One of the Wicked: A Mick Callahan Novel (10 page)

The hulking shape of a dark van came down the street, rocking from side to side as it passed over the new speed bumps. The driver had not bothered to flick on the lights. I turned away, feeling embarrassed for some reason, as if a host of adolescent feelings were stapled to my shirt.

I opened the phone. The screen lit up. My finger was actually trembling. Screw Hal, what did he know about women? He'd been single since the Jurassic Period. I dialed Darlene. Maybe I'd do this the simplest way possible. Admit I was an asshole and I missed her and just needed a hug.

The van parked almost in front of my house. Someone inside was smoking a cigarette. I walked closer to the porch, into the light, and hunched over with the phone to my ear. Darlene answered on the third ring. She sounded sleepy. I remembered her next to me on the pillow and the scent of her perfume. A need burned in my chest.

"It's me."

A sharp intake of breath, as if Darlene knew what was coming and couldn't decide how to answer. That happens sometimes, when people are on the same emotional page about a relationship, half in and half out. . . .

Feet trotted up the slanted grass behind me. My adrenaline kicked in, and I ducked low and spun around. A baseball bat glanced off my left hand and sent the phone flying. My fingers went numb. I feinted to the right as my eyes darted around in search of a weapon. My vision narrowed to take in the bat. It came at me from above, so I closed with the assailant and drove him back into some potted plants. He lost his balance and grunted harshly. He smelled like cigarettes. I clubbed him twice with the side of my clenched fist, mindful of suddenly sore and possibly broken fingers. Our eyes locked.

It was the man from the strip club. He wore a different shirt but still that same faded windbreaker. I threw myself off him and rolled through the plants and out onto the cement. The second man was closing fast. It was the one I'd called Cowboy. I backed toward the house, palm up and circling. Cowboy went left, Windbreaker—looking a bit dazed—broke to the right. I didn't bother trying to talk them out of it. They both looked pretty determined. Cowboy spoke.

"You could come quiet."

Not likely. Windbreaker tried to rush me. I backed into the wall, and felt the handle of a rake. I brought it up and blocked the bat as it came down. Cowboy was faster this time. He grabbed at me. I used the end of the handle to whack him, got lucky and caught him in the abdomen. His own momentum cost him a lot of wind. He staggered backwards into the bushes. Windbreaker tried for my testicles but I turned in time to catch most of it on my thigh. The bat grazed my skull. I got woozy and my knees weakened.

"Don't. Kill. Him."

Cowboy, trying to yell but sounding like a feeble old woman. Windbreaker tapped my temple with the bat. The world went white, spun in a circle, and I went down. I snapped out of it for a second and tried to stab upwards with the prongs, but he kicked me in the throat. I thrashed around like a trout, clutching at my neck. Another blow to my head and the lights went out.

Bud Stone was the neighbor you loved to hate if you lived in LA. He had a lot of used cars and at least two would be up on blocks in his parched brown yard on any given day. Late that same afternoon he had gotten an old red Mustang running for the first time in years. Once it cranked up, belched and farted fire, the Bone looked in all directions, left it running, and went back through the metal wrecks and into the cluttered garage. He got up on a small folding ladder and took down a tackle box, put it on his wooden workbench, opened it up and removed the top row of wrenches.

The sack layer held a saw-toothed hunting knife in a sheath, some old field glasses, two handguns, and worn holsters for a 9mm Glock and a .38 Smith and Wesson. Bone had cleaned and oiled the weapons the night before. He loaded them, tucked the Glock onto his right hip and put the smaller gun at his ankle, cop style.

My friend put an extra clip and a speed loader full of hollow-points into the pockets of his bulky, grey sweatshirt. The wicked knife sat in the back of his belt. He stretched and did some breathing exercises to calm himself. He heard a floorboard squeak.

Bud looked up, saw his wife Wendy standing in the kitchen, peeking out through the doorway. She wore a pale blue dress and a stained white apron that read BOSS. Wendy was a plump redhead, almost blind without her glasses, and she worried too much and too often. Bud loved her dearly. Since it was hard to know how much she'd seen, he assumed the worst and forced himself to produce a broad smile. "Now, don't get all worked up. It's no big thing."

Wendy's eyes filled with tears. "Guns again, Bud?"

Bone shrugged. "They're mostly for show, okay? I have to bluff. I've got to meet some guys. It's a business sit down, but these clowns fancy themselves badasses, you know? I might have to show them I'm not scared. Believe me, I know better than to sign on for the real deal. Relax. Just finish packing. Did you call your sister?"

Wendy nodded. "She said to come on ahead."

"You're overdue anyway, Wen. She can use your help on the farm, with her husband laid up and all. You've been homesick. Consider this a vacation."

"Bud, I'm scared. We're both too old for this."

Steel entered his voice. "Just go inside."

Wendy shook her head and backed up two steps into the kitchen. Her hands busied themselves with a worn dish towel. Bone could hear water boiling. She was making pasta for dinner before she left for the airport. Wendy always had to freeze a week's worth of meals.

"Sometimes it's like I don't even know you anymore," she said.

The look on her face stung him.
Sometimes I don't know myself. Guess I'm just one of the wicked.
Bone turned back to the tackle box, closed it up and put it back on the shelf just to buy time. He composed a reasonable reply, but by then she was gone.

My friend went back into the yard and turned on the hose. The car was still running because Bone didn't dare shut it off. He soaked the ground a bit, got down near the front of the old Mustang and muddied up the license numbers and then did the same at the back. They were junkyard plates anyway, but Bud wanted to be extra careful. He cleaned himself up.

After a time, Wendy opened the front door and handed him a cold beer and a huge plate of rigatoni with tomato sauce, steamed vegetables, and a big hunk of homemade garlic bread. He thanked her, took it and sat down in the front yard to eat. Wendy went back inside to finish packing her suitcase. Soon Bud could hear the game show she liked, canned laughter and a pretty woman spinning a wheel. He finished the food, washed the plate with the garden hose and left it on the steps.

The TV went silent. The front door opened and Wendy came out rolling her luggage. Bud helped her take it to their best vehicle, put things in the trunk, slam it shut. They looked at each other for a long moment. Then he kissed her on the cheek and they hugged. Bud Stone watched his wife drive away. After a while he went to the running car, got in and closed the door. He rolled the window down and stared at the empty home he was leaving behind.

My friend sat there nursing the beer, car running, until the sun was almost down. Then he drove down the driveway and headed north and west, toward Pacoima.

Bone used to tell stories about how bad some of the gangs were in the San Fernando Valley. He said the leaders rotated in and out of jail, and some ran small empires based on drugs and a new kind of sex trade. They bring girls in from all over the world, tell them they'll be working off their passage to America in some sweat shop but then hold them in Mexico, where they addict them to drugs and break them in to be hookers. Some have set up safe houses in parts of LA where underage girls can be arranged for a cash price. They bring them over the border in dresses and curls, rent them to perverts, pay them with heroin or Oxycontin and return them to Mexico when they're all worn out.

There were stories about what happened after that, about home movies of cold-blooded murder that could be purchased on DVD or over the Internet. Some folks think snuff films are an urban legend. Other people know better.

Bone had one particular gang in mind that night. The one that sold what appeared to be some of those genuine snuff films. A group of sociopaths flush with cash and far, far beyond redemption. Bud probably figured their reputation would assuage his guilt, make him feel better if he had to shoot. He was willing to play for keeps tonight.

He went into Panorama City and stared through the open window at neon signs and broken windows and gang markings. Gang bangers glared at him, shaved heads shiny with sweat, beige pants hanging loose below torn and stained white wife-beater tees. Some grabbed the crotch of their trousers and shouted epithets. The streets were filled with trash . . . of all kinds.

Young hookers were everywhere, skinny girls with needle tracks teetering on high heels flashing as much skin as possible, goose bumps like Braille dots on their shivering, pale skin. Bud drove on.

The night was like a pulsing, purplish vein when he pulled into the parking lot behind the empty chain market. This area was so rough the place closed down right after dark. No one would take a night shift. Rap music assaulted the ears. There were cars everywhere, kids blowing weed and drinking wine and beer. Bud drove into the lot. His old car blended in with the others. He didn't plan on getting close enough to stick out as a gringo. He sank low in the seat, drove along the fence and parked the Mustang in the side alley by the store.

Across the lot, two girls necked and fondled one another while a group of drunken boys cheered them on. For the first time, Bone allowed himself to feel afraid. A little fear could sharpen the senses. If these kids discovered an armed white guy among them, he'd be dead meat.

The man he was expecting was nicknamed Gordo; just huge, a fridge with a head on it, a wild mane of red hair and tats. Gordo was rumored to be half Mexican and half Irish, some such shit, but born and raised in East LA. Bone had sat in more than a few cop bars, listening to stories about the prick. He had the dope and hookers and snuff porn cornered, so much money behind him that the law couldn't get around his high-powered attorney long enough to nail him on anything serious.

If anything went wrong, Bone knew that the rest of the gang might come after him, but other than that, hell, the kid's own mother probably wouldn't give a shit. He opened the glove compartment, got some chaw and let the bitter taste fill his mouth. He didn't use it often, but it was an effective stimulant. The blast of nicotine added to his nervousness, gave him more fire. He gagged and patted his guns like a man trying to calm down nervous pets.

About a half hour later, a loud horn blared out a tune that Bone thought might have been
La Cucaracha
. Some of the boys hopped into their cars and backed out of the way to create an opening. A caravan of three shiny black BMWs drove slowly into the middle of the wild, noisy circle. The kids partied on and sprayed beer everywhere, but no one went near those three new cars. Bone sat up in the front seat, heart thumping.

Into a pool of light came a skinny kid with terminal acne. The boy was stumbling his way, maybe looking for a place to hurl without being teased by the others. Bone swore and slipped further down in the seat. The kid paused, leaned on the wall and pissed. Steam rose up and faded.
Stay there, damn it.

The kid zipped up, and started walking again, but the wrong way. He was too drunk. For a long moment it looked like he'd crash into a soft drink machine by the market, maybe knock his sorry ass out, but he bumped into a metal cart instead, stumbled and fell to his knees.

Back in the circle, the crowd was starting to go quiet, perhaps with anticipation. The kids were all staring at the middle BMW like they knew who was in it. Bone figured Gordo would be in that one, with protection front and back.
That's what I'd do.

The drunken boy started his way again, completely lost, just wandering around. He seemed to be singing to himself. Since the rest of the gang had fallen silent, Bone could hear his voice, all hoarse and boozed up.
Time to make a decision.

Bone divided his attention as best he could, half on the approaching boy and half on that middle car. The front doors opened, and tall bodyguards got out on either side; black steroid junkies in those ubiquitous blue jogging suits with all the requisite gold chains. The crowd murmured.

The boy was closer now and had seen his car. Bone swore, and moved to the passenger side. He slipped out onto the cold cement and duck-walked backwards to vanish into the overflowing trash bins. Let the kid look, find the vehicle empty, move on. The garbage reeked. Bone peeked over the top of the trash can.

Back in the circle of headlights, a wide man with red hair got out of the Beemer at his own leisurely pace. The crowd erupted into cheers.

Gordo.

The boy was at the red Mustang, peering in the open driver's window. He slipped a bit, leaned on the car. Stuck his head inside.
You barf in there and I'll break your fucking neck,
Bone thought.
Damn it kid, your karma sucks.

The kid opened the door and got in. He studied the dash for a while and then vanished from view. Bone shook his head, stunned. He edged closer and could just make out what was happening.

The boy was trying to hot wire the Mustang.

Back in the center of the crowd, Gordo was turning in a wide circle, arms raised. The gang cheered him on. Bone took advantage of the noise, opened the passenger side, reached in and grabbed the kid military style, one hand over his mouth. The boy whimpered and struggled. Bone dragged him back out onto the pavement in a choke hold and rendered him unconscious. He dragged the kid further into the alley. He pulled his knife, held it to the kid's throat for a long moment.