The White Gold Score (A Daniel Faust Novella) (9 page)

We took the long way around, skirting the boarded-up cashier’s booth of the gas station next door and scoping out Max’s lair from the side. Nobody outside, no visible sentries—but then again, it wasn’t like he was expecting any uninvited guests. A couple of side windows, but they were fitted with fifties-era scalloped glass, and it’d been about that long since anybody had cleaned them. All we could make out inside were lights and the occasional blur of movement.

“Six cars out front,” Jennifer said softly. “Could be a lot of guys in there. Lot more than six, anyhow.”

I crouched beside her, shadowed by the booth’s cobwebbed overhang, nothing but a patch of weeds and broken concrete for cover.

“Yeah, and Dino specifically told him to hire pros this time. Max was a punk, but if he’s any good at finding talent, this could be a problem.”

“Doubt he’s got talent like us,” she said. “How do you wanna play it? We could go in right now and clean house. Might save us some trouble later.”

I shook my head. “I want intel, not bodies. Too many unknowns to start kicking down doors. Besides, we don’t want to spook Dino, and killing his muscle’s gonna spook him hard. Let’s get a closer look.”

The only nice thing about scalloped glass was that it was equally useless from either direction. We jogged up alongside the building, shoes rustling through the weeds, crunching on shards of broken glass from a shattered bottle of beer. I crept close to the corner and peeked around back. No lookouts. Just a sturdy back door and an open window filled by a rattling box fan.

I crouch-walked to the window, keeping my head ducked and ears straining to hear over the fan’s shuddering whine. A snatch of familiar sound—Max’s voice—slipped out between the spinning plastic blades.

“You wouldn’t be responsible for the distribution,” he was telling someone, “just maintaining its security. The tour runs from here to Orlando. Keep everything under control, and you walk away with a first-class plane ticket and the second half of your fee, in cash. Sound good?”

I couldn’t make out the response. The voice was too far from the window, too soft, but laden with a thick accent. I dared a peek. Through the blur of the fan, two figures sat opposite each other at a shabby office-surplus desk. One lanky, the other broad-shouldered and built like a bull on two legs.

“No,” Max replied, “they’re to be kept in the dark at all times. In a worst-case scenario, the musicians are disposable. Obviously, my employer would like the entire tour to go without incident.”

“Obviously,” came the response. Somewhere between amused and bored. “How many men under me?”

I tried to place the accent. Russian? Beside me, Jennifer’s brow furrowed.

“Ten,” Max said. “Half to provide security over the tour cases, half to handle distribution at each tour stop.”

“And they will do this…roadie business as well?”

“Right. That’s their cover. They’re fully trained. You won’t have to deal with any of it. Officially, you’d be in charge of tour security.”

“Good,” the Russian said. “I do not do grunt work.”

“Shit,” Jennifer hissed into my ear. “I think I
know
that guy.”

From the tone of her voice, I didn’t think she was expecting a happy reunion with an old friend, either. The Russian mumbled again, too low to hear over the fan, and I took another quick peek to see Max rising from his chair. I ducked back down as they shook hands.

“I’ll have the first half of your payment ready in the morning,” Max said.

“See that you do,” his guest replied, and heavy footsteps made the floorboards groan.

Jennifer tugged my sleeve. “C’mon,” she whispered, “gotta get a better look at him.”

We ran back to the neighboring lot, to the scant shelter of the derelict gas station, and crouched in the booth’s shadow to get an eye on the cars out front. The man who sauntered out the front door, ambling toward a snow-white F-350 pickup truck, was bigger than he’d looked through the blur of the window fan. Seven feet tall and chiseled from granite, wearing black jeans and a white tank top that showed off his pile-driver arms. His skin was a history drawn in prison ink, from the spiderweb tattoo on his elbow, to the constellation of stars on his shoulders, to the stylized, dripping dagger inked across one side of his neck. Razor nicks and old fish-belly white scars decorated his crudely shorn scalp.

“Dammit,” Jennifer whispered, “I hate bein’ right sometimes.”

His pickup rocked as he hopped in, slamming the door shut and firing up the engine.

“Fill me in,” I said.

“Calls himself Koschei,” she said. “Freelance muscle for hire, and he likes things messy. Couple years back, two dealers in Sacramento were feuding over turf. One hired Koschei. They found his rival’s body in about a dozen pieces.”

“Koschei cut him up?”

“
Pulled
him apart,” Jennifer said, “with his bare hands. Just started grabbing limbs and twisting ’til they tore right off. That’s his style. Up close, personal, and brutal as all hell.”

I shrugged. “So Max is hiring some scary guys. Doesn’t make ’em bulletproof.”

“That ain’t it. Koschei’s one of
our
kind, Danny. Word is, after studying Krav Maga and Muay Thai, he wanted something nastier. Found himself a teacher from the Forsaken Hand.”

That changed things. A lot. I tried to ignore the chill in my blood slicing through the LA heat. I’d just run up against a Hand sorcerer, an accountant named Sheldon who hadn’t looked like a threat until he beat me down from the other end of an open room with punches that split the air.

A good friend died that day, his body broken and bloody on the carpet right beside me. The memory was still raw, like poking an open sore.

“Caitlin and I must have made an impression on Max when we took down his last pack of thugs,” I said. “All right. It’s a new wrinkle, but we’ll deal with it. Forewarned is forearmed.”

I took out my phone. Jennifer glanced down as I pulled up my contacts list.

“Who ya callin’?”

“Caitlin,” I said. “I don’t think we’re going to get taxi service out here.”

Caitlin had just finished her own recon trip. She picked us up in the Camaro and filled us in on the drive back to the Orchid Suites.

“The first concert is at the Hamilton Pavilion,” she said. “It’s a smaller venue, perhaps four hundred seats, and quite cozy. Winter Court isn’t exactly a household name. Their first album’s barely made a splash, and I can’t imagine they’d be getting a national tour if it
wasn’t
being financed with drug money.”

In the backseat, Jennifer frowned. “Heck of a step down from Big Rig.”

“A smart step down,” I said. “Using a major name like Curtis Rake meant more eyes, more heat, and more people in the mix every step of the way. No surprise he got caught. Now Dino’s doing what he should have done in the first place: moving his coke with a low-profile band. Cait, did you get a chance to peek backstage?”

“Of course I did. Not much room to maneuver, though. Narrow hallways, cinderblock walls, and concrete floors, a few modest dressing rooms. There’s a setup area just behind the main stage, connected to the outside by a pair of loading-bay doors. Tour buses and trucks assemble behind the auditorium; there’s a parking lot back there, tucked out of sight. Encircled by buildings on three sides and a partial chain-link fence on the fourth.”

“You,” I said, “are a natural at this.”

Her fingertips slid over the steering wheel, a pleased smile on her lips.

“That’s our spot then,” Jennifer said. “Coke goes in the roadie cases, roadie cases go on the tour bus. We jack ’em either right before the show or right after. Nobody’ll see a thing.”

“It’s what they’ll
hear
I’m worried about,” I told her. “If this turns into a shootout, we’ll have the LAPD on our heels. We’ve got to take Dino’s crew down fast, smooth and
quiet
. That won’t be easy. Jen, tell Caitlin about Koschei.”

Jennifer filled her in. Caitlin looked more intrigued than worried.

“A human who can put up a decent fight?” she asked. “Oh, I’ve got dibs on that one.”

We got to the hotel right around the same time Paolo arrived, trundling up in a dirty white Econoline panel van that spat black smoke from the soot-encrusted tailpipe. He jumped out and I walked over to shake his hand, trying to ignore the acrid smell of burning oil.

“My gear’s in back,” he said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “Gimme a hand? I brought the props and the lighting you asked for, too.”

“Sure thing. Paolo, you know Jennifer, right?”

“Sure, sure,” he said, ratcheting open the van’s side door. “Hey, pretty lady. And who’s—”

He turned and froze, seeing Caitlin at her side.

“And you met Caitlin.”

“Yeah,” he said, his smile as frozen as the rest of him. “Yeah, I remember. Uh, Dan? Sidebar?”

I wasn’t sure how he’d react to the unexpected reunion. The first and only time he’d met Caitlin, she’d been dolled up in a French maid’s outfit and serving drinks at a porn director’s McMansion. Later Paolo had seen the same news story as everybody else. The one about the house burning to the ground, and Cait’s old boss found torn into a few hundred bite-sized pieces.

I gestured for Caitlin and Jennifer to hang back and clambered into the van with Paolo. We found a spot to huddle amid the clutter of electronic gear, crates, and cardboard boxes, everything bound under heavy cotton tarps.

“She’s that chica from Kaufman’s place, right? What’s she doing here?”

I shrugged. “She’s the muscle on this job.”

He squinted at me. Then over his shoulder, back at her.

“She…don’t look like muscle.”

“You can’t always trust your eyes,” I told him. “C’mon, how long have you lived in Vegas? You should know that by now.”

We lugged his gear up to the room, and he set up his base camp on the table by the window. Paolo’s portable kit didn’t look anything different from what a respectable graphic designer might use: a sleek white MacBook, a pro-quality printer that took one page at a time, a digital camera, and an artist’s Wacom digital tablet with a screen the size of a TV. Then there were the boxes, five cardboard crates filled with samples of paper in a hundred different colors, textures, and weights, along with vials of glue and binding paste.

“So what am I working with?” he asked me. I handed him the raw materials for his masterpiece: that week’s issues of
Variety
and
Billboard Magazine
, hot off the newsstand. While Paolo finished setting up, I got a call from Pixie.

“Fish on a line,” she said.

“You got him?”

“I’m watching his activity from my laptop. He’s surfing some truly skeevy porn at the moment. He’s got a webcam hooked to his system, but you’re not paying me enough to turn it on right now.”

“Can you access his browser history?” I asked.

“Why? Are you
looking
for skeevy porn?”

“Industry sites, Pix. Need to know where he goes for professional news, and what search engine he uses. The pages he hits every day.”

“Sure, grab a pen, I’ll read ’em off to you.”

Alienating half the city had trapped Dino Costa in an information bubble. A bubble we were about to turn into a steel trap.

Paolo worked late into the night, whipping up his Photoshop magic with one hand on his digital pad and the other on the keyboard, pausing for a quick photo shoot with Caitlin. Jennifer kept the job on target while I sat on the phone with Pixie, ferreting through Dino’s web browser and crafting the second leg of the con. At some point Caitlin ordered pizza and Cokes from some gourmet parlor down the street, filling the increasingly cramped room with the scent of hand-rolled dough, Italian herbs, and fresh, juicy sausage.

“That’s it,” Paolo finally said, pushing back his chair. The final touch, a pair of forged address labels with artfully copied postal marks, slid hot off the printer. He carefully affixed them to the doctored magazines.

“We good?” I asked him.

“Better than good. I could fool
myself
with these. I gotta get going. It’s a long drive back to Vegas, and I got some teenagers coming in for fake IDs first thing in the morning.”

“They can’t go on a drinking binge without your help.” I hefted one of his boxes of paper and lugged it to the door. “Truly a noble cause.”

“I’m a philanthropist at heart,” Paolo said.

I helped him bring his gear back to the van, slipped him a wad of cash, and saw him off. Back up in the room, Caitlin and Jennifer were marveling over his work.

“Paolo’s the best in the business,” I said, dead-bolting the door behind me. “Nobody tell him that, though, or he’ll start charging more.”

“He’s got the chops, all right,” Jennifer said. “How’s your hacker doing?”

“She’ll have everything ready by morning, which is when Bentley and Corman arrive at LAX. Just in time to get this show underway.”

*     *     *

Blue Rhapsody had an office in Hollywood, a turquoise pillbox of a studio bolted onto a steep hillside. Up a flight of gleaming metal steps, past the front door with its glass labeled in midnight blue, a stubby little hallway led to a clean, bright waiting room decorated with posters of the label’s top talent.

We’d staked out the building for hours, with Bentley and Corman stationed at one end of the street in their rented Ford and Caitlin on the other, while Jennifer and I walked up and down the street pretending to be tourists. We weren’t waiting for Dino; he was already there, his black Lexus—vanity plate reading MUSKMAN—parked in a place of pride out front.

“‘Musk man’?” Jennifer asked as we strolled by, arching an eyebrow at the car.

“I…think he was going for ‘music man.’”

“Well
that’s
a swing and a miss.”

My phone buzzed. I checked it and gave Jennifer a look at the text.

“Ten minutes,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

For this con, timing was everything. Specifically, the timing of the postman. The message was from Caitlin. She had spotted the delivery truck puttering north, heading our way. Jennifer lingered outside, one eye on the parking lot to watch for trouble—like Dino’s buddy Max dropping by, for instance—while I headed into the studio alone.

A framed poster in the entry hall made me do a double take: Tanesha, in concert. I wondered if it was Monty’s poster or Dino’s. Either way, that was some massive wishful thinking on display. I straightened my shoulders, checked my smile in the glossy reflection, and strode into the waiting room like I’d just won a salesman of the year award.

Dino’s receptionist—young and blonde, which I suspected were Dino’s main hiring criteria—sat behind a curved desk, filing her nails and not bothering to look busy. She flashed a thousand-watt smile my way.

“Welcome to Blue Rhapsody,” she said. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” I gave her one of the new business cards Paolo had printed up for me last night. Cowrie & Jet Family Law was now Cowrie & Jet Talent Management. “Peter Greyson, here to see Mr. Costa, if he’s available.”

Peter Greyson was my favorite and most dependable alter ego. Unlike the
real
me, he had a solid credit history, a genuine passport, and a long line of reputable references. Like I said, Paolo was the best in the business.

She eyed the card, still smiling but more out of strained courtesy than friendliness. I felt her getting ready to slam the door in my face, just like she probably had to do ten times a day.

That was fine. It was all part of the plan.

“And…did you have an appointment?”

“No,” I said, “sorry. I was just looking for a few minutes of his time. I’m representing some hot local talent that I think would be a perfect match for Blue Rhapsody, and I was hoping he might be free.”

She shut me down gently. “I’m so sorry, sir, but Mr. Costa’s busy schedule just doesn’t allow for meetings with walk-ins.”

Footsteps behind me. I didn’t have to turn; I recognized Corman’s lumbering gait. At least I’d gotten a look at him when we picked him and Bentley up at the airport—the sight of Corman dressed up in a three-piece suit was about as rare as a blood moon.

“Is there any way you could pencil me in?” I asked, putting a desperate edge in my voice. I didn’t need her to say yes; I just needed her to stay focused on me.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, then shifted her attention to Corman. Hoping I’d disappear gracefully. “Hi, can I help you?”

The faint sound of more footsteps. Another new arrival, coming in the front door and up the stubby hallway.

“No rush,” Corman said. “Go ahead, you two finish up. I left my sample case in my car. Be right back.”

I wasn’t sure what pleased her less: being stuck talking to me again, or the prospect of another unwanted salesman hanging out in her reception area. At this point, as she looked my way, her pleasant expression stayed on by sheer force of will.

“I know,” I told her, “I’m making your day difficult. There’s no way in hell I’m getting in to see Mr. Costa, and right now you’re wondering if I’m too dumb to take the hint.”

She blinked, disarmed. “No, I didn’t say that—”

I flashed a smile. “You didn’t have to. Hey, I get it. You’re the guardian at the gate. It sucks. And you’re being paid to keep guys like me out, just like I’m getting paid to keep knocking. And yes, I
do
know when to give up. So don’t worry, I’m not gonna push it.”

I had her undivided attention now, as a little warmth came back into her eyes. Exactly what I needed, so she’d be focused on me and my voice instead of what was happening fifteen feet behind me.

I didn’t get the details until later, but it had gone down just the way we’d rehearsed it. Corman timed his exit so that he’d be just out of sight, in the hall between the lobby and the front door, as the postal carrier walked in with a bundle of mail.

“Perfect,” Corman said, holding out his hands. “I was hoping you’d get here before my next meeting.”

Faced with a big guy in an expensive suit who was obviously expecting to be given the mail without question, the postal carrier had two choices. Option one: challenge Corman’s identity, insist on handing the mail to the receptionist instead of the man who might very well be her boss, and risk an unpleasant and shouty confrontation. Option two: assume everything was in order, give him the mail, and leave. One choice could make his day hard, one would make it easy, and he had about two seconds to decide.

He gave Corman the mail and left, just like ninety-nine out of a hundred people would. Humans are hardwired to respond to shows of authority, and we are, as a species, allergic to confrontation. A person’s natural reluctance to say
no
, or ask potentially uncomfortable questions, is a predator’s greatest weapon.

“I appreciate it,” the receptionist told me. Her eyes on me and not the hallway. “You wouldn’t believe how pushy some guys get.”

“Oh, I’d believe it. So, uh, while we’re being all not pushy…” I leaned a little closer to the counter, pitching my voice lower while holding her gaze. “Any chance you have plans for lunch today?”

She chuckled and held up her left hand, showing me the tiny twist of gold and the glittering diamond on her ring finger. “Sorry,” she said, “engaged.”

“I should have known,” I said with a smile. “Nice ring! Hey, you didn’t pick rings out together, did you? My brother’s going to pop the question next week, and he has
no
idea where to start shopping.”

While the conversation turned to wedding rings and the perfect diamond, Bentley made his entrance in the hall, just out of sight. His postal uniform was about a decade out of date, but nobody but another postal employee would even notice. Uniforms made people invisible. At that point Corman had already stripped the real magazines out of the bundle. He passed the rest of the letters and bills to Bentley, who slipped our doctored magazines into the stack and entered the lobby with a big, friendly smile.

“A fine day, young lady,” he said, sidling up to the counter beside me. “Got the mail for you. I do hope you get the chance to go outside for lunch. It’s beyond lovely out there.”

“I wish,” she said, giggling as she took the bundle. “Where’s Maurice? On vacation?”

“Just a little under the weather, they told me. I’m only filling in. He should be back again tomorrow.”

I watched Bentley leave, then turned back to the receptionist.

“I should head out too. I’m not done getting shot down: three more doors to knock on before I can hang it up for the day. Good luck with the wedding!”

“Hey, thanks,” she said and sent me off with a friendly wave.

The five of us reconvened at the hotel, and I got Pixie on speakerphone. I didn’t have eyes inside the building, but it wasn’t hard to figure out the general turn of events. First, the receptionist would sort through the mail, bringing most of it into Dino’s office along with his lunch order. Then, over a pastrami on rye, he’d sit down to peruse the latest industry trades.

Which would lead him, hopefully sooner than later, to the two-page spread in our specially doctored version of
Billboard Magazine
. Featuring a moody shot of Caitlin, looking glamorous and wistful as she cradled an acoustic guitar, and the headline: “
Who is Lulu Brooks? Meet the overnight sensation who has LA buzzing
.”

As we’d worked on the story last night, Paolo artfully slicing an article from the real magazine and replacing it with our own, I glanced at Caitlin. “Where’d you get that name, anyway?”

Just for a moment, her eyes went distant, and she wore a faint, wistful smile. “An old, dear friend of mine,” she said. “Just doing her a tiny honor.”

Billboard
would weave a tale of the unexpected spotlight. Of this ingenue who played coffee houses and dive bars, only to discover the biggest names in the music industry demanding copies of her demo and vying for her attention. A superstar waiting to be born, they all agreed.

A shorter, drier article in
Variety
would back up the story, with a few crucial name-drops. Names of major players in the industry who, a call to Curtis Rake confirmed, wouldn’t piss on Dino if he were on fire. Even if he wanted to call and double-check the story, none of them would be picking up the phone. His next step, if he wanted to know more about the mysterious Lulu Brooks, was obvious.

“And we’ve got movement,” Pixie chirped over the line. “He just got online and searched for her by name. And…redirecting now.”

Thanks to Pixie’s hack, Dino’s internet connection would go exactly where we told it to. We’d already verified, from his web history, that Bing was the only browser Dino used. It wasn’t hard to prepare a dummy page of search results ahead of time. The top two hits were links to articles on his favorite music sites. Which, once again, would take him to customized counterfeits Pixie had whipped up the night before. Just variations on the
Billboard
story, with hints that some top producers were aching to collaborate on a track with Lulu Brooks. Oh, and a mention of her rep, good old Peter Greyson with Cowrie & Jet.

“And now he’s searching for Cowrie and Jet,” Pixie said. He’d find a hastily pasted-up website, deliberately shoddy. The kind of firm where you’d look at the talent on display—Caitlin’s headshot prominent on the first page—and think, “They can do a lot better.”

“Thanks, Pix. Gonna hang up now.”

I set the phone down on the table. Jennifer, Caitlin, Bentley, and Corman all leaned in, staring at the blank screen like it was a magic eight ball about to render a prophecy.

“And five,” I said, “four, three, two—”

The screen lit up. Incoming call from Blue Rhapsody.