stupid whore.”

“Sorry?”

“She did this to get back at me.”

“I don’t follow.”

“It’s not my fault that Richard, the waste of
skin, wouldn’t speak to her anymore.”

“You knew?”

“Yes, of course. She would call me, begging me to
take her back.”

He was either delusional or a consummate liar.
Either way I didn’t care and regretted not listening to Cassady when she
advised me to give him the retainer back.

He shrugged. “Anyway, what’s done is done.”

“As simple as that?”

“Yeah, simple as that.”

Regret became a fleeting memory as he looked at
his watch. “It’s been illuminating.”

“Very.”

“Sorry, but I have to send a text.” I watched
fascinated as this arrogant prick, without waiting for me to reply, took out
his cell and sent the text. He put his phone away and headed for the front
door. “I’ll be in touch.”

I held it open for him and he stepped outside
without so much as a backwards glance. I watched as he drove away. I went back
into the living room and was about to sit down, when the patio doors exploded
as two Latino bikers burst through. Jagged shards of glass flew through the air
and I stumbled backward, falling on my ass. Before I could even get my Colt
out, the fat one was smashing me across the face with his gun. I covered up as
best I could, and he jumped on top of me, sitting his 280 pound frame on my
chest, pinning me down. He began systematically punching me in the face and the
world went dark. I heard voices swirling around and felt myself being lifted
up. I opened my eyes just as I was dropped onto the sofa. My two assailants were
looking down at me. I tried to focus, but the ringing in my ears had me
flailing.

The larger one grinned revealing a gold tongue
stud that nicely complimented his black gang tattoos. “Wake up, motherfucka!”

The skinny one, dressed in jeans, motorcycle boots,
and a tee-shirt under his denim vest, glared down at me. I looked at his 1%
patch and the Los Muertos
insignia on
the other side of his vest. He grinned, revealing a gleaming row of gold teeth,
sucked noisily on them and knelt down next to me; his fetid breath almost made
me puke.

“Where’s your money, bitch?”

“What?”

He looked at his partner. “Go see what this
motherfucka got upstairs.”

I was so happy when the big one got up off me and
headed toward the stairs. He wasn’t happy though when the bayonet on Bobby’s
M14 stopped him dead in his tracks. He looked incredulously at the Vietnam vet,
who was in full kill mode. All men of violence recognize that look and the
consequence of ignoring it.

“Back the fuck up,” snarled Bobby.

Skinny, caught off guard, recovered and went to
raise his gun.

“Hey, fuckhead, this is fully auto. I can spray
right through him and blow you out the front door.”

“Bullshit.”

Bobby pressed the bayonet into fat man’s gut,
piercing his tee-shirt, drawing blood. “Put the gun down, and I ain’t gonna
tell ya again.”

“This dude got me cold, man!”

Skinny looked at me and started to raise his gun.
I grabbed it with my left and hit him hard in the balls. He screamed and
doubled over in agony.

“How you like me now, asshole!” I yelled just
before I smashed him on the back of his head. He passed out and crashed to the
floor.

Bobby grinned his approval and forced the other
biker to back up. “Sit down.”

He sat down.

I was feeling crappy, but adrenaline had kicked in
and was keeping me on my feet. I aimed the gun at him. “You’re Los Muertos.
What the fuck do you want with me?”

“Fuck you,” he snarled.

“Arnold sent you?”

“Who?”

I slapped him hard across his face. Humiliation
reddened it. “You want another, ya fat fuck?”

He shook his head and kept his mouth clamped shut.

“I’m gonna ask you again, and if you don’t tell
me, I’m gonna let him go to work on you.”

Bobby’s eyes lit up at the prospect. He put down
the rifle and flipped open his razor sharp Spyderco knife. The biker eyeballed
it, sweat oozing out of his pores.

“Naw, man, it wasn’t him,” he said.

“He’s all yours.”

I stepped back as Bobby stepped forward, the knife
gleaming in his hands.

“Wait, man, wait!” he pleaded.

“Nick, get a roll of paper towels for the blood.”

“Okay.” I took a step toward the kitchen.

Fatso looked like he was about to start frothing.
“Please, I can’t tell you. He’ll kill me.”

Bobby’s thousand yard death stare was blazing into
him.

I said, “What do you think my partner’s gonna do
to you?”

He opened his mouth just as Bobby wrapped a
massive hand around his throat, bringing the edge of the blade toward his left
eye. This was all too much for the no longer tough guy. Urine darkened his
crotch.

“Jesus, bro,” chuckled Bobby, stepping back
instinctively.

Humiliated, he blurted out, “It was the lawyer
dude! He paid us to fuck you up, man!”

“Halladay?”

“Yeah.”

Although I’d suspected as much, the confirmation
still took my breath away. “Shit,” I said quietly.

Bobby looked at me and shook his head. I glared at
the biker.

“What’s your name?”

“Gordo.”

“You got ID, Gordo?”

He handed me his wallet. I pulled out his license,
looked at it and gave it to Bobby. “Hand him Sleeping Beauty’s there.”

Gordo pulled Skinny’s wallet out of his back
pocket and gave it to Bobby, who extracted the license and tossed the wallet
back to him.

I considered him for a long, tense moment. “Now we
know who you clowns are, and where you live.”

“What’re you gonna do?” he asked.

“Was this gonna be a beat down, or were you
supposed to whack me?”

“Naw, just a beat down.”

Bobby voiced what I was thinking. “Doesn’t make
sense.”

“Unless it was to get me outta the way for a
couple’a weeks ‘til he and Clipper could complete whatever it is they’re up
to.”

Bobby nodded. “Yeah, maybe.”

“And Clipper didn’t know?”

Gordo shook his head.

“So you do know him?”

“We do shit for him, you know, when he need us.”

“I don’t get that,” said Bobby.

Gordo shrugged. “He ain’t tight with the lawyer.
They don’t like each other.”

Skinny, A.K.A. Flaco, began to regain
consciousness.

“Lean Piss Boy against the sofa, but not on it,” I
said.

Gordo helped him and sat next to him. Bobby picked
up his rifle, fingering the trigger. This wasn’t lost on them.

“You did the hit-and-run?”

Gordo looked at me and shook his head. “Naw.”

Each bad answer infuriated me more. I stepped
forward and cracked him hard in the nose. His head snapped back. “I ain’t gonna
ask you again.”

Flaco glared at me. “You a bad motherfucka with
that nine in your grip.”

I cracked him across his face, almost knocking him
out. I turned to Gordo, pressed my boot into his crotch and applied a little
pressure. He moaned and paled and I eased off.

“It was you two, wasn’t it?”

The fat fuck nodded. I stood up and glanced at
Bobby, who shook his head as anger coursed through him.

I said, “Who ordered it, the lawyer?”

Gordo nodded.

“Who went to the doctor for the Death
Certificate?”

“Them other two fools.”

“The white dudes?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know this?”

“We was all getting twisted one night, and he got
pissed.”

“Who did?”

“The lawyer, Halladay, ‘cause he wanted a straight
coroner’s report, to make it legit.”

“These white dudes, what’re their names?”

“Ernie and Tom.”

“Did you kill Cicero?”

They glanced at each other, sharing a knowing
half-smirk. I wanted to smash in their faces. Bobby beat me to it and cracked
Flaco in the mouth with the rifle butt. He spat blood and teeth, his eyes
rolling up into his head as he slumped back into semi-consciousness. Bobby
turned to Gordo.

“Stop beating on us, bro!”

I motioned Bobby to stop. “Then tell us what’s so
funny.”

“You dunno what you up against, puta.”

“I know all about Arnold Clipper.”

“No, you don’t. He ain’t just crazy, he Satan,
bro.”

“I don’t give a shit about him, you or the devil.
I wanna know if Cicero’s alive.”

“We didn’t smoke him, but that don’t mean he ain’t
dead.”

I was tired of the runaround and looked at Bobby.
“Convince him.”

Bobby raised the rifle butt and drew back to smash
him in the face again. “You can grind me into hamburger, motherfucka, but I
ain’t saying no more.”

Again I motioned Bobby to stop. Again he looked
disappointed.

“What about Richie?”

“We don’t see him too much, but Halladay told us
Clipper treats him like a chavala.”

“Chavala?”

Gordo nodded and smirked. “A bitch, just like his
father.”

“What?”

The biker smiled but didn’t elaborate. “Where does
he live?”

“He moves from hotel to hotel. We don’t even know
how to contact him.”

“So how’d Halladay find you?”

Flaco opened his eyes, wiped the blood away and
said, “He sends us a text, cabron.”

“Is that right?”

He nodded and cast a quick, fearful glance at
Bobby, who was still fingering the trigger on his fully auto rifle.

“Bobby. Bobby!” He looked at me with seeming
reluctance. “Give ‘em a garbage bag and broom.”

He lightly tapped the trigger, flexed his jaw
muscles and went into the kitchen.

Flaco snarled. “You better finish this,
motherfucka!”

“You’ve got more balls than brains
,
pendejo.”

He looked at the blood on the back of his hand and
grinned. “You the pendejo, ‘cause you still don’t get it.”

“Mira,” hissed Gordo.

Flaco ignored him, locking eyes with me.

“Then enlighten me.”

Flaco shook his head.

“That means--”

“--I know what it means, cabron. You gonna find
out yourself, sooner or later.”

Bobby returned with the garbage bag and broom, and
dropped them on the floor in front of them.

“Fuck you, man. I ain’t your maid,” growled Flaco.

“You made the mess, you clean it up.”

“No.”

“Or I can let Bobby here finish what he’s itching
to do.”

They looked at the M14 in his paws, slowly got to
their feet and started to clean up the broken glass and wood.

“What do you think?” I asked Bobby quietly.

“As I see it, you’ve got two choices; bury ‘em, or
turn ‘em in.”

“No. I mean what he said about Cicero.”

Bobby shrugged. “I dunno, bro. It’s kind’a weird.”

The uncanny revelation was crawling through my
mind. I took a breath and said quietly, “If I’m right, Clipper killed Cicero
because they were lovers, and then for whatever reason, Cicero wanted to break
it off. I guess Arnold didn’t like the rejection.”

“What?”

“So the ultimate ‘fuck you’ to Cicero was for him
to get close to his son, Richie.”

“Bro, that’s too fuckin’ dark.”

“Yeah, but everything we’ve heard about Clipper is
that he’s in love with Richie, so it sort of makes sense.”

“Jade, she can’t ever know that.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I agree and if Halladay’s using
Clipper to get to the trust, popping Richie’s the only way to do it, which
Clipper won’t let him do. He could, I guess, get him to sign it over, but as
that would also hurt Richie, again I can’t see Clipper allowing that.”

“What I don’t get is why stage the hit-and-run on
Cicero?”

“I dunno either.”

Bobby said, “If you’re gonna disappear someone,
you just do it. Either way, according to those two clowns, Cicero’s dead. How
he died doesn’t really matter.”

“Yeah, but I’m missing the bigger picture here and
have no idea what it is.”

“We need another bag.”

I looked at Gordo. “What?”

“This one’s full,” he replied.

“I’ll get it,” said Bobby.

He went into the kitchen, retrieved a new bag and
handed it to them. He placed his M14 by the now missing French doors, grabbed
the full one and placed it outside. They continued to clean up the last pieces
of wood and glass.

Bobby reappeared, picked up his rifle and came
over to me. “So what’re you gonna do?”

I shrugged. “Halladay wants the money. I get that.
What I don’t understand is what Clipper wants.”

“He’s a psycho. Who the hell knows or cares what
his motive is?”

“I do, ‘cause it’s the key to this whole
situation.”

They had done a good job and were sweeping up the
dusty remains.

I studied them and switched my pistol to the other
hand. “Who cut the actor’s head off?”

Flaco glanced at Gordo, frowned and replied,
“How’re we supposed to know?”

“‘Cause I have an eyewitness that’ll testify that
you two, along with Clipper, dumped the body.

Fatso took an aggressive step forward, blocking
the skinny biker from view. “Yeah, cabron? Then you better--”

The crack of pistol fire at close range is all I
heard as the bullets from Flaco’s hidden .32 seared past my head. In times of
extreme stress, everything can seem as if it’s happening in blurred slow
motion. Bobby and I fired simultaneously, our bullets slammed into them,
spraying blood and gore up the wall. His M14 had almost cut them in half. We
stood there, our ears ringing. The stench of cordite, blood and piss filling the
air. I lowered my gun and looked at Bobby. He went over and nudged the bodies
with his boot.