the Viking Funeral (2001) (24 page)

But Shane was restless. His mind kept touching the edges of new, soul-defining realities: Alexa's death, Chooch left in the wake of this catastrophe, the powerful memory of sex with Lisa--a woman he knew was corrupt and dangerous but whose darkness he was inexplicably drawn to.

When he thought about everything that had happened, he knew Jody was right.

If Tony was on the level, why would the LAPD be calling him a murderer on TV and making him a shoot-on-sight fugitive for every law-enforcement agency in America? The Day-Glo Dago had picked a scenario tha
t e
liminated Shane from the equation. It was now pretty obvious to Shane that Filosiani didn't want to face the consequences of his own mangled plan. A plan that had resulted in the death of a police officer under his direct supervision. With this news story, he had cut off Shane and forced him to run. Shane was completely alone.

The weird thing was, it didn't seem to matter much. His perspective had changed. He felt like someone else. His world had lost the vivid colors that had always characterized his thoughts and feelings. In their place, a gray mist had descended, taking the volume way down. Shane suspected he no longer had very many things he really cared about. Maybe he had become like Jody. Although the treasured memory of Alexa and Chooch lingered, even these once powerful performers in his life failed to fully penetrate this new fog of listless disinterest.

He began to realize that the ache inside him was really more of a craving. He needed something..
. S
omething to brighten this reality.

How had Jody put it?

A little chemical help after a confusing day.

He was looking at Lester Wood's travel case sitting on the blue carpet, not five feet away. He wondered if Wood had found a way to smuggle one of his little Baggies past Jody's inspection. Or maybe he had found a connection in Palm Springs and hooked himself up, scored some polvo bianco. So Shane stretche
d h
is foot out around the case and began to nudge it closer.

"You banged the bitch, didn't ya?" Victory interrupted his thoughts, dropping into the chair in front of Shane. "I told ya t'leave her be."

"Get away from me," Shane said softly.

"I told ya not t'fuck 'er."

"I don't take my orders from you, Vic. 'Sides, with all those anabols and oxys you pop, you couldn't lay a carpet."

"Gonna teach you a lesson, then blow yer worthless head off." Smith was sitting with his huge legs spread out in front of him, leaning back in the chair, acting as if all of this was his choice and on his terms.

Shane shifted his right foot and let it fly... kicking the steroid junkie right between the legs.

The weight lifter screamed in agony, doubled over in the chair, then dropped to his knees on the carpet, moaning. His left hand cradled his balls, but his right was snaking toward the Uzi tucked into his belt.

Shane yanked the Mini-Cougar out of his ankle holster, pushed it toward Smith, thumbing off the safety as he slammed the muzzle hard into the man's simian forehead. Shane beat Smith's draw by a full second. Victory was caught with one hand on his nuts and the other on his half-drawn Uzi.

"Go on. Bust a move. Let's see what ya got," Shane whispered. He could actually feel the weight lifter's heartbeat pulsing through the muzzle of the Beretta.

Jody exploded out of the bedroom and in an instant was standing over them, his own Mini
-
Light pulled and chambered. Shane could feel the motor home gearing down as Tremaine Lane slowed, turning around to see the drama that was playing out behind him.

"Put it down, Shane,
"
Jody ordered.

"Him first.
"

"Unhook, or I
'
11 lose the both a
'
ya right now,
"
Jody commanded.

"This ape
'
s been threatening me for two days. I want this over with,
"
Shane demanded.

"Fuck you,
"
Smith said.

Jody fired his Mini-Light. It was on auto
-
fire, and half a dozen bullets ripped holes in the carpet between them. The rounds blew chunks out of the floor of the motor home and ricocheted off the pavement below, then whined away across the desert. Somehow, miraculously, nothing hit the gas tank or driveshaft. The insanity of the event carried the moment.

Victory Smith let go of his weapon and put both hands out to his side.

Shane still didn't take the Mini-Cougar off the giant's pockmarked forehead. He found himself actually contemplating pulling the trigger, his fingers twitching inadvertently on the cold steel. Then he finally saw fear in Smith's eyes.

In that second, Shane knew he owned the man. He
'
d have to risk death to pull the trigger because Jody really might take him out, but Shane was seriously tempted to end it--

kill Victory and let Jody shoot him for it. It was Shane's call in that split second, and everybody knew it.

And then Shane felt it.

Jody was right. There was a spark of pure joy in this simple equation. It emanated from Victory across the two feet of bullet-torn carpet into Shane. He saw the fear of imminent death register in Smith's pig-mean stare. Shane desperately wanted to seal his own fate. He couldn't remain caught between what he used to be and what he was becoming. He needed to be one thing or the other.

Jody reached out and slowly pushed Shane's wrist aside, shoving the gun away from Victory's sweat-slick forehead. "This ain't it, Hot Sauce."

And then it was over.

"This pile a'shit gets near me again, I'm gonna put him down." Shane's voice, as well as his whole body, was shaking.

Victory was still on his knees, rocking slightly back and forth on the bullet-ravaged blue shag carpet, cupping his balls in both hands. "Lose this motherfucker, Jody," the weight lifter whispered. "There's a five-state manhunt for him. He's poison. Get rid of him."

Jody didn't respond. Instead, he reached down and yanked Smith's Uzi up off the floor. "Let's have yours, too," he said sharply to Shane.

Shane shook his head and put the gun back into his ankle holster. Then he walked to the back of the motor home, into the bedroom, and kicked the door shut. He sat on the queen
-
size bed with his head in his hands. He could hear the others talking low, as the vehicle once again picked up speed. Jody's voice was louder than the others. Shane couldn't make out the words, but he could feel the vibe right through the paneled bulkhead. Jody was scared. They had started pulling guns on each other, and he was losing control. The mix had turned dangerous, with a strong suicidal flavor.

The gray mist settled lower, engulfing Shane inch by inch. He had been half an ounce of a trigger pull away from murder. Half an ounce from putting a round through Peter Smith's head.

It was exactly what Jody had talked about: getting a guy down, seeing that look--the look making you feel pure and alive, but also driving you..
. P
ushing you. In Victory's weakness, he felt rage; in his total surrender came a surge of unreasoning violence.

He remembered a saying from somewhere but couldn't recall where it came from..
. P
erhaps a Sunday school lecture, or maybe just some barroom psychologist: When a man is severely tested, only then does he discover who he really is.

So who the fuck am I? Shane wondered.

Chapter
31.

IT WAS ALMOST eight P
. M
.

Jody told them they wouldn't be needing the blue-and-white motor home, so they spent twenty minutes wiping their prints off every surface, then left it in a pay lot off Ventura Boulevard and walked four blocks to the Sherman Oaks Inn, on Valley Vista. As they climbed the stairs to the second-floor room, Shane could see the orange-and-black Charger in the adjoining lot, parked next to an unmarked blue step van.

The room Jody led them into was several notches up from the one in Sunland. The two-room studio apartment was colorless, decorated in beige and brown. The furniture was new and nobody had left cigarette burns on the wood or vomit stains on the carpet.

They had said very little since the incident in the motor home. Victory Smith had remained silent, his eyes furtive and brooding. But the one time that Shane had locked stares with him, he saw hatred so intense that it froze him momentarily. Jody must have sensed trouble, because he'd kept Victory's Uzi locked in the motor home.

Lester Wood, whom Shane had learned was born in southern Texas and was fluent in Spanish, moved to the phone, took out a slip of paper with a telephone number scribbled on it, and dialed. He spoke quietly in Spanish, then a few moments later hung up. "That was one a'her Spic bodyguards. Juanita's on the way."

"Wait'll you see this bitch, Hot Sauce. Real guapitay but hard as asphalt. The spill on her is, she's already dropped six guys. She's Raphael Bacca's niece."

Jody turned to the other Vikings. "Because Rodriquez is gone, we gotta change the lineup. Inky Dink, you're driving backup. Stay at least two blocks back; use the GPS. Hot Sauce, you're with Tremaine. Victory, you're in the gray van with Sawdust."

"I don't wanna stay with the fucking monitors," Smith growled.

"I don't give a shit what you want, that's the way it's going down."

"What monitors?" Shane asked.

"The white step van parked in the lot down there is the one we're using to pick up the cash. It has three pin-cams mounted on it. Tiny little bastards're about the size of a shirt button. One is on the back of the rearview mirror, shooting out the front window. Gives us a wide shot. One's in the grille, pointing down; one is mounted under the bumper, looking back."

"Why?"

"I wanna know where they keep the cash. Since I'm gonna be a hostage and blindfolded, the cameras will tape the whole deal. Send the pictures to the monitors we got in the gray van."

"Once they give the money to us, what's it matter where they keep it?
"
Shane asked.

"A guy I know in SIS is gonna get the videotape mailed anonymously. We'll be long gone, but Juanita and her band a scumball ladrones are gonna face an SIS hard takedown. Most greaseballs don't survive those." He smiled at Shane. "I don't want any cholos left behind to point a finger at us, pick us outta some picture lineup."

Tremaine Lane suddenly walked out of the room, and Shane wondered where he was going.

They waited.

The Colombians arrived at a little past eight-thirty. There was a knock on the door, and Victory got up to open it.

"Hola," one of the men outside said softly.

"Yeah, right," Smith growled. "How's yer asshole?" He stepped aside, letting them into the room.

There were two men and a woman, and as Jody had promised, Juanita Bacca was quite a package: shoulder-length, shiny black hair framed a dusky complexion and deep almond eyes. She was wearing a long black skirt wrapped tightly around her slender waist, slit in the middle almost to her crotch.

Jody nodded to her. "Juanita. Como esta?"

She didn't acknowledge him; instead, she rattled some Spanish at the two men standing behind her, who immediately separated and flanked her protectively.

It was then that Shane got his first good loo
k a
t both bodyguards. The one on the right was going to be big trouble. He was six-foot
-
two, unusually tall for a Colombian, and had flat, uninteresting features. The tattoos on his neck ran down into his open shirt collar. His name was Octavio Juarez, and Shane had busted him three or four times when he'd been working with the Valley Vice team. As soon as Octavio spotted Shane, he nudged Juanita.

"Ay, cabrdnf Es cuico, " he whispered.

In a second, everyone had a gun out, including Juanita Bacca, who squatted slightly and grabbed between her legs through the folds of her split skirt. A spring-release holster chimed loudly, a chrome-plated .45 caliber Hardballer suddenly appeared in her hand.

They all held position, glaring over gun sights. No one seemed jittery, either..
. J
ust another day at the office. Then Tremaine Lane appeared from the corridor behind them and tromboned the slide on his auto-mag. The sound brought the first flicker of fear into the faces of the two black-eyed bodyguards, but they didn't turn or flinch. Only Juanita's and Jody's eyes hadn't changed; both were prepared to go down.

Victory Smith, unarmed, was standing in a crouch, his huge mitts helplessly out in front of him.

Juanita rattled something in Spanish to Octavio.

"Si," he replied. "Esta cerote me puse en el bote.>>

"Hey, in English!
"
Jody demanded.

Shane spoke enough street Spanish to know Octavio had said, "This piece of shit put me in jail.
"
And it was true. Octavio was a good bodyguard but a less-than-gifted street dealer who kept selling drugs to Valley Vice cops throughout the mid-nineties. Shane had roughed him up three times in one eleven
-
month period. A Valley Division record.