Benedict shrugged. “When they found him, he was eating a whole bag of weed brownies. Strong shit, too. You know Little Bubba, he’s like four hundred pounds, but he took a little nibble off one of them and it knocked him right out. He’s still in the car out there. And that’s not even the weirdest part.”
Closing her eyes, Frankie squeezed the bridge of her nose with two fingers. “Try me.”
“Keith here, he used to be a cop in Boise. We found a bunch of photographs in his room, along with a ton of old documents. He got booted off the force.”
“Let me guess,” Frankie said. “Drug use?”
“I told them that I see to the very edges of the known universe, into the face of Deep Time itself,” Keith informed us. “They didn’t dig that very much.”
“Boise PD is no place for philosophy,” I said. When I wasn’t fighting for my life in the woods of Idaho, I was a bounty hunter, which meant I dealt with the police several times a week. John Q. Public might have thought of cops as pretty much all the same, macho types who loved pumping weights and cracking skulls. I knew they were often much more: I’d met intellectuals who loved books, burnouts who wanted to retire so they could fish (I understood that impulse), not-so-secret psychopaths who wanted to bring the pain, angels hungry to serve and protect. I had never met a cop anywhere close to Keith’s level of drugged-out space alien, so I guessed at some point he had been sober, and likely quite different. What had happened to him?
I stepped to one side, for a better angle on Keith’s doughy face. Although his family had more money than anyone in Idaho, Keith evidently opted to cut his own hair, leaving a spectacular bald patch on his scalp. His chin was shaven clean, transforming his beard into a pair of mismatched mutton chops. He looked exhausted, the chemicals in his blood forcing his organs to work overtime.
“Keith, come back to Earth for a minute.” Frankie snapped her fingers under his nose. “We need to talk. Do you know who I am?”
Keith’s eyes brightened. “You’re Hel, the goddess of death.”
“Yep, close enough. Keith, you remember the game your uncle liked to play?”
Keith pouted. “He played lots of games. Mean ones, sometimes. Once, he took my special weed, my Purple Crush, and told me that I’d only get it back if I ate one of his turds from the toilet, so I did. It was warm.”
“Well, that sounds marvelously entertaining, but I’m referring to the one where your brother and his rich friends kidnapped people, drove them up into the mountains, and hunted them for sport. You remember that one?”
Keith nodded.
“Good.” Frankie leaned forward. “I know we haven’t exactly caught you at your best moment—sorry about that—but I need you to tell me about anyone who helped your uncle arrange that game, okay? Anything is helpful.”
“The game…” Keith coughed, snot bubbling from his nostrils. “It takes place in Eden. A thousand years in Eden, where Karen is. You can’t outlast Karen.”
“Who is Karen?”
“Karen is a bigger Hel, a more complete goddess. She drives a Mercedes that shoots bubbles.”
Frankie placed her fingers on Keith’s windpipe, her nails dimpling his flesh. “You’re going to have two options here. Option one: I drug you with something that paralyzes you from the neck down, place you in a bathtub, get the water running, and step away to take a very long phone call. It’ll take at least a half-hour for you to finally drown, and you’ll spend most of that coughing water. Option two, which I like to call ‘speedy service,’ is I just rip out your tongue through your neck. Either of those appeal to you?”
Keith squeaked like a frightened mouse but made no attempt to pull away. I had a flashback to another dusty hotel room, my sister jamming a shotgun into my neighbor’s face and pulling the trigger. If Keith’s addled mind refused to spit up anything useful, she might kill him on the spot. I wondered, not for the first time, whether Frankie was becoming a little too bloodthirsty for her own good.
“Keith,” I said, stepping closer to the chair. “Did your uncle have a safe? Someplace he kept his special stuff?”
“When they searched the house,” Benedict said behind me, “they took some laptops and other things. No safes that we found, but it’s a big place.”
“Baker’s sensitive stuff, it probably wasn’t in the house,” I said. “He was evil, but he wasn’t dumb.” To my immense relief, Frankie removed her fingers from Keith’s throat. The scruffy lunatic had no idea how close he’d come to seeing a chunk of his windpipe before he died.
“My uncle’s got an office, not that big building in Boise, another one.” Keith shook his head, snorting back a fresh load of snot. “It’s got no light, no color, only a big black hole.”
“You ever been inside?” I asked. “Where is it?”
As soon as I asked the question, I tensed, ready for Keith to offer directions to Mars. Instead, he named an address along Federal Way, a long strip of storage units, RV sales lots, and warehouses punctuated by dry fields. Then he settled back, his gaze fogging. “I’m a creature of light, man,” he muttered. “No black holes for me.”
I turned to Frankie. “We ought to check there. Anything useful, we can use it to hold off Baker’s friends, partners, whoever.”
“Some of Baker’s stuff survived the blast,” Janine said. “There was a key card in his wallet. It was melted a bit, but I bet it’ll still work.”
Frankie told Benedict: “Keep at least two guys here, with Keith. He’s got some worth as a bargaining chip.”
“I shoot golden beams,” Keith offered. “My value to the universe is immense.”
Still looking at Benedict, Frankie said: “Where’s the Monkey Man?”
“Stayed behind in Boise. He led the raid on Baker’s house.”
“Have him meet us out on Federal Way tonight. They searched that house top to bottom, right?”
“That’s right.”
“And nobody was there except for Keith?”
Benedict shook his head.
“Okay. Then have the Monkey Man burn it down. Make sure he does it so nothing around the property goes up. I don’t want to be responsible for starting a wildfire.”
Keith’s chin had slumped to his chest, his eyes closed. Frankie was usually careful about discussing business in front of potential witnesses, and I wondered if she thought Keith was too blazed to rat us out to any cops. Either that, or she planned on killing him once his potential value ran out.
The front door opened, and Surfer Boy entered, his arms loaded with paper trays filled with fries, chips, and a dozen burgers and hot dogs. He set the food on the counter, wiped his hands on his hips, and said: “Someone owes me forty bucks.”
“I’ll give you eighty in a bit,” Frankie said. “Bills might be a little scorched, though.”
“Works for me. Bennie, I got you a burger without a bun. Gluten-free, you know?”
“Cram it up your ass,” Benedict said, struggling to repress a smile.
After handing Janine a hot dog, I stripped the greasy paper away from a double-patty burger and devoured it in three bites. My stomach demanded more, so I followed up with a handful of fries slathered in ketchup. When Frankie arched an eyebrow, passing judgment on my gluttony, I offered her a wolfish growl.
“Table manners,” Frankie said, adopting a prim English accent, “are what separate the beasts from the humans, my dear.”
Janine handed her a bag of fries. “Is it hunger making you talk like the queen?”
Winking at me, Frankie shoved every fry from the bag into her mouth, chewing until her cheeks bulged. Everyone laughed except Keith, who snorted and said: “You’re all done in the sunlight.”
Our laughter died.
“Karen’s going to come down from Eden and slaughter you all.” Keith smiled, revealing yellowed teeth. “She’s going to put your heads on pikes, on the border of heaven. You won’t be dead, though. Your severed heads, they’re gonna scream…”
&nb
sp; Setting down her empty fry bag on the counter, Frankie walked over to the coffee table and sorted through the stack of children’s books beside the board games. On the bottom was a thick hardcover titled This Big Friendly World! Frankie pulled it free, testing its balance, giving Keith another few moments to rant about angels and heaven and heads.
When Keith paused for breath, she spun on her heel, arms rising, and slammed the book into his face. A tooth flickered across the room, ricocheting off a wall before disappearing behind the couch. Keith yelped and fell backward, still tied to the chair.
“I don’t know anything about Eden,” Frankie told him. “But if you don’t shut up for the rest of the day, you’re getting option one. You hear me?”
Smacked sober, Keith spat blood and nodded.
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Here is a preview from Don’t Shoot the Drummer, the second Lou Crasher thriller by Jonathan Brown.
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Prologue
A half-dozen names bounced around between the L.A.P.D. and the media until somewhere along the way the “tent gang” stuck. It was the label Los Angelinos settled on when referring to the band of thieves that burgled unoccupied homes tented off for fumigation. The crew consisted of only three members. In the past two and a half months they’d robbed eight homes, all in upscale neighborhoods, in a seemingly random pattern that left the police completely ineffective. The crew rarely used phones but when they did they were always prepaid burner phones, which they never purchased at the same place twice. They text in code when necessary and only referred to one another with nicknames, all of which were alcohol drink names. They were Moscow Mule, the unofficial ringleader, Boilermaker and I.P.A.—the abbreviated term for India Pale Ale beer.
On Friday, August 13th at 4 a.m. they’d sliced a tent, even though they could have easily unsnapped the clips, popped the back door-slider and killed the alarm in 42 seconds. They each took to knees and drank in the silence for fifteen seconds. It wouldn’t make sense for someone to be inside a tented home still they took precautions. Without sound they rose as a unit and made their way to their designated section of the home. It was always the same: hit your territory, clean it, then meet back at the entry point in 11 minutes and fifty-nine seconds or less. Each member was agile, had nerves of Kevlar and, above all, was loyal to the group.
Moscow was eight minutes deep and in the master bedroom when a presence was felt. The muzzle of a Glock 17 to the back of the skull confirmed the “presence” suspicion.
“Drop that shit and come with me. You fucks ain’t making ten houses. Shit, you ain’t makin’ nine. Move!”
Moscow knew it wasn’t the cops. They’d have identified as L.A.P.D. or Sheriff’s whatever. The gunman marched Moscow down the steps to the kitchen where the ringleader saw Boilermaker and I.P.A. bound and gagged with duct tape. They squirmed and growled when they saw Moscow. The gunman shoved Moscow beside the others and applied the tape.
Fucking ‘rent-a-cop’ Moscow thought, reading the man’s private neighborhood security uniform and nametag. Moscow put Billups at twenty, twenty-two years old, tops. He probably thought he’d be a hero.
“Well look at this,” he said puffing out his chest. “I never thought I’d—”
But that was as far as he got. Two closely grouped pfft sounds came from the dark hallway behind the security guard. The first shot took his right ear off. The second shot, which killed him, removed his right cheek, eye and mini portion of jaw to splatter against the wall behind him. His body spun one hundred and eighty degrees and propelled him into the wall where he smacked hard then slowly slid down to the floor. His left eye was wide in a ‘what the fuck just happened?’ expression. Hurried footsteps could be heard retreating down the hall. A door slammed then all was quiet. Moscow was the first to react. Inching to the kitchen island, Moscow managed to nudge a butcher knife block over and cut the duct tape loose. The ringleader wasted no time freeing the others.
“What in the fuck Moscow? Who in the—”
“Doesn’t matter. We’re out. Grab that bag and let’s blow.”
“But my shit is still—”
“Wanna explain it to the cops? Get your shit together Boiler.”
While Boilermaker and Moscow had words I.P.A. sprayed a quick note on the massive subzero in spray paint.
“Let’s go I.P.A., fuck,” Moscow barked.
“Never without the signature suckas.”
Moscow grabbed the bag off the floor and glanced at I.P.A.’s handy work on the way out. It was slightly different each time. This message was shorter due to the circumstances. The press will love pixelating this one, Moscow thought.
Ya been cock fucked. The Tent Gang!
Chapter One
I opened the screen door and walked into Ida's old-school diner nestled between a low-rise apartment building and a tiny laundromat in west Studio City. Ida’s clientele loved her. Although technically not a chef, her clientele would beg to differ. Her menu was simple: mixed down-home southern with local Mexican flavor and something else no one could put their finger on. Ida's was my favorite breakfast and lunch diner in L.A. It also happened to be my half-brother Jake’s fave spot as well. It’s scary how much the two of us have in common.
A quick sweep of the place revealed the usual gathering of customers but it was the two hard men in trench coats that troubled me. As I strolled down the breakfast bar I nodded to a few regulars, even patted Simon, the slope shouldered shoe repair guy on the back—good dude. Mid-stroll along the long faux granite countertop I slid onto a round red-leather cushioned stool beside a Filipina woman in a bus driver’s uniform. We exchanged a brief hello before I called to Ida whose back was to me.
“Afternoon Ida,” I said.
She turned with a grin she shares with the world on the daily, “Lou, how are things outside my door?” she said and filled my coffee mug.
“It’s all rock ‘n’ roll to me baby,” I said feigning a casual manner.
Ida forced a laugh. Her hand shook slightly as she moved from my cup to the female bus driver’s.
“How’s business?” I asked.
“Business is good,” she said moving a few strands of hair that escaped her pony- tail and fell partially blocking her vision. “Because this girl,” she said pointing a thumb at herself, “knows what she’s doing.” Her face reddened slightly—nerves.
The bus driver raised her cup in agreement. I smiled briefly before grabbing a napkin and scribbling upside down on it.
'Two trench coats. Booth 3, the assholes you told me about?’
Ida grabbed a rag then wiped the area around my table setting. Barely moving her lips she whispered, “Don't know em', don't like the look.”
“O.k. Relax,” I whispered back.
The rag got tossed to the counter behind her before she eased down the breakfast bar. I picked up a portion of discarded newspaper and skimmed the headlines while using the overhead mirror to glance at the two trench coated patrons. Their booth was halfway between the side entrance and restrooms. They were both thick set with patchy beards. More than likely they were carrying—hence the coats. Their body language was tense and increased when they viewed the dialog between Ida and me. This felt like a robbery was imminent, like when famed racehorse Secretariat was out front by three lengths coming into the final stretch.
A man in his mid-70s, wearing a plain green golf shirt tucked into high wasted tough skin denims held up by a light tan belt, slid onto the stool next to me. His mustache was snow white and thicker than film actor Sam Elliot's. His close-cropped hair was eighty percent salt, twenty percent black peppercorn. There was no slouch to his posture and his chest and arms were impressive for his age. I knew at a glance that he was not only fit, he was capable.
“Afternoon friend. Na
me's Prescott Johanssen. Guys in my unit called me Press.”
“Vietnam?” I turned slightly and shook the man's hand. Prescott winked.
“Lou Crasher.”
Prescott leaned across me as if the move to the sugar was necessary and lowered his voice.
“I notice you've clocked the two trench coat assholes. I'm old but I'm ready. You lead. I'll back you up. I'm not heeled but I do have Betsy.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“My five-inch Browning Russ Komer blade. And by the way,” he said dumping a healthy portion of sugar into his coffee cup, “I'm also a retired state trooper.”
Capable.
I took another peek at the two men. They couldn’t hide the angst from their thick builds, which suggested the mission was a go. I nodded to Prescott and moved with purpose. All patrons’ eyes tracked me. A brunette in her early twenties stopped chatting with her boyfriend and began filming with her cell phone. I stopped at the booth and put both hands on the tabletop and leaned forward.
“Get up, get out and never come back,” I said.
“Piss off. It's a free country…brutha.”
“This part ain’t and it’s expensive.”
The man to my left had a heavy forehead that looked as though several knuckles had been busted on it. He tried an upward punch from where he sat while attempting to rise from his seat. I leaned my head back avoiding the shot while simultaneously giving a short punch to the nose of the guy to my right. The shot bloodied his nose and knocked him against the corner of the booth. Forehead recoiled and managed to get a Ruger P95 handgun out of his coat. He swung it, right-handed, aiming at my face. I grabbed the arm by the wrist and slammed it hard on the table two times. The gun dropped to the floor. I kicked it behind me across the tile toward Prescott—I hoped. A patron screamed. I gave the gunman a quick palm strike to the nose before pivoting back to Nosebleed.
Nosebleed managed to get out of the booth and launch a left cross, catching me on the jaw. I rolled with it softening the blow and grabbed him at the wrist of his left hand. I gave him a short chop to the windpipe with the edge of my right hand. He choked and tried to clutch his throat. I didn't give him a chance to recover. Holding the wrist, I moved in an almost dance maneuver under the man’s arm and yanked hard pulling him over my back. It was a classic judo flip. The man landed hard on the floor. The back of his skull connected brutally with the floor knocking him semi-conscious.
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