The Animals After Midnight

by Jeff Johnson

  “Nah.” He put his arms behind his head. “I make bank here. I’m cool. Figure I get busted for anything it’ll be drunk and disorderly. I kinda like the thought of being followed around by guys in suits. Makes me feel like a somebody.” He laughed, not a care in the world. Guy was hiding something, I knew, but so was I. We all were. I reached out and slapped his knee.

  “Attaboy. Chill that new guy out. Tell him whatever he needs to hear, but send out a few feelers, too. Might need to import some talent out of Cali. People who know the name but not the game.”

  “Fans of the Lucky abound, my brother,” Chase said. “I can make a few calls. Sacramento is brimming with A-grade tattooers who would do anything to get the fuck out of that town.”

  “Good.” I stood up. “Think I’ll go see Gomez.”

  Late afternoon at the Rooster Rocket was my favorite time to be there. I smiled at Cherry and Gomez and went to my favorite booth in back. A minute later, Gomez joined me with two Christian thimbles and a clipboard.

  “This rain, man,” he said. “Five months to go, no?”

  “Roof leaking?”

  “Not bad. What’d you do to your face?”

  “Took a grater to it.”

  Gomez raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. We drank and soaked in the vibe. There were a few day drinkers and the first few local office types had just come in. Bob Seger on the jukebox. He took a breath to tell me something, then he didn’t.

  “Santos okay?”

  “He has a lot of money now, Darby.”

  “Ah.”

  “Yeah.”

  Gomez would never ask me to rat anyone out, that wasn’t what this was about. I thought about it.

  “What’s he doing with it?” I asked.

  “Shit.” There it was. “Fuckin’ kid sold that ride and bought a Monte Carlo, so now he has even more money. He could fix his place up, maybe go to community college and get his GED, but no. No, he wants to run Oregon weed. Few pounds at a time. Take it south and make a few bucks. That’s the plan he came up with.”

  “Good for him.”

  “I know, right?” Gomez fingered his moustache. “But there has to be something better. I like the idea of him maybe getting into the food industry.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, he likes to cook. Worked in the kitchen in juvie. Flaco says the boy has chops for a kid who never used a real knife. But I’m just dreaming out loud. He’s a bright young man.”

  “I asked Santiago if there was any openings at Frond. He said no. He draw?”

  “Sure. Cholo shit. Pretty girls with big tits and clown makeup. Lowriders.”

  “Huh.”

  “So, I know . . . shit. Whatever he decides, maybe . . . I hope you keep talking to him. We went over this already, me and you, but this was before I knew about the cash being as long as it is.” He shrugged.

  “Easy. I got so much difficult shit to do right now, talking to the kid will be a relief.”

  “Right on.” Gomez tried to project neutral cool, but inside he was doing backflips.

  “I might need a favor too, now that I think of it.”

  “Of course. I owe you bigtime and thousand times over, homie. What is it?”

  “Hank Dildo.”

  “Ah, the darling little Mr. Dildo. Si.” Gomez smiled sadly. Then he sighed and looked at me expectantly. I looked over my shoulder to make sure Cherry was out of earshot.

  “Tomorrow, maybe the next day, I’m going to give him some money. Enough to get started somewhere else. He has a mistress, Gomez.”

  Gomez’s face hardened. “He does now, does he?”

  “Yep. Nigel told me when I visited him. I went and talked to her.”

  “Motherfucker.” Gomez made a fist.

  “Right. Now, this other chick, I don’t think she knows about Delia. But that isn’t my problem. Hank is.”

  “What can I do?” There was murder in his eyes.

  “We can’t kill him, Gomez. But we can make sure he leaves and never comes back. Without Delia’s money.”

  “How?”

  “How,” I repeated. “This is where Delia usually comes in. But this time it’s just us.”

  “Not good, amigo.” He leaned back and raised his hand. “Cherry! Dos? Gracias.” Then he turned to me. “What if we hold the other woman hostage? Then we—no, no, wait. That’s stupid.”

  “Maybe we set Hank up for a crime. Get his fingerprints on something. People try to do that to me all the time.”

  “He wouldn’t believe it. Too thin. Too much wiggle room.”

  Cherry set down new thimbles for us. We sipped. A new song came on, Roy Orbison this time.

  “Cars,” Gomez said. “We have lots of cars.”

  I looked up and watched him think.

  “One time, Darby, we gave this car, another Monte Carlo, to this woman Maria. She loved that ride. But as long as we knew where that car was, we knew where Maria was.”

  “Huh. We give Hank money and a car. And we hate him.”

  “That or we put him in the field with Bella.”

  “Okay then. Can you get me some wheels? The kind of thing Hank won’t get rid of too fast.”

  Gomez narrowed his eyes. “I can.”

  It was an hour before full dark and I had two kinds of tail to lose.

  The feds would be easy. Traffic was terrible and they knew I was scraping them off already. Pressman and Dessel would make a brief show of it and then sit on the shop until I came back, mostly to keep Lopez in check. But Riley was a different matter. He could use traffic cameras. So I had to move in a strange new way.

  Fortunately, I knew just what to do.

  Back at the Lucky, I closed the door to the lounge/office and took stock. First, I put on an extra Lucky Supreme hoodie from the merch cabinet. It was going to be cold as fuck, just like last time. Then I got some old leather gloves I used for impromptu construction and stowed them in my pockets. Last, I needed a bag of some kind for the money. I was thinking ten grand would do it, so I didn’t need a big one. One of the white trash bags for the small station can was perfect.

  Then I was off. I was going back to the U-Store-It, this time alone.

  Dessel and Pressman were parked a block down. I ducked around the corner, moving fast, and they followed. Two blocks down at the Chinatown gate I lost them in a snarl of delivery trucks. From there, I zipped long under awnings, making my way to the river. I had to cross. I had to change the way I looked, too. It helped to have money.

  First, I ducked into a convenience store with two entrances. I bought a bright blue umbrella and went out the other way. From there, I crossed the street and did the same thing, this time tossing the umbrella as I entered. Two more umbrella changes later I boarded the MAX in Chinatown. As I got on, I ditched the last umbrella and donned my new hat.

  On the far side, I got off at the first stop and started walking. It was dark by then, and darker still by the time I got to the train tracks. On the off chance that Riley was James Bond, I took the battery out of my cell phone. Then I walked.

  I was thinking about the Hank problem when the U-Store-It came into view.

  Approaching from the train tracks again was just as long and bad as before, full of wind and rain, but I wasn’t as cold this time around. Riding the rails through the city at night was something I might have enjoyed even a month ago. Now, I was just glad the train was a little slower the second time around. I lit a cigarette when I stepped into the yellow field of light spilling out of the lone halogen security lamp, then started across the mud to the fence. There was no one on the other side this time. I looked up and paused. The access plank was up there in the darkness.

  “You’re thinking of Nicky, aren’t you?” came a disembodied male voice.

  I dropped into a crouch.

  “Don’t run! I have something to show you.” Laughter. “Time we talked. Mister Holland.”

  “Riley!” I yelled. I stood up. If he was going to shoot, I’d already be dead. “Co
me on out! Last time I saw you I beat the unholy fuck out of your ugly head. I’d kinda like to see what you look like now.”

  “Quite a little life you made for yourself.” I scanned the underside of the bridge. The voice was coming from somewhere high to my right, where an access ladder led up to the undercarriage causeway. “‘Little’ sums it up entirely.”

  “You want money? Fuck you. Want a piece of my little life? Back to fuck you. Why don’t you come on out and I’ll show you what I mean by that.”

  “I know all of your secrets.” The voice was playful now. “This is where you killed the art dealer Dong Ju. His body is probably less than a hundred meters from where you’re standing, out there in the river, weighed down by concrete. Am I right?”

  I flipped the bird to the darkness.

  “That’s the spirit! But you got the money in the end. So clever. So very very clever. Your new friends Dessel and Pressman got so close! So much time, wasted! Dong Ju’s people never talked to them. But they did talk to me.”

  That wasn’t good. I didn’t say anything.

  “Then the bomber. The Lucky Supreme and half a city block, blown up to make room for the real world. You found the bomber, didn’t you? Ralston? Oh, he loved talking about you, too. He was never the same after you found him. But that did lead me to a pimp named Cheeks. You killed him, too. And you stole his car. Shame on you!”

  “What do you want?” I yelled. Tittering laughter came back.

  “So many crimes! Why, I could send one email, one! And away you go. Life. You and your old friend Nigel could be cellmates. He’s mad at you, but he’ll get over it. If not, I guess you can kill him too!”

  “Here’s an idea,” I called. “Why don’t I tell the feds every last thing I know about you. Then we’ll actually get to meet each other in jail!”

  “You killed Oleander, too.”

  “Sure as fuck did. Kinda. I mean, I was going to. It’s a long story.”

  “Your life is crumbling.” Now he was a judge, handing down my sentence. “Your life is unraveling, coming apart at the seams. I love it.”

  “Why?” It was all I could think of.

  “You’re the one who got away!” The answer came instantly. “You! The only one who ever got away. I looked and I looked, but there was never a sign you were alive. But I always knew you were. You were somewhere out there.”

  It was my turn to laugh and I did, loud and long.

  “I thought you were dead, you moron! I was wrong. And now guess what, you sick fucking lunatic! I am going to kill you! I know you’re filming me right now and I don’t even care! You should have believed what those people say about me, Riley! Because now that I know you’re alive you are DEAD DEAD DEAD!”

  Nothing. Quiet.

  The U-Store-It blew up with enough force to throw me ten feet backward. I landed in the mud and tried to breathe. The ringing in my ears was deafening. I crawled away from the heat, gasping. Even at that distance I could feel it burning me. After ten feet I managed to get to my feet and staggered to the edge of the train tracks. Then I turned and looked back.

  The inferno was huge. Riley must have been unable to figure out which unit was mine, so he’d blown them all.

  The cash. My safety net.

  I ran.

  “So this is how you kept getting in and out of your place when you were under surveillance last year,” Dessel marveled. “Cut through all the backyards and then, voila, enter the shithole.” He looked around, admiring. The four of us were in the only dive bar close to my house, affectionately known in Portland as the Fart Club.

  “You look better without eyebrows,” Delia said. “Sort of Blade Runner-ish.”

  “He does,” Pressman agreed. “Like Roy Batty’s, I dunno, vat mate.”

  I’d showered and changed my clothes when I got home, then painfully made my way through late-night backyards to the club before I called them. By the time they got there, I was into well whiskey number four.

  “Fuck you,” I said in a generalized way.

  “We knew you had a storage unit somewhere out there,” Dessel said. He scrutinized his dirty beer glass, drank anyway. “But we could never pin it down.”

  “Riley did,” I said. “Hence—”

  “Hence another explosion, yes.” Dessel frowned. “We tipped off the fire marshal and said someone was filming it. They found two cameras and a speaker system rigged to an iPhone. He was never even there. You must have tripped an alarm of some kind.”

  “Ah. What a dick.” So he’d found out that I had more than one way to get there. I was having no luck outsmarting him.

  “What about Agent Lopez?” Delia asked. “She going to try to pin this on Darby?”

  “Normally she would,” Pressman said. “We all would. But those cameras finally brought her all the way around. This Riley character is technologically sophisticated. We can’t tell at this time how many inroads he has into the department’s computer system, so the investigation has gone off the books entirely. She’s taking the iPhone out to our geek now. So maybe a lead, but I’m not hopeful.”

  “Me neither,” Dessel agreed. “We don’t have any choice but to continue to use Darby as bait.”

  “Means I’m bait, too.” Delia ordered tea, but the cup had lipstick on it. She worked at the red patch with her thumbnail.

  “So is the Lucky,” Dessel said. “The bar. The restaurant. Pretty much all of it.”

  “We have to try to anticipate his next move,” I said. “We know he’s here, in town. We know he’s filming me. We also know his MO. He’s going to try to isolate me. Turn my friends into rats. Burn my money. Make it so that I’m broken and desperate and crushed. Right?”

  Everyone looked grim.

  “So who’s next?” Dessel drained his glass and scowled. “That’s the question. What relationship will he try to destroy? What, what—what accomplishment will he undo? What dream can he steal and twist and try to give back?”

  I looked at Delia. She looked back at me. If she knew, if any of them knew, if Riley knew that I’d found out about Hank, then Delia was next.

  “I’m getting another drink,” I said, rising. “Anybody?”

  Dessel raised his empty and nodded. Pressman and Delia shook their heads. I went to the bar and stood in the short line. Around me, sweaty young punks and trashed-out glam girls were yammering and having a good time. The vibe wasn’t contagious. I looked over and watched Delia talking to Pressman and Dessel. She said something funny and both of them laughed. Pressman shot something back and Delia laughed, too. They were actually getting along.

  “What?”

  I snapped into focus. The rude little bartender glared at me and forced a smile.

  “Well whiskey, two pints of PBR.”

  “Who’re the suits?” she snapped, pouring. “You make new friends?”

  I wasn’t in the mood for chitchat, so I didn’t say anything.

  “Darby Holland, king of the jungle,” she snarled, “hanging out after midnight with two G-men. Gotta be a story there.”

  I drew a breath.

  “Not that I want to hear it,” she went on. “But keep it cool, okay? You hear me? I don’t—”

  “Keep the change,” I interrupted. I was too burned out to fight back. She shut down and snatched up the ten I tossed on the wet bar. I carried the warm beers and the shot back to the table. Nobody said anything until my shot glass was empty.

  “We think we know what will happen next,” Delia said.

  “Oh goody.”

  “Darby,” Dessel began painfully. “You didn’t come right out and say it, but this guy has dirt on you. My kind of dirt. The kind me and Bob here have been looking for. Am I right?”

  I glowered.

  “Right.” Dessel looked at his beer. “Now, if it was bad enough, he might try to trade it in, for partial immunity. Is, ah, is any of the dirt that bad?”

  “Nah. He’s a different kind of scumbag and several sizes bigger to boot. We aren’t even the s
ame species.”

  “I told them,” Delia said. “That means he’ll go for the Lucky. Not me.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s the weak spot. Gomez is too old school. He’ll never turn on you. So is Santiago. So am I. But the Lucky is weak. I have one foot out the door. Chase is Chase. The new guys have probably already quit. And it’s the center of everything in your world. He takes that down, he scores.”

  “Even if it’s a purely psychological score,” Dessel said. “Like counting coup. That place, it’s been your life for so many years, right? Take that away and it’s like he took part of your soul.”

  I thought about that. I didn’t tell them about my recurring fantasy every time I passed the train station. But what they were getting at was true. I was still there. I never did take that train. I sighed.

  “There are a million ways to bring a weak shop to its knees,” I said.

  “Like what?” This from Pressman. He seemed genuinely curious. I shrugged. Delia took point.

  “The easiest way is from the inside. Turn a guy. Make him your own. Take Chase. He has so many secrets that he calls himself Chase Manhattan. That’s common enough in tattoo land, but it also marks him. You find out what some of those secrets are, he’s like putty in your hands. Guy’s already shady, so there’s no telling what he could get up to.”

  “The new guys,” I said. “They might be a better bet.”

  “What else?” Dessel asked.

  “So many ways. Health Department can shut a place down, but that never sticks. But if it gets shut down and then something else happens, like a drug raid? Different story.” I sipped my terrible beer.

  “Destroying the Lucky outright is hard,” Delia said. “It already happened and we came back. The second time would be easier to recover from. We have practice now.”

  “Food for thought,” Dessel said. “Okay. In the meantime, Darby, you watch your bank accounts. You too, Delia. We’ll take that phone apart and see what we see. Find out where the cameras were purchased, might get lucky there, no pun intended. But it’s a start.”

  “I gotta split,” Delia said. “Hank.” She got up.

  “Me too,” Dessel said. “Get some sleep.” He patted Pressman’s shoulder. “Ready, old man?”