Dog Eat Dog (25 page)

“Damn, I’m cold,” Mad Dog said. “How ’bout you?”

“I’ve got more clothes on than you.”

“Where is that dude?”

“He’ll be here.”

Sure enough, a moment later the flashlight was visible. As he got closer, he was sputtering curses. “My fuckin’ Ferragamo boots … seven hundred fuckin’ dollars … all fuckin’ scratched up. I’ll be one dirty motherfucker.”

“You can buy some more boots,” Mad Dog said.

“Yeah … yeah … yeah.” He reached them. “Where do you want this?”

“Over on the body.”

Diesel used the flashlight to pinpoint the body. He dropped the sack of lime on top and Mad Dog plunged the shovel into the bag’s side and the lime spilled out across the carcass.

“I’m gonna go up on top,” Diesel said, handing Troy the flashlight. “You guys dig down here and I’ll jump up and down up there. That should help, right?”

“Go ahead,” Troy said. Ever since Diesel had gone for the lime, Troy had been holding the rough, checkered grip of the pistol inside his pants pocket, waiting for the moment to pull it and fire. He wanted it point blank at the base of the skull. Now his palm was wet with sweat. Looking in the direction that Diesel had gone, which was east, he could see the faintest hint of shapes. It was the false dawn that precedes the real. The knot of weakness in his gullet was spreading. Had he been alone with Mad Dog, he would have given up and lied to Diesel. He should have given the big man the job. He wished he was enraged; hot blood is far easier than cold …

“Okay, start digging up,” Diesel said from atop the ledge.

“Here I come,” Mad Dog said. Carrying the shovel, he passed close to Troy and began working on the bottom of the overhang. He grunted as he rammed the shovel at an upward angle. Diesel’s silhouette jumped up and down. Troy moved closer to Mad Dog, at an angle behind his right shoulder. He had eased the pistol from his pocket and was holding it hidden against his leg.

Mad Dog paused and turned to look back. “A couple minutes and it’ll fall. You better take over. I think I’m gettin’ fuckin’ blisters. Gimme the flashlight.”

Troy handed it over. Mad Dog turned it on and dropped his gaze to look at his palm. Troy knew if he hesitated any longer the moment would be lost; he would be digging. He stepped forward, as if interested in the blisters. He was behind Mad Dog’s shoulder. He raised the weapon until it was three inches from Mad Dog’s head. He squeezed the pistol butt and the trigger evenly. The pistol jumped, the sound exploded, and a tongue of fire reached out and licked Mad Dog just behind his right ear. The bullet penetrated skull and plowed through brains. The hole coming out beside his left eye was the size of a half dollar. He dropped, instantly inert, on top of Mike Brennan. The flashlight fell to the ground and rolled a few feet, the beam dancing over the ground. The open sack of lime was sandwiched between the bodies. In a few months they would be fused together.

Troy put the pistol at the base of the skull and fired again. The body jerked. The shots echoed across the desert and a wild burro brayed somewhere in the bushes.

As Troy picked up the flashlight and turned it on his handiwork, Diesel came sliding down the embankment. Troy muttered, “I crossed the Rubicon.”

“What’s that?” Diesel asked. He, too, was looking at the dead bodies.

“I said we better finish coverin’ ’em up.” Inside, he was asking, how did my life get here? God gave no reply.

“That sounded like a fuckin’ howitzer,” Diesel said.

“Nobody heard it but some horned toads. Get back up there.”

“You better go through his pockets. Get his ID and his car keys. That hundred grand is in the trunk.”

“Damn, homeboy, you’re startin’ to think of things. I woulda remembered when we got back to the car.”

“That’s why you need me around. God, I’m glad that motherfucker is dead. He
scared
me.”

“He won’t scare nobody no more.”

They did a high five in giddy celebration. The relieved tension made them kind of borderline goofy.

It took twenty minutes to cause the mini-avalanche that hid both bodies. By then the sun’s rim was peeking over the eastern horizon, heralding a bright, cloudless day. The storm had moved east.

Troy stared down at the false grave. The ledge that had extended out from the top now sloped the other way. At least a ton of dirt covered them. They might remain hidden to the world forever—and after a few months it wouldn’t matter. The lime would make sure they were beyond identification. Perhaps they could be matched with dental records, but that would require someone suspecting who they were. With two bodies found together, the authorities would look for two persons who had disappeared together. That was all conjecture anyway. These were two murders that would certainly be unsolved, and most likely never even suspected.

They carried the shovel back to the cars and unlocked the trunk of Mad Dog’s. Sure enough, the $100,000 was in a Nike gym bag. “We’ll count it later,” Troy said. “We’ll put it in the Jag.”

“We don’t wanna leave this one here, do we?”

“Uh-uh. We’ll leave it somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere. Maybe in the parking lot of that card room we passed. Nobody’ll notice it there for a couple of days.”

“It’s registered under a bogus name.”

“They’ll just have another derelict car to dispose of. Here.” He handed Diesel the keys and carried the Nike gym bag to the trunk of the Jag. Now the trunk had $200,000; three quarters of it was his money. Alex Aris still owed them money, too. That was good as gold.

As they turned from the dirt tracks to the narrow asphalt, Diesel said a silent Act of Contrition. Even though he would revile such things out loud, the imprint of the Catholic orphanage was still within him. Even as he did it, he was silently furious at what they had done to him. Done to him a long time ago.

Diesel followed Troy onto the main highway; then off into the parking lot of the card room. It already had at least a hundred cars. Troy turned in and signaled him to park on the other side.

They walked separately to the entrance. Nobody even looked at them. They walked back together and got in the Jaguar.

When they turned back on the highway it was 8:00
A.M.

“We’ll be in L.A. before noon,” Troy said.

“Call the Greco and find out about our money. I’d like to go home tonight, after I get some sleep.”

“You can sleep?”

“I can really sleep after something like this.”

15

Los Angeles sparkled after the rain. Air and sidewalks and green leaves had been washed clean, and the snow-topped San Gabriel Mountains were visible for a change. The wonderful winter afternoon reminded Troy of his childhood, when L.A. was as close to paradise as any city in America. Despite the day’s beauty, a gray depression gnawed at Troy, an ache of the soul. Was it reaction to the murder or had that simply stirred sediments always deep within him? He glanced at Diesel. It had to be going through his mind, if not occupying it completely. Still, he looked placid enough. What about underneath? What effect had Catholicism had on him? They must have imprinted a belief in damnation. Troy wasn’t carrying that burden. It wasn’t God’s judgment that bothered him, nor even mankind’s, for one was nonexistent and the other would never happen. What bothered him was that his life had been reduced to putting a bullet in a maniac’s brain. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he could wake in the morning with an entirely different life?

The self-pity lasted a few seconds before he sneered at himself. Wish, smish, fuck ’em, he thought. Deal the cards and play them as they come.

They were east of downtown. Ahead rose the clustered spires of the L.A. skyline. The first one had been rising when he went to prison. No city mirrored the changes of the twentieth century like the city of L.A. Southern California had gone from 90,000 at the start of the century to nine million at the end. L.A. was the world’s first great city built for the automobile, but not for millions of them. It was only a slight exaggeration to imagine running for sixty miles from car roof to car roof. He had missed it so much, but now he would be glad to get away. Where would he go? No, he had to make up the botched score before he planned his exodus from L.A. He had about $170,000, enough to party for a few months, but only a fraction of what he needed to emigrate.

Right now, he wasn’t going anywhere. Ahead of him the brake lights flashed and the traffic slowed down. When the freeways worked, they were wonderful; when they didn’t, they were a nightmare. More and more it was the latter. Right now they stopped, and then began inching forward. At least the left lane moved faster than the others. Troy picked up the cellular phone and punched in Alex’s number.

“Yeah,” was how Greco answered.

“It’s me, you goddamned Greek fascist.”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Where are you, fool?”

“Gettin’ near downtown. What’s up? You see that guy?”

“Oh, yeah. I got that.”

“Where you be?”

“I’m rollin’, too. What about the P.D.C.?”

“Fifteen, twenty minutes?”

“Right on. Order me the Delmonico.”

“Medium rare.”

Troy hung up. Alex had the added thirty plus thousand and would meet them at the Pacific Dining Car—if Troy could get through downtown.

“Let’s get off the freeway,” Troy said. Diesel rolled down the window, waved, and looked drivers in the eye. They gave way and the Jaguar went up the ramp onto State Street, in the shadow of the gigantic General Hospital. Traveling east, he crossed the L.A. River and went through downtown on 5th Street, sometimes called “The Nickel.” When he was young, it had been lined with S.R.O. hotels and open-doored bars. It had been junkies and winos back then, black and white. Now it was all black and all crack, which made heroin look like medicine for Little Orphan Annie. Junkies wanted to coast “on the nod.” A junkie would do desperate things, but a crack addict would do things too sleazy even for a Texas rooster. The eyes that watched them pass were wild with madness.

They stopped for a traffic light. A black man with clothes shiny from grime appeared with a spray bottle of water and a rag. He started wiping the windshield of the car next to them. The woman inside pushed down the lock and knocked on the glass and shook her head. He gave her the finger. Diesel laughed, and was still grinnning when the windshield wiper came toward them. Before he could start, Diesel reached under the passenger seat and produced a big pistol. Still grinning, he used it to wave the beggar away. The black man threw up his hands in mock surrender, grinning with gapped front teeth. “Awright, big man,” he said. “You too mean for me.”

The light changed and they moved away.

“Not too smart,” Troy said.

“I know … but—” Diesel shrugged. “Everybody plays the fool sometimes.”

At the Harbor Freeway overpass, 5th Street blended into 6th Street, one way westbound. Half a mile farther, the Pacific Dining Car was on the left at the corner of Witmer. Troy turned into the parking lot. Alex’s car was ahead of them, being driven away by an attendant. Alex was heading toward the front door. He carried a flat attaché case.

Troy stopped and honked the horn. Greco turned; then came back to walk in with them. As they neared the front door, Greco said, “I see that other guy is missing.”

“He’s history.”

“Is that right. Chepe’ll feel better about that. Where’d you put him?”

“Where God might not find him,” Diesel said. “Under the ground in the middle of the desert. I don’t think I could find the place.”

“Is that it?” Troy asked, indicating the attaché case.

“Yeah. Take it. You might as well carry it.”

Inside the door, the maître d’ knew Alex and, carrying menus, led them to one of the Pacific Dining Car’s several rooms. It had three booths and two tables, none of which were occupied. It gave them privacy to talk and for Alex to smoke, notwithstanding the new city ordinance to the contrary.

After the waiter brought them coffee and took their orders, Alex got down to business. “I told Chepe it was all that guy’s fault. He was fuckin’ mad. He was hotter’n I’ve ever seen him. Usually he’s a sweetie pie.”

“Yeah, I know,” Troy said. “He’s an easygoing guy.”

“I put all the fuckin’ blame on Mad Dog. The old man’ll be happy when I tell him that crazy motherfucker is gone. One thing he worried about, he doesn’t want this to get around. Don’t be gossiping.”

“Ahhh, man,” Diesel said with hurt feelings evident in his voice, “what kinda guy do you think I am? I know better’n that.”

“Yeah, sure I know—but human nature is human nature. They like to confide—”

Diesel was emphatically shaking his head, so Alex stopped the line of talk. “What now? You guys ready for another one?”

Troy looked to Diesel. The big man made a face of indecision. “I gotta go home for Christmas. I got a kid.”

“I heard that,” Alex said. “A little boy, right?”

“Yeah. I love him to death. Anyway, I wanna spend the holidays with him. After the first …”

“You’d be interested then?”

“Sure. What the fuck, I ain’ never made money like this. And now that that fool is gone …”

“What about you?” Alex asked Troy.

“I think I’ll go up to ’Frisco with my main man here. While he’s with the family, I’ll take a little vacation in Tahoe. Ski in the day, gamble at night.”

“That sounds like a winner.”

“Come on up, man?”

“Maybe I will … after Christmas. I got a family, too.”

“Yeah, right. How old’s your daughter now?”

“Sixteen.”

“Good God, time flies.”

“I’m gettin’ her a car for Christmas. I’m gonna have it at the curb with a big ribbon around it.”

“She’ll like that.”

With a smile of anticipation, Alex nodded agreement and shifted the conversation. “Okay, you got the rest of the dough in that bag. What else is there? You got my number. What about you, bro’. How can I get in touch with you?”

“You can call me,” Diesel said. “You got my number?”

“No, give it to me.” Alex produced an electronic organizer and punched in the number that Diesel gave him.