Angel of Vengeance

by Trevor O. Munson

  “I got a ride.”

  “A’ight, where you be at?”

  “Fairfax. You?”

  “Don’t worry where I be at, fool. I’m rollin’. That all you need to know. That how I do.”

  I sigh. “Fine. Great. S’now what?”

  “I’m busy right now. You be outside a diner called Dolores smoking a cigarette in ninety minutes. I’ll roll by. If I like what I see, I’ll pick yo’ ass up. If I don’t like what I see, I keep on rollin’.”

  “Fine. Where is it?”

  “Sa-Mo Bouly, baby. Just west a the 405. Ninety minutes. Don’t be late. Leh-roy don’t like to wait.”

  8

  I have some time to kill before meeting Leroy, so I head to the Blue Veil. If you’ve seen one strip club you’ve seen ’em all—streaked mirrors, loud music, greasy pole, flashing lights. The Blue Veil is no different—except maybe a little louder. And greasier.

  The world behind the black glass doors is violently sexual. Except for the ever-shifting lights of the two dance stages the place is disturbingly dark in a way that you get the feeling is less about atmosphere and more about hiding the kind of stains that can only be seen with the help of a black light. The unmistakable scents of sweat and vanilla and menstruation fill the air. Semen too, but that goes without saying.

  On the twin stages strippers stalk, crawl, and pace like caged wild animals, earning self-esteem a dollar at a time. The gawking men who ring them attempt to lure the predators to them with their stacks of ones, oblivious to the danger, until their wallets are attacked by ferocious bare tits and gaping g-string asses.

  A sour-looking cocktail waitress with a face like an old catcher’s mitt leads me to a tall, beer-sticky table at the back. She asks what I want to drink like she has a thousand more important things to be doing other than her job. I try to be understanding. With a face like that I’d be sour too. I order a Scotch. Single malt. On the rocks.

  When she comes back with it, I fat tip her with a twenty; tell her to keep the change. She smiles at me now. She likes me now. We’re good friends now.

  “Let me ask you something,” I say, making use of the good will I’ve purchased. “I haven’t been here in a while, but I used to come in a lot and get dances from Dallas. She around tonight?”

  “Just saw her. She’s getting changed.”

  “Great. Would you tell her I’d like to see her?”

  “Sure thing, hon,” she says, favoring me with a lemon-pucker smile as she moves off.

  Time in the Blue Veil passes like time in prison. I should know. I listen to songs I don’t know and don’t get; songs that sink under the screeching nails-on-a-chalkboard weight of guitars. I drink. I smoke. I wait and wait some more.

  “You wanted to talk to me?”

  I tear my eyes away from the topless Asian girl writhing on stage to find an attractive bleached blonde with cold eyes and a dissatisfied mouth that looks made to complain standing at my side. Her skin looks very tan against the paleness of her silk bra and panties. She smiles at me, but it seems forced, like a grumpy TV cat that has been trained to do tricks against its nature.

  “You must be Dallas.”

  She nods, her face pretty despite its bitchiness. Or maybe because of it.

  “Pull up a chair.”

  With a sly grin she reaches out and fingers my tie. “Let’s discuss terms first.”

  “There are terms?”

  She nods again. “I’m at work. I can’t just sit around and talk all night. I’m here to make money.”

  “I get it. How much will it cost me?”

  “Same as a lap dance. Twenty a song.”

  “Pretty steep just for a little conversation. I thought talk was supposed to be cheap.”

  She shrugs. “Inflation. You want cheap, talk to one of the other bitches.”

  I can’t help but notice the way her huge fake breasts strain against the sheer material of her bra. Then again why would I want to? “All right, why don’t we start with five songs.” I peel off one of Reesa’s hundreds and stick it to the table.

  Dallas’s eyes go wide at the size of my roll. I can almost hear her brain clacking like an abacus, wondering how much she might be able to get me to part with and for what. She peels the bill from the table with a crackle and makes it disappear into her D-cup like a master magician.

  Rewarding me with another Frigidaire smile, she sits on the chair next to mine and I’m reminded of Reesa taking her stool the night before. Dallas suffers by comparison. Though lean and muscular, her body lacks the fluid grace of Reesa’s soft curves. She looks gamey to me. Hard. For me, a night in the sack with her holds all the allure of a night spent humping a wooden post. A fella can get splinters that way.

  “What’s your name?” she asks.

  I tell her. Then I say, “So let me guess—you’re from Dallas, right?”

  She shakes her head. “Fort Worth, but that didn’t have the same ring to it.”

  I’m inclined to agree. She reaches out and traces one long fake nail along the outer rim of my ear. It’s intended to be seductive, but it just makes me want to scratch.

  “You’re adorable, you know that?”

  “I bet you say that to all the guys.”

  “I do.” She shrugs. “But I mean it with you.”

  “You’re gonna make me blush.”

  She smiles. “So you have something specific you wanna talk about, or will any topic do?”

  “Something specific. Someone rather. Raya Van Cleef.”

  Her expression changes ever so slightly. She pales beneath the fake-bake stripper tan. The subtle scent of wariness fills the air. “Who?”

  I take out the picture of Raya, flash it in front of those ice-water eyes. “I’m looking for this girl.”

  She shakes her head. “I’ve never seen her before.”

  The pungent scent of bullshit stings my nostrils. “Really? I was told you knew her.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “A friend of hers.”

  “Well, whoever it is told you wrong. I don’t know her.”

  “She didn’t live with you?”

  “What part of ‘I don’t know her’ don’t you understand?”

  “I hear you saying it, problem is I don’t believe you. I know you know her because the person who told me mentioned you by name. C’mon, spill it. What’s it gonna take? More money? What’s a gal like you charge for telling the truth? Dollar a word?”

  I’m rewarded with the face behind the mask; the ugly, sneering one she tries to hide at work because men just don’t pay hard-earned money to spend time with a face like that.

  “Fuck you. This conversation’s over, asshole.” She stands.

  “But I’m paid up through three more songs.”

  “Yeah, so sue me for it.”

  An amused smile on my face, I watch her move off, her hard-muscle hips moving like a metronome in silk panties.

  9

  I find a spot on Santa Monica Boulevard just out front of Dolores. I light a cigarette and lean against the Benz and wait until a black Lincoln Navigator rolls up on spinning silver rims. When the black-tinted window rolls down I get my first look at Leroy Watkins behind the wheel. I know him immediately from the fixed scowl set below a black dandelion puffball Afro that quivers on his head like a grouping of Daddy Long Legs spiders.

  “You the fool who called me?”

  “Good guess.”

  “You look like a mufuckin’ cop. You lucky I stopped.”

  “I feel lucky.”

  “Get in, fool.”

  I tug the door open and climb aboard. Inside the truck seems big enough to warrant its own time zone. Beside me I see that Leroy is dressed head to toe like a full-fledged member of the Los Angeles Lakers. A short one. Mirrored window glides up. Automatic locks thunk down. We pull away.

  I smell the nervous perspiration of the second guy just before the black hole mouth of his Glock kisses my left temple, but not soon enough to stop it.
My own gun might as well be at the bottom of a rain-gutter, for all the good it can do me tucked out of reach in my waistband at the small of my back.

  The gun smells like it’s been used recently. A fact I don’t exactly find reassuring. I don’t know if a bullet to the brain would kill me or not. Probably not. Probably it would only turn my brains to scrambled eggs and I’d live on as some sort of drooling immortal vegetable. That is if someone was kind enough to administer regular blood transfusions. In any case, I’d rather not find out.

  In the truck’s rearview, I can see the black-skinned gunman is every bit as bald as Leroy isn’t.

  “You gonna introduce me to your friend, Leroy?”

  “No,” Leroy says. “My boy, he don’t like to meet mufuckas in case he gots to shoot mufuckas. Easier for him dat way.”

  I nod. “Makes sense.”

  Leroy hooks left and pulls into a space on a darkened, car-studded side street.

  “Okay, pharmacy’s open. Whatchoo want, fool? You name the drug, I got it. You look like a cat be into H to me.” Got to give it to him, the guy knows his trade.

  “I don’t want drugs.”

  “Say what? I thought you wanted to do bidness. You better not be wastin’ Leh-roy’s time. For real.”

  “I do want to do business, only for information, not drugs. I’m looking for a girl. Raya Van Cleef.” I ease the girl’s picture out and show it to him.

  “Aw, hell no,” Leroy says, turning to his boy. “You belee dis shit?”

  “I know she contacted you,” I continue, doing my best to seem unfazed by the gun currently tickling my temple. “I’m willing to pay for any information you can give me.”

  “I don’t know what you heard, fool, but Leroy don’t be givin’ out no information to mufuckas. Belee dat.”

  “C’mon, you must know something. When’s the last time you heard from her?”

  “You mufuckin’ hard a hearin’, fool? I said I don’t give out no information. Shit.”

  “C’mon. You’re here. Might as well make some money.”

  “Mufucka, if I want yo’ mufuckin’ money I’ll cap yo’ dumb ass an’ take it.”

  “All right, look. We can do this the easy way and you can walk away with a little money, or we can do it the hard way and you can walk away with a limp.”

  Leroy and his boy enjoy a cackle over this. I smile along with them and wait for the laughter to subside.

  “Shee-it, white boy. I don’t know if you be crazy or just stupid.”

  “Can’t help ya there,” I say. “So what’s it gonna be?”

  Leroy pretends to think, but I can smell the answer coming as large quantities of rage-smelling testosterone and adrenaline dump into his bloodstream and jet from his pores.

  With a vampire’s cat-quick reflexes, I simultaneously jerk my head out of the way, reach up, and snap the gunman’s wrist, forcing the barrel back at Leroy even as he opens his mouth to give the order to shoot me. The gunman yelps like a kicked hound. The gun fires. The bullet slams home deep in Leroy’s knee, giving him the limp I promised him. Call me old-fashioned, but I like to keep my promises.

  My ears ring from the gunshot. The metallic sister-smells of blood and cordite fill the cab. Normally, the smell of all that fresh blood would act as a catalyst, sending me into a berserk feeding frenzy, but having an idea what I might be in for, I took precautions. I braced myself with a healthy fix after leaving the Blue Veil. As a result, I’m able to contain my blood lust.

  Mere seconds have passed. In attack mode, a vampire experiences the world the way I imagine a fly must—with every other creature moving through space and time at an amusing snail-crawl pace. Leroy screams. His hands slo-mo to his exploded knee. The Glock falls with a leather-soft thud on the seat beside me. With my left elbow, I battering-ram baldy hard in the mouth. His eyes roll back. He spits teeth like watermelon seeds and sinks unconscious to the floorboards.

  I turn to Leroy, who whimpers beside me. It seems the fight has gone out of him, but I pick the Glock up just in case.

  “Aw shit. Lookit whatchoo done to me. Fuck!”

  “You did it to yourself,” I tell him. “Your choice, remember?”

  “Fuck! I gotta get to a hospital, man.”

  “That’s up to you too,” I say. “The sooner you answer my questions the sooner you can go have that looked at.”

  “C’mon, man. I could bleed to def.”

  “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

  “Shit. Whatchoo wanna know?”

  “Why doesn’t anyone listen the first time ’round? The girl, Raya. Where is she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “I dunno. A few weeks ago. I took some crystal by the crib she be crashin’ at.”

  I take my notepad out. “Gimme the address. The place you took the shard.”

  He gives it to me. From the number, I see the place falls in the seedy no-man’s-land section where Hollywood starts its lingual and cultural transition to Koreatown.

  “How many times did you go see her there?”

  “I dunno. A few.”

  “What’d you think when you all of a sudden didn’t hear from her any more?”

  “Nuttin’. She’s a speed-freak. They disappear all the time.”

  “You didn’t hear anything about where she might’ve gone or what might’ve happened to her?”

  “Man, I didn’t hear shit, a’ight?”

  A feverish sheen of sweat has broken out on Leroy’s brow just below the ’fro. He’s lost a fair amount of blood. He must be in a lot of pain. Can’t say I feel too bad about it though.

  I use the gun butt to knock him out, then pocket the ammo clip and check the chamber is empty, before tossing the Glock out of the window. I rifle Leroy’s pockets and come out with a roll of hundreds that would gag a gimp. I pocket the cash too and start to go, but the lure of his blood is too much to resist. I am running short after all. A little taste now will help get me through the drought.

  Careful not to use my teeth, I bend and drink straight from the sucking knee-wound. I don’t take too much. Just enough to take the straight-razor edge off my thirst. In return for the favor, I locate Leroy’s cell phone, punch in nine-one-one, and hit send before I go. I figure it’s the least I can do.

  And the most.

  10

  The one-story house is guarded by a low, ninety-eight-pound-weakling chain-link fence, and has a glum look about it. Like every other house in the neighborhood, black iron bars protect the windows and doors. The white paint of the walls is cracked off in places, and the yard could use a good mowing, but it isn’t the flophouse I was expecting. By the front door, a porch light burns like a lighthouse beacon.

  It’s late for visitors, but I step up onto the porch and knock anyway. No answer. I knock again, louder this time. Still nothing.

  Stepping to the edge of the light, I look around for nosey neighbors. The neighborhood is quiet this time of night. Everyone seems to be in bed minding their own damn business. Good. Just the way I like it.

  I go back to the Benz and grab a set of lock picks I keep taped up under the passenger seat for just this sort of thing. Then I go to work on the lock. There was a time when springing a lock like this would have been a cinch for me. No more. Locks are trickier now than they were in my day, and my numb and clumsy fingers have lost the subtle feel for the work. It’s taking too long. I curse under my breath. Another thirty seconds and I better walk away if I know what’s good for me. I hear a gentle click as the last pin tumbles. I’m in.

  It’s dark inside. I shut the door behind me hoping there isn’t a deep-sleeping Rottweiler home. Doesn’t seem to be. I don’t smell one in any case.

  I go in search of some sign of Raya. I don’t bother to turn any lights on. Lights can give you away, and my vampire eyes allow me to see well enough in the dark without them.

  The inside of the place is much like the outside. Not awful
, but not real goddamn nice either. What furniture there is, is inexpensive and worn. Dishes sit unwashed in the sink. Opened bills addressed to someone by the name of Callie-Dean Merriweather are stacked on the kitchen counter. A pile of unfolded laundry waits on the couch. An ashtray full of lipstick-stained butts sits forgotten on a scarred coffee table. Washed nylons hang from the shower rod in the bathroom. But it’s in the bedroom that I find the goods.

  The old-fashioned cedar hope chest at the foot of the bed catches my attention right off. Not the chest so much as the fact that it has a lock. It seems like bad karma to lock your hopes and dreams away in the dark. That is, unless they’re the kinds of hopes and dreams you don’t want others to know about. It makes me curious. I pick the simple disc tumbler and fish around. Beneath a yellowed wedding dress and several mothball-stinking quilts I come across a photo album.

  I take a seat at the edge of the bed and flip through. It’s no family album. Inside I find page after page of snapshots of different teenaged kids who stare into the camera alongside a woman. There is something off about the shots; something subtly disquieting about the way the woman looks into the camera, as if she holds a dark and amusing secret only she knows, one she wants to share with herself when she looks back on these photos at some future point in time. I can’t explain it any better than that, but somehow the whole thing gives me the heebie-jeebies. The fact that I recognize the woman only enhances the effect.

  The very last picture in the book is of Raya; Raya with one skinny arm tossed around the shoulders of the woman and smiling a great big drug-induced Cheshire Cat smile. I peel up the cellophane and rip the photo from the black background where it has been glued. I tuck it away and poke around a little more. I find one more thing of interest. Then I go sit in darkness on the uncomfortable couch next to the pile of laundry and wait for the woman in the pictures—the one who looks so familiar—to come home.

  Callie-Dean Merriweather of Fort Worth, Texas, arrives home a little after three in the A.M. She is different now from the girl I met in her skivvies earlier. First, in her faded denim asshuggers and baggy hooded sweatshirt, her face scrubbed free of makeup and hair pony-tailed at the back of her head, she looks more like a college co-ed than a stripper. I like her better like this. Second, she is wired. Evidently, between the time of our last meeting and now, Callie-Dean got her talons on some coke. I can see its effect in the way her too-alive eyes seem to want to pop free of her head. I can smell it in her system.