Dog Eat Dog (23 page)

“No, no. She’d call the cops. Here—” Troy handed over the cellular phone. You call here as soon as you get there. Have the nanny standing by.”

“What about the … the trunk.”

“We’ll dump that later.”

Mad Dog nodded. He turned to Diesel beside the car. “Who’s driving?”

“Go ahead. You know the way?”

“Well … sort of. I mean, Troy was gonna drive.”

They turned to Troy, who told them: “Down this road to Monterey, turn left and keep following it. You’ll cross a bridge over the freeway. Keep going. Left on Figueroa. You know the street it’s on, don’t you?”

Mad Dog nodded.

“Turn right, keep going. You’ll see that museum up on the hillside. Watch for the house.”

“Got it.”

“Keep her head down so she can’t see where you’re going … and keep the baby down low. You don’t wanna get pulled over because he isn’t in a safety seat.”

“Right.”

“Get going.”

The Jaguar went down the driveway, the red brake lights flaring momentarily as it paused before turning onto the street. Troy went back into the house and looked at the murder scene. What a mess the shotgun made. Blood had run down in rivulets; then soaked in. There were tiny bits of flesh and bone and hair stuck to the plaster. Should he burn the house down? Could he burn the house down? He had nothing inflammable like gasoline or kerosene.

The headlight glare on the windows announced the woman’s return. The car pulled into a porte cochere beside the house. Troy watched from behind a dining room drape as the woman got out, reaching for her purse before slamming it shut. She had driven and she was alone. Thank God for small favors.

She came in the side door from the porte cochere. She was coming through the house toward the stairs. “Carmen!” she called. “I’m back.”

Troy stepped from the shadows. “Hold it, baby!”

She jerked and gasped. Her fright knocked out her wind so she choked instead of screamed.

He pounced on her, grabbed her arm. Her eyes were huge with terror in the shadowed light. “Be quiet. Your baby’s all right.”

“My baby! Where—”

“He’s okay.”

“Ohhh … ohhh … ohhh.”

“Hey!” He squeezed and shook her. He felt queasy; he took no joy from this; it was terrible. “Settle down, baby.”

He could feel her shaking. Oh, God, why had he done this?

For money, asshole, replied the Mr. Hyde of his mind.

“Where is he?” As she spoke, he felt her pull toward the stairs.

“He’s not upstairs, baby. We got him.”

“Please … don’t hurt him. I’ll do whatever you want. He’s just a little boy.”

“I know … I know. Shhh. Listen.”

“Take me.”

“Shaddup! Listen, goddamnit!”

She stopped talking and nodded, although she still trembled.

“Nothing is going to happen to your baby … but the best way to get him back quick is to cooperate. You wanna cooperate?”

“Yes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Michael.”

“After his father?”

“Yes.”

“This is about Mike the father. Do you know where to call him?”

“I … I have a number in Ensenada. Sometimes I reach him, sometimes I leave word. He calls back or has somebody call for him.”

“Good. He cares about his kid?”

“He might kill me over this.”

“No, he won’t.”

“You don’t know him. He’s vicious.”

Troy found himself thinking that she was not merely attractive, she had a clean-cut quality. She belonged in a sorority or something, not with a drug kingpin. He wanted to ask how she’d gotten involved with Mike Brennan, but stopped himself. He had to stay focused on the serious matters at hand.

“Does he have you watched?”

“Huh?”

“Does he have anyone watch you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Why?”

Should he tell her now about the gore upstairs? He had to tell her something sometime.

The phone started ringing. “Answer it,” Troy directed.

She picked it up. “Hello.” She listened for a moment; then handed it to Troy.

“Yeah.”

“Everything’s cool,” said Diesel’s voice. “They’re down in the wine cellar. We need some baby food.”

“Go get some … No, send the Dog.”

“Okay. How’s it going? I see the broad got home.”

“Yeah. I’m running it down now.”

“Want somebody to come and get you?”

“No. That’s okay.”

“How you gonna get outta there?”

“Never mind.” He avoided saying that he planned to take the mother’s car. He would park it half a mile from the hideout and walk the rest of the way. “Just hang until you hear from me.”

“Good. Maybe it’s gonna be okay.”

“Maybe. Later.” He hung up and looked at the girl. “Well, Mike Brennan had one of his
pistoleros
—”

“His what?”

“
Pistoleros
… torpedo … gunman … Anyway, he was watching you. He got killed.”

“You … you killed him?”

“Upstairs.”

“Oh God. Is he still there?”

“No … but it’s messy up there.”

“Oh, shit!”

Maybe she wasn’t as soft as he had first thought. “Forget about that. You can clean it up later. Right now, I want you to call that number. If you get Mike, gimme the phone. If you have to leave a message, have him call you. When you talk to him, tell him that his kid is collateral on money he owes to an old man in jail. When he pays it, he gets the baby back. You got it?”

“What if he won’t pay?”

“He’ll pay.”

“But if he doesn’t?”

“If he doesn’t, I’ll give you the baby back. But if you tell him that, I’ll blow
your
fuckin’ brains out.” He hardened the last few words for emphasis. Inside himself, he disliked the scene more and more. But hard times make hard people, and Troy felt himself extremely desperate. He, too, was fighting for life; that was how he saw it. “Here,” he said, handing her the telephone.

She made the call. Mike Brennan, of course, was not available. He was expected tomorrow morning. “Be sure to have him call. It’s urgent.” She was looking at Troy as she spoke. When she hung up, Troy told her, “I need to use your car.”

“Okay. Just … my baby.” Her eyes welled with tears, and so did his. What the fuck was he doing? But what the fuck could he do this late in the game? “He’ll be okay. Carmen’s with him. You trust her, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“The keys to the car?”

She got them from her purse.

“If you call the police—”

“I won’t. I know better.”

“I hope you do.”

He made her walk him to the car. As he got in, she asked: “Will you let Carmen call me and tell me he’s okay?”

“I’ll do that. But I can tell if the wire is tapped.”

“Don’t worry. I swear I won’t call the police.”

Troy watched her through the mirror until he passed through the gate, the slight figure standing in the rain. He ached with pain for what he’d done, but he could not erase half a line.

He was passing giant houses brilliantly lighted for Christmas. That, too, added to his anguish.

14

The first dozen hours were as relaxed as such a situation can be. The nanny kept the baby quiet. Troy talked to Alex on the phone, and then they waited. By the following night the baby seemed to be crying for his mother and the phone conversations were tense. Troy even wondered if someone was playing games. Maybe he should call the girl and see if she knew anything. He decided against it.

On the third evening, Alex called. “That guy that walked in on you—”

“What about him?”

“You still got him?”

“He’s starting to smell real ripe.”

“You know what, bro’, it might be Mike Brennan.”

“You’re jiving.”

“I wish I was.”

“This guy looked one-hundred-percent Indian. He didn’t even look like a Mexican, much less half Irish.”

“That’s what Mike Brennan looks like.”

“Oh, man, don’t tell me that.”

“Nobody’s seen him over there. The old man has somebody in Brennan’s mob, and nobody’s heard from him since last Sunday.”

“Oh, man, I can’t believe it.” But he did believe it. Indeed, the moment Alex described Brennan, Troy knew the body belonged to the drug lord.

“I never seen Chepe so fucked up. He’s mad.”

“At me?”

“At Mad Dog. He said to take him out or he’s puttin’ a contract on you.”

Swelling anger was Troy’s first reaction. “Fuck him in his ass … old motherfucker.”

“Cool it. Chill out. Think about it.”

“I don’t let people tell me what to do. That’s why I’ve been in trouble all my life.”

“Yeah, well, I can understand that … but if you think about it, that guy deserves a goddamn good killin’ anyway. It’ll do everybody a favor.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“You know it, bro’. He’s a menace to everybody.”

“Maybe I’ll shoot myself in the head.” Troy laughed as he said it. “At least that’d solve my problems.”

“What about the kid and the nanny?”

“What about ’em. I’m not gonna waste ’em.”

“At least you’re not on the six o’clock news.”

“Yeah, it won’t be added to the crime statistics. Damn, homeboy, it’s gonna be hard. That guy almost idolizes me.”

“He’d turn on you in a hot second. He’d turn on anybody. He’s nuts.”

“It don’t look like Chepe’s gonna pay us, huh?”

Greco laughed into the phone. “No, I don’t think so. If you let it ride, you’ll be sorry afterward.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Lemme tell you, bro’, that old man looks easygoing, but he’s got Mexicans up the ass who’ll kill anybody he wants for ten cents or less. I put all the weight on the maniac. But if you don’t take care of it …”

“I got the picture.” Indeed, Chepe had hundreds of millions, maybe a billion, and access to countless killers on both sides of the border. Some were idiots ready to murder for a couple of thousand dollars, and if some were too dumb to commit the crime, others were cunning, cold, and deadly. Troy was afraid of nothing that walked the face of the earth, including Chepe—but he preferred to keep the old man’s friendship if he could.

As soon as Troy and Diesel opened the garage’s side door, the stench of rotting flesh assailed and nauseated them.

“Good God, it smells bad,” Diesel said, putting a hand over his nose and mouth. Troy turned away and pulled out a handkerchief. He had almost vomited. He hit the garage opener and the door rose. Outside the night was cool and fresh. Smog had been washed away by the recent rain. The storm had blown east across the southwestern deserts. The sky sparkled with stars. He breathed deep and thought: “Why can’t life be easier than this?”

Diesel lugged the sack of quicklime to the car and slid it onto the rear floorboards. “Okay,” he said.

“Go tell ’em let’s go.”

Diesel went into the side door. Mad Dog waited, holding the nanny’s sleeve. She had a pillowcase over her head and held the sleeping baby in her arms. Diesel beckoned and Mad Dog told her, “Let’s go. Watch yourself. You’re going down three steps.” He guided her with an elbow. Diesel waited ahead of her, backing down with his hands ready in case she stumbled.

Troy lowered the car windows, trying to blow away the stench from the trunk. When the nanny and baby were in the car, Diesel slammed the door and got in the front. Mad Dog ran across the street to his own car. When its headlights went on, Troy backed out and pulled ahead. “Don’t lose him,” Diesel said.

“No way.”

Troy took back streets through Highland Park, crossed over a bridge above the Pasadena Freeway into El Sereno. With the windows down the moving car lost the nauseating odor, but the night was cold and the baby began to cry. The nanny cuddled him and soothed him in Spanish. Traffic was light, without pedestrians. Good.

He came out of the low hills and turned onto Huntington Drive and kept to the right, knowing what he was looking for, a bus bench by itself, without cars going by and with nobody likely to witness her getting out of the Jaguar.

Every few blocks found a bus bench, but for the first few, cars or people were around, so he kept going. At Fremont there was a cluster of businesses, doughnut shop, gas station, coffee shop. He had to stop for the light and wait until it was green.

A police car, black and white, crossed the intersection from left to right. Neither of the policemen looked over while going by.

The next bus stop was empty. Troy slowed and scanned the terrain with only Mad Dog behind him. Traffic coming the other way was a mile distant. He pulled to the curb.

Diesel was out quickly, opening the back door. “Come on,” he said, leaning in to grab the nanny’s arm for guidance and support. “Take it easy.” They had her eyes bandaged in flesh tones, with dark glasses. It was impossible to see she was blindfolded unless you were up close. He had one hand on her upper arm, and the other over the forearm cradling the baby. It provided her the greatest sense that she wouldn’t fall.

He guided her to the bench. “Sit.
Sienta se
.” She felt with one hand and sat down.

When her rump touched the seat, Diesel jumped back in the car as Mad Dog was just going past. Diesel slammed the door and Troy hit the gas. He watched the nanny and the baby in the rearview mirror until the night erased them.

Troy raised the remote telephone receiver and touched “send.” The first ring barely started before she answered. “Hello.”

“It’s me. Your baby and the nanny are fine and are on a bus bench on Huntington Drive near the Pasadena Freeway.”

“Oh, thank you, God, thank you.”

“Did you go to the police?”

“No … no … I swear I didn’t.”

“Mike never called, did he?”

“No. I’m still waiting here.”

“Give it up. Between you and me … he’s history.”

“What?”

“He’s dead. So think what you’re going to do now.” Troy hung up without waiting for a response, hoping he’d done a favor by telling her; maybe she could get some dough by knowing fast.

He kept going down Huntington Drive. It was divided by a wide median and its three lanes in each direction were lightly trafficked. He could head east, the way he wanted to go, without having to concentrate as if on the freeway. The kidnapping was behind them except for cleaning up the mess. That was what he had to think about.