This Wicked World (35 page)

He checks on his other customers: three party boys in fancy jeans and dress shirts silk-screened with skulls and AK-47s who spend more time texting than talking to one another. They’ve been to a screening at the Arclight and are desperately trying to wrangle an invitation to the afterparty at a club down the boulevard. When Boone asks if they need anything else, one of them frowns and waves him away like smoke.

He pulls out his phone. Fucking hell. The thing’s completely dead. He forgot to charge it before coming in. Robo sidles up to him and whispers, “The first rule of fight club is, you do not talk about fight club.”

“What are you mumbling about?” Boone says.

“Your face, homes. Yesterday you showed up with that cut on your head, and tonight you look even worse.”

Boone touches his forehead, then picks up a folded bar towel, unfolds it and folds it again to hide his nervousness.

“What’s the big deal?” he says. “Some kid with cheap gloves gave me the cut at the gym, and this morning I walked into a cabinet door.”

“And you’re limping,” Robo says.

Boone unfolds the towel again. “You must love my ass, all this attention you’re giving me,” he says.

Robo moves in closer. “It ain’t me, dog, it’s Simon,” he says. “Dude’s freaked out. Says you look like a bum and that your face scares the customers.”

Boone saw Simon walk past a few times earlier this evening but ignored him because he doesn’t have the stomach for any hassles tonight. He wonders if he should stop him next chance he gets and give him the phony explanations for his injuries but then decides why the hell should he? If the guy has a beef, let him step up and say something about it.

“
My
face upsets the customers,” Boone says to Robo. “What about yours?”

Robo frowns and hitches up his pants. “That’s cold,” he says. “I’m just trying to warn you.”

“I know, bro, and thanks,” Boone replies. “My shit’s been crazy lately, that’s all.”

It’s a relief when Simon leaves for the night a short time later. He doesn’t even acknowledge Boone as he walks out the front door with a couple of cute young things in tow. The guy’s so sketchy, he probably forgot what he said to Robo as soon as it came out of his mouth.

Doesn’t matter, though, because Boone isn’t going to give him anything else to get bent out of shape about. From now on, it’s all about slinging beers, scooping tips, and saving pennies. No more looking for trouble.

The last few hours of his shift crawl by. He can’t even muster an enthusiastic greeting for Mr. King and Gina when they show up. And, of course, Mr. King wants to be creative tonight, ordering something called a Bronx and calling out the ingredients for Boone: gin, sweet vermouth, dry vermouth, and orange juice. Tastes like crap, and Boone dumps his in the sink when the old man is looking the other way.

B
OONE’S ALARM GOES OFF AT SIX
. H
E SHOWERS AND GETS
dressed, then crosses the courtyard to Amy’s bungalow to catch her before she leaves for work. He knocks, waits, and knocks again. No response.

Her car isn’t parked out front either. He walks Joto all the way down to Franklin to be sure. So she must have left for school already. He wonders if she’s avoiding him. If she gives him a chance to explain what’s been going on, he’s sure he can make her understand why he lied to her. He’s off tonight. Maybe she’ll let him take her to dinner.

He tests his sore arm as he watches Joto sniff something in the gutter. It feels pretty good this morning. He can lift it over his head without wincing. The day is warming up quickly, and the palm trees shy away from a hot, dry wind that makes it difficult for the birds to get where they’re trying to go. A frond torn loose by a powerful gust sails through the air and lands in the middle of the street.

Back at the bungalow, Boone lies down on the couch with the newspaper and falls back asleep until nine. He gets up and feeds Joto, then pulls his phone off the charger, thinking he’ll try to call Amy. As soon as the phone powers up, though, it chirps to signal that he has a message from her.

Boone pushes the button and can’t believe what he hears.

It’s Olivia, saying something about a photo, the cops, people watching him. He brings up the picture: Amy, bound hand and foot, a stunned expression on her face.

Jesus. Fuck. This is insane. Boone closes his eyes and waits for his initial panic to subside before calling Amy’s phone.

Olivia answers. “About fucking time.”

“Where is she?” Boone says.

“Staring at the business end of a shotgun,” Olivia replies. “If you want to see her again, be at Hollywood and Highland in half an hour, at the entrance to the subway station.”

“Wait. Hold on.”

“That’s all for now, except that my people better not see anybody who even smells like a cop within a hundred yards of you. But you’re smart enough to know that, right?”

“Listen,” Boone says. “Bring Amy along. You can take me instead.”

Olivia chuckles. “Not gonna happen,” she says.

“At least put her on for a second; let me talk to her.”

“Fuck you, man. Half an hour,” Olivia snaps, then ends the call.

B
OONE MAKES IT
to the meeting place in fifteen minutes, the mall at the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland Avenue. A Gap, a Coach store, Hot Topic, and restaurants catering to the tourists who come to see the stars’ hand-and footprints at Grauman’s Chinese Theater next door.

The subway station is located a couple of stories beneath the mall. Boone plants himself at the top of the escalators and scrutinizes every passing face. Throngs of tourists wander around like they’re lost. They’ve seen the footprints and the sidewalk stars, posed with the hustlers dressed as Batman and SpongeBob, and now they’re wondering what else there is to do. Boone feels like the world has taken a sickening tilt. He wants to shout a warning at them.

An ambulance races past, siren going full-bore. Boone checks his watch and finds that two minutes have gone by since he last looked. He crosses his arms and uncrosses them, about to come out of his skin. A bum asks for a dollar and scoffs at his curt refusal.

Olivia materializes out of the crowd. She’s wearing big black sunglasses and a little green dress.

“Hey, sailor,” she coos.

“What the fuck’s going on?” Boone says.

“All kinds of fun stuff. Let’s take a walk.”

She was smart to meet in public. If they were anywhere else, Boone would take her down right now and start breaking things until she told him where Amy was. They head west, toward the theater.

“First off,” Olivia says, “your girlfriend’s fine.”

“Let her go,” Boone says. “Whatever this is, it’s stupid to involve her. I barely know her.”

“Really?” Olivia says sarcastically. “Okay, let me make a quick call.”

One slap, Boone thinks. Just to wipe the smirk off her face.

“If you hurt her…” he begins.

“Let’s get past this part,” Olivia says. “If I hurt her, you’ll fuck me up or hunt me down or whatever. I know you’re the king of the badasses. That’s why you’re here. I need a badass.”

Boone grabs her arm, yanks her to a stop. “I mean it,” he says. His reflection glowers back at him from her sunglasses.

Olivia’s smugness disappears, replaced by sudden rage. She pulls away from Boone and holds up a phone. “In about three minutes this is going to ring,” she says. “Touch me again, and I’m going to tell my friend on the other end to kill your girl.”

He could call her bluff, but it’s too risky. The bitch is crazy — her and her brother. A couple of mean dogs who’ve jumped the fence and can’t figure out who to bite first. He raises his hands in surrender, and they start walking again, detouring around a woman taking a picture of a teddy bear sitting on Jackie Chan’s star.

“How do I get her back?” Boone asks.

“You’re going to help me on something, a job I planned,” Olivia replies. “If you do your part right, hooray for our team. If you blow it, think about going back to prison. Or worse. Think about you dying, or your girl, or both of you.”

They’ve reached the theater. The forecourt is packed with tourists who occasionally drop to their knees to place their hands in the impressions left in the concrete by the hands of Marilyn Monroe or Tom Cruise. Olivia watches the ritual with a superior smile twisting her lips.

“What kind of job?” Boone asks.

“Tomorrow Bill is meeting some Mexicans in a ghost town out in the desert,” Olivia says. “He’ll have one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash, and the Mexicans will have a million in counterfeit hundreds. Both groups will have been searched beforehand to make sure nobody’s carrying weapons. You’re going to be there too, you and your crew, hiding somewhere nearby with lots of guns.

“Right when Bill and the Mexicans are about to make the exchange, you’ll pop out and jack them for the real money and the fake shit, fucking over everybody all at once. Then you’ll get the hell out of there, and me and you will hook up later. You’ll hand me the take, and I’ll hand you your girlfriend and twenty thousand dollars.”

Boone goes cold. He’s got to think fast, talk Olivia out of this madness.

“That’s great and all,” he says, “but can I point out a few problems?”

“No,” Olivia snaps.

“First, the crew you mentioned? I don’t have one.”

“Put one together.”

“And I don’t have any guns either.”

“You’re in L.A., dude. Guns grow on trees.”

“Okay, this ghost town. Where exactly is it? What’s it called? I need to know these things.”

“How much longer are we gonna go on like this?” Olivia says with a sigh. “It’s in the Mojave Reserve or Preserve or something like that. I’m going back to Bill’s today to get all the details, and I’ll call you with them later.”

“Last I saw, you and Bill were pretty much on the outs,” Boone says. “Something changed since then?”

“I’m done with you,” Olivia says.

Boone winces with frustration, pauses for a moment to regain control of his voice, then says, “Olivia, listen to what I’m telling you. This is way over your head, and way over mine. I was a bodyguard, not a robber. You picked the wrong guy.”

Olivia glares at him, anger flushing her cheeks. “Okay, you know what?” she says. “You might as well shut up now, because nothing you say is going to change this. You’ve got two choices: Do as you’re told, and Miss Amy lives. Don’t do as you’re told, and she dies. Real simple.”

“Tomorrow is too soon,” Boone says.

“I’ve got no control over that. Better get to stepping.”

“Olivia, please.”

The girl turns and walks away. Boone thinks about following her, but that would be a mistake if she’s actually smart enough to have someone watching him. A fresh load of tourists streams off a bus, and Boone loses her in the mess. His heart is banging a mile a minute, but his mind is strangely calm as he jogs across Hollywood Boulevard against the light to reach his car, ignoring the honks and shouted curses. It’s blood-and-guts time now, and there’ll be no stopping until Amy is safe.

B
OONE CALLS
R
OBO
when he gets back to the Olds.

Robo answers with a sharp “
Dígame
.”

“It’s Jimmy,” Boone says. “I need to talk to you.”

“Yeah?”

“Not on the phone, in person. Can we meet somewhere?”

“What do you mean? I’ll be at work tomorrow.”

Boone touches the bandage on his forehead. “This can’t wait that long,” he says.

“I don’t know what to tell you. I’m watching the kids right now. My old lady’s out shopping with her sister.”

“I’ll come there then.”

Boone hears children in the background on Robo’s end. Robo lowers his voice and says, “It’s barely ten in the morning, bro. What the fuck’s going on?”

“I want to talk to you about a job.”

“One of them kind that can’t wait?”

“One of them kind that pays real well. Come on and give me your address.”

H
ALF AN HOUR
later Boone pulls up in front of a two-story duplex deep in Van Nuys. Robo’s family occupies the bottom unit. The building’s yellow stucco is cracked and flaking, and the windows are covered with iron security bars. Boone steps over a tricycle on his way to the front door. Other toys are scattered across the dead grass in the yard.

The door of Robo’s unit is open, so Boone sticks his head inside. Robo, dressed in a T-shirt and sweatpants, is passing out bananas to a pack of rambunctious kids and shouting to be heard over the cartoon on the TV.

“Hey,
mijo!
Don’t be so grabby,” he says to one of the boys.

“Junior took my baby,” a little girl wails.

“What you want with a doll?” Robo asks Junior, a chubby five-year-old. “You’re a boy. Give it back.”

“Hey,” Boone calls out.

“Hey,
ese,
” Robo says, raising a hand. “Hold on a minute. I’ll be right there.”

The kids all turn to look at Boone with big brown eyes and quizzical expressions. He takes in the wall of family photos, the well-worn furniture, the fresh roses in a vase on the dining-room table and knows he shouldn’t be coming to Robo with a thing like this. It’s a lot hairier than the guy’s usual snooping and strong-arming.

But then he flashes back on the picture of Amy that Olivia sent, the fear and confusion in her face. If Robo says no, he says no, but Boone has to ask. He moves outside to wait on the porch while the fat man settles the children in front of the TV.

Robo joins him a few seconds later, shouting over his shoulder, “Stop banging that candle! Now!” Sweat shines on his face and neck.

“Damn, man, how many kids you got?” Boone says.

Robo passes him a can of Budweiser. “That’s my sister-in-law’s too. A whole fucking circus.”

He pops open his beer and leads Boone to a wrought-iron table and chairs set up in a shady spot in the yard. Boone takes a seat and watches a couple of
vatos
pedal past on lowrider bicycles.

“So what you got for me?” Robo asks.

Boone starts talking without a solid pitch. A mistake, probably, but time’s short. He leaves out Amy and Olivia — too much to go into right now — and plays it instead that he heard about the meeting between Taggert and the Mexicans from a prison buddy looking to hire anonymous gunmen to ride out to the desert and rob the businessmen on both sides of the deal.