The Five Gates of Hell (25 page)

Creed's hand reached carelessly for his glass of water. ‘You'd kill someone.'

This had to sound right. First a chuckle, then the words, ‘Why? You got someone in mind?'

Creed didn't lift his eyes from his drink. He was watching that pure water the way you'd watch a fire.

The dread rose through Jed's body. He had to speak before he drowned in it. But he remembered to use names. He was taping this. He needed names. ‘It's Vasco,' he said, ‘isn't it?'

Still Creed watched his drink. ‘Too obvious.'

Jed tried to think. His mind kept curving away, the way a golf ball curves when it's sliced or hooked. That beautiful, lazy parabola into somewhere you don't want to be.

‘Think sideways,' Creed said. ‘I don't want to kill Vasco, I just want him,' and finally he raised his eyes and smiled, and the smile was almost benign. ‘I just want him to pay.'

Jed got it. ‘Vasco's brother.'

Creed lifted his glass. ‘Congratulations.'

But Jed had to make sure. ‘You want me to kill Vasco's brother?'

‘That's right.'

‘How?'

‘Don't you worry about that. It's taken care of. It's nice. Yes,' and Creed leaned back in his chair, ‘we're going to send Gorilla a little Christmas present.'

‘You're going to send him his brother,' Jed said, ‘dead.'

Creed smirked. ‘Something like that.'

Jed left the apartment at ten to six, the wheels still turning next to his heart. He couldn't sleep now. He took the service elevator down
to the parking-lot and got into his car. As he drove across Moon River Bridge, the day rose over the estuary, the colours you find in the skin of fish: brown and pink and palest blue. He stopped the car at the Baker Park end. Leaving the engine running, he went and leaned on the railings. The metal cool against his palms, his heart still pummelling, he drew the fresh dawn air into his lungs. The wind had blown the surface of the river into streaky lines, stretchmarks on the water's tired skin. Gulls picked at the mudbanks where once he'd searched for jewellery. He heard a voice call Vasco's name. It was Vasco's brother, Francis. The boy behind the door. He turned to face the ocean.

Just before he left, Creed had given him the date. Next Wednesday. Exactly a week from now. And as he leaned against the railings he suddenly tasted it, the moment Creed had planned for him, the moment he'd always longed for, dreaded now, still longed for, and it was burnt sugar, sweet and caustic, on his tongue, it was like the flight of a bird across a window, it was there and it was gone, he couldn't dwell on it, he couldn't let the terror in, all he knew was what it would do for him, he knew that it would give him membership, he'd be past the sliding sheet of glass, he'd finally belong.

During the next week he concentrated on his job to the exclusion of all else. He was silent, deferential, precise – the perfect chauffeur. He didn't need to wire himself. There was nothing being said, nothing to record. This was empty time. He felt close to Creed. Superimposed on him, somehow. Bound. He thought he recognised in Creed qualities that he had himself: the ability to wait and to charge the act of waiting with the current of anticipation, to check and double-check, so that when the waiting was over everything would go like clockwork. He knew that, if he ever told Creed the story of the radios, Creed would understand. It might even be something that Creed already understood, that he'd divined on their first meeting in the Mortlake office. It was something they recognised in each other and shared. It made them, Jed thought with satisfaction, extremely dangerous enemies.

Wednesday came around. When Creed called, Jed was watching a news report about a vulture who'd just been arrested on a murder charge. Apparently he'd brought the corpse in and then tried to claim commission on it.

‘It's the big night,' Creed said.

Jed waited.

‘There's a warehouse in Mangrove. United Paper Products.' He gave Jed the address. ‘Leave the limousine there. Be back here at nine-thirty. Under the building. We'll be using your car.'

Jed wondered why Creed was dispensing with the limousine. Too conspicuous, he supposed. And, now he thought about it, he was glad. Using the Chrysler would be to his advantage. No glass partition, much less chance of Creed noticing anything unusual. Jed spent most of the afternoon in the parking-lot, wiring up the back seat.

At nine o'clock he drove to the gas station two blocks south of the hotel. He checked the tyres and the oil, and filled the tank. When he returned to the parking-lot, it was nine-twenty-five. Creed and McGowan were already waiting in front of the elevator doors. McGowan wore the faded blue overalls of a city sanitation man. He was holding a long canvas bag and a cardboard box.

Jed opened the door as usual, even though it was his own car. Habit. He watched McGowan lay the bag flat on the floor.

‘What's in there?' he asked.

McGowan grinned. ‘Tools.'

In the car Creed leaned forwards. ‘Gorelli's brother lives in Los Ilusiones. Housing project on North East 27th. Lives with his girlfriend. You're going to knock on his door and you're going to bring him outside and you're going to put him in the car.'

McGowan handed him a gun. ‘You might need this,' he said, ‘to persuade him with.'

Jed put the gun in his jacket pocket. Though he hadn't really looked at it, he was sure it was the same one that had been forced into the tourist's mouth.

‘Then what happens?' he said.

‘Then what happens is, we take him for a little ride out to the Crumbles.' Creed paused. ‘You got that?'

Jed nodded.

He moved off. Past the security guard, up the ramp, out on to the dim street. It was 89 degrees. Clouds hung over the city. There were more of them than there used to be, he was sure of it. It was all the burning that was going on. Sea burials were as popular as ever, but they weren't cheap. The poor were still being burned. And some of the crematoria were cutting corners. There'd been a thing about it in the paper. They were burning at temperatures of less than 1300 degrees, which meant that dioxyns were being released into the air. Sometimes he looked at the clouds and wondered what percentage ashes they were. Sometimes he wondered how many dead people
there were to a cloud. How many dead people came down with the rain.

He was driving at a steady thirty-five. Down First, left along G, right into Central. They passed the viewing theatre. Another mystery corpse: YOUR LAST CHANCE TO IDENTIFY! $100 COULD BE YOURS! Someone's forgotten Grandma. Some runaway. Some drunk. More smoke for the chimneys. More clouds for the sky.

His throat was dry and he'd forgotten to buy any candy.

It was the big night.

They reached Los Ilusiones in less than half an hour. Creed directed him to a narrow sidestreet. He killed the engine and the lights. Latin music took over. Somebody's radio.

Los Ilusiones was 99 per cent ghetto. It was bounded by Moon River in the east, and the suburbs of Mortlake and Rialto in the west and south respectively. It had pretty much the same kind of reputation as Rialto, only more so. A high-octane mix of racial minorities, a flair for riots and looting. Taxi-drivers wouldn't take you there. The only whites in the area were winos and dealers, and they mostly ended up in the river. Jed wanted this part over with, and quick.

Creed leaned forwards and pointed through the windshield. ‘That's the building.'

It was a five-storey apartment block built in a C-shape. The gap in the C faced the street. Concrete balconies ran the length of each floor. There was a courtyard below, lit by spotlights.

‘Looks like a fucking jail,' came McGowan's voice from the back.

‘It's number 22,' Creed said. ‘Second floor.'

‘You know which side?' Jed asked him.

‘Take the stairs on the left.'

Jed stepped out of the car. He was only aware of two things now. The weight of the gun in his jacket pocket and the night air, thicker here than in the city centre, it was further from the ocean, you sometimes felt you couldn't breathe until you found your way to the end of the land. He crossed the street. It was bright in the courtyard. Five cars. A burned-out motorbike. A drain. He turned left, walked close to the edge of the building. He sensed he was being watched, one of the balconies above, but he didn't look up. He noticed the cars. A Mercedes. A Cadillac. This was cheap city housing, and cars like that could only mean one thing. Two things. Armed robbery and drugs. He suddenly felt he was facing impossible odds.

Once he reached the stairs he felt safer. The walls were brick low down, then pale-blue and scarred with graffiti: SEX and a phone
number. He smelt meat frying, then urine, then washing powder. On the second floor he turned left. The first door he came to had lost its number. He swore under his breath. The second door said 20. That was good. It meant that number 22 would be close to the stairs. He could still feel eyes on him, they were like fingers, they poked him in the ribs, the shoulderblades, the neck, it was hard not looking round. He reached number 22 and knocked with the flap of the mailbox. He took the gun out of his pocket and held it at waist-level. That way it would be invisible to anyone watching from the other side of the building. The door opened. A man in a white vest, grey flannel pants. Ears like Vasco's. Less fat on him, though. No rings.

Jed moved the gun one inch to the left and back again. ‘Out,' he said. ‘Right now.'

Gorelli blinked. ‘What?'

‘You're leaving.' Jed grabbed Gorelli by the upper arm and spun him on to the balcony.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a face appear in the corridor. A girl in a yellow dress. Hands in the air beside her ears. Lives with his girlfriend. Girlfriend was about to scream. He slammed the door shut and shoved Gorelli along the balcony towards the stairs.

Gorelli turned. ‘What about my shoes?'

Jed shoved him again. ‘Keep moving,' he said, ‘or I'll blow your fucking kidneys out.'

They reached the ground and the screaming began.

‘Francisco! Francisco!'

The girl was swaying on the balcony above. Her yellow dress, her hands searching her black hair. For lice, Jed thought. Lice like Gorelli. His loyalty had come in a rush, like a drug, he had no doubts about which side he was on. They were all playing by the same rules. Gorelli, he'd won for a while, but now he was losing, and he was losing big. Jed had to hate him. It was the only way.

When Gorelli turned his face up to the balcony, Jed hit him on the shoulder with the gun. Gorelli yelped. His arm shrank, hung against his ribs. The girl on the balcony was still swaying, screaming. You want to do something about it, Jed thought, why don't you jump?

He shoved Gorelli against the Chrysler with his gun and pulled the rear door open. He pushed Gorelli in. McGowan was still sitting in the back, Creed had moved into the front. Jed handed the gun to McGowan and climbed into the driver's seat.

‘Nice work,' Creed said. ‘Now drive.'

Jed let the clutch out and the Chrysler took off. He swung right
and took a bite out of the kerb. The car rocked, straightened up. He beat a red light and turned right again, on to the parkway that led along the river to the bridge.

‘The Crumbles, right?' he said.

‘Yeah, and slow down,' Creed said. ‘We don't want people smelling something funny.'

Jed slowed to thirty. The lights of Rialto slid by on the right. On the left: the boatyards, wire-mesh fences, metal gates. Then a stone parapet and bright white globes on poles like giant pearl hat-pins. The oily swell of the river beyond.

‘Who are you?' Gorelli said.

‘You don't know who we are?' McGowan said. And then to Creed and Jed, ‘He doesn't know who we are.'

‘He doesn't need to know,' Creed said. ‘Where he's going he doesn't need to know anything.'

‘Nothing,' McGowan said, ‘nothing at all,' and Jed could hear the cocaine in his laughter.

Jed glanced at Gorelli's face in the mirror. It was grey, and strangely motionless, as if there'd been a sudden rush of concrete to his head.

‘I don't understand,' Gorelli said.

‘Ah,' Jed said, ‘he doesn't understand.'

‘I think he's going to start crying,' McGowan said. ‘Anyone got a Kleenex?'

Jed laughed.

‘Look,' Gorelli said, ‘I'm sure we can come to some arrangement here.'

‘Arrangement?' McGowan said. ‘What arrangement?'

‘We've already made all the arrangements,' Creed said. ‘We're funeral directors.'

Gorelli lunged for the door, but it was locked. McGowan clubbed him with the butt of the gun. Blood bloomed on Gorelli's head, a dark rose appearing from nowhere, a magician's trick. He slumped back in the seat.

‘Any time you want a headache,' McGowan said, ‘Doctor.'

Creed turned to Jed. ‘Take the old coast road. Less traffic out there.'

Jed left the expressway at the Baker Park exit and cut down through houses of clapperboard and dull red brick. The old coast road ran parallel to the shoreline. All shale and weeds and winds that picked up speed as they swooped in off the ocean, this strip of barren land prepared you for the final desolation of the Crumbles. Baker Park
faded. They passed a used-car lot, a twenty-four-hour café, a gas station, then darkness closed round the Chrysler like a fist.

After driving for about ten minutes Jed looked away to the right. The old gravel mine crouched against the sky. So still, so derelict, yet it looked capable of sudden movement. All those metal limbs and struts, all those tense right-angles. It could jump, land up fifteen miles away. It could carry fear with it, like disease. Some dead things seem more horribly alive.

Creed told him to take a right turn, down a narrow track that led towards the ocean. A gate barred the way. A notice hung on the gate and he read the words in the beam of the headlamps: DANGER. NO ENTRY WITHOUT AUTHORISATION.