“Stay with her,” Olivia says.
“You got to hang back when you’re tailing someone,” Virgil replies. “That’s how the real dudes do it.”
He turns onto Franklin too but allows one car to squeeze in between the van and the Civic, then another. Olivia leans forward in the passenger seat and struggles to keep the Honda in sight.
“Turn signal, turn signal,” she yells.
“I see it,” Virgil replies. “Relax.”
They follow the Civic down Gower, under the 101 and across Hollywood Boulevard, where the car turns abruptly into a parking structure adjacent to a large health club. Virgil stops at the entrance.
“Should I go in?” he asks.
Olivia tries to think. She didn’t plan for this. A car behind the van honks, wanting to get by. Okay, fuck it. She grabs her bag and hops out.
“Wait at the exit,” she says to Virgil before slamming the door.
She dashes into the parking structure in time to see the Civic heading up the ramp in search of an open space. There’s a stairway in the corner, and she climbs to the second floor, pushing past two old Korean women who are taking forever.
The second floor is full too, and the Civic moves on to the third. Olivia crouches in the stairwell until the car passes, then runs up another flight.
When she reaches the third floor, a Prius is backing out, and the Civic is waiting to take its spot. She reaches into her bag for the Glock. The Civic pulls into the Prius’s space, and she emerges from the stairwell.
Amy is halfway out of the car when Olivia swoops down on her. She keeps the gun low, out of sight of passersby.
“Freeze, bitch,” she hisses.
Amy looks up at her, eyes wide with surprise, before dropping back into the seat, her legs still outside the Honda.
“Move to the other side,” Olivia says. “Kneel on the floor and put your face on the seat.”
“Olivia, right?” Amy says. “What are you doing?”
Olivia hesitates upon hearing Amy use her name. Maybe she should have worn a mask or something. But then she gets angry. The bitch thinks she’s slick, stalling like this. Olivia grabs a handful of her hair, yanks her head sideways, and presses the gun to her temple.
“I’m not here for girl talk,” she says.
Amy climbs over the center console, slides down into the space between the passenger seat and the dash, and presses her face into the cushion.
“Hands behind your head,” Olivia says as she sits in the driver’s seat and closes the door. She reaches for the ignition and feels like kicking something. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Give me the keys,” she says to Amy.
Amy raises a finger. Her key ring dangles from it mockingly. Olivia grabs it and says, “If you don’t want to die, do everything I tell you.”
Olivia holds the gun on Amy as she starts the car and spirals down through the parking structure to the exit, where Virgil is waiting in a loading zone. Pulling up beside the van, Olivia lowers the passenger-side window.
“I’ll follow you,” she says.
Virgil’s face blanches when he sees Amy curled up on the floor of the Civic.
“You really did it?” he says.
“D’you think I was joking?” Olivia replies.
“Nah, nah,” Virgil stammers. “It’s just…”
Olivia rolls up the window to end the conversation. If he doesn’t blow this, it’ll be a miracle.
Virgil moves out into traffic, and Olivia slips in behind him. They head south on Gower to Sunset and make a left. Amy shifts her position a little, rearranges her legs.
“Keep still,” Olivia snaps.
“You don’t have to do this,” Amy says. “I’ll give you money. You can have the car.”
Olivia presses the gun to the back of Amy’s head, pushing her face into the seat.
“I’m not going to tell you to shut up again,” she says.
Amy is silent then. Olivia glances out the window at the Holly wood sign propped up on a hill in the distance and remembers the first time she saw it, the morning she arrived from Florida, and knew, just knew, that her whole life was going to change. What a joke. Not one goddamned thing turned out like it was supposed to.
21
THE CAR COMES TO A STOP, AND AMY SNEAKS A GLANCE AT her watch. They’ve been driving for ten minutes in stop-andgo traffic, surface streets. That puts them anywhere from West Hollywood to Koreatown to the East Side. She tries to remember what they learned at the academy about hostage situations.
Rule number one was, if they’ve got you outgunned, don’t fight with your captors during the abduction. They’ll be so hopped up on adrenaline and who knows what else that you could very easily get your head blown off. Rule number two was be observant. Take in all the information you can about where you’re being held and who’s holding you. And rule number three was wait for your moment. Don’t try to escape until it looks like you have a reasonable chance of getting away.
Olivia hands her a black sweatshirt. “Put this over your head,” she says. “Cover your eyes.”
Amy looks down the barrel of the Glock and does as she’s told.
“All clear?” Olivia calls out.
“If you fucking hurry,” a voice responds.
Amy’s door opens and someone grabs her arm and lifts her out of the car. She’s hustled blind into some sort of structure and up a flight of stairs. When the kid, Virgil, yanks off the sweatshirt, she finds herself sitting on a bed in a room furnished with antiques. An old bed in an old house with cracked plaster walls, scarred wainscoting, and a creaky wooden floor.
“Come on, guys,” Amy says, friendly as can be. “What’s going on here?”
“Shut it,” Olivia says. She hands Virgil the gun and begins to rifle through Amy’s purse. “Where’s your phone?” she asks.
“In the zipper pocket.”
Olivia pulls it out and says, “You’re going to call your job and tell them you won’t be in for a couple of days.”
“They’re going to ask for a reason,” Amy says.
“Tell them you’re sick. Tell them someone died.”
Amy reaches for the phone, thinking she might be able to —
“I’ll dial,” Olivia says. “What’s the number?”
Amy hides her disappointment. “It’s in there, under ‘school,’ ” she says.
Olivia scrolls through the phonebook, finds the entry, and hits the call button. She waits until the recording starts, then passes the phone to Amy as she signals Virgil to raise the gun. He points it at Amy’s head.
Amy leaves a message saying she has some kind of bug and will be out tomorrow and probably Tuesday as well and promises to call back with an update.
Olivia snatches the phone away from her as soon as she ends the call. “I didn’t tell you to say anything about an update,” she says.
“That’s how it works,” Amy replies with a shrug. “How do I know today that I’ll still be sick on Tuesday? It’s official procedure.”
“Don’t get smart, or I’ll beat your ass.”
And fuck you too, bitch, Amy thinks.
“Is there anyone else who’s going to be worried if they don’t hear from you?” Olivia continues.
“Jimmy Boone,” Amy says. “I’m supposed to see him tomorrow morning.”
Virgil and Olivia grin at each other, and Olivia says, “Your boyfriend’s gonna be way too busy to worry about you, sweetie.”
“Jimmy has something to do with this?” Amy asks. Of course he does, goddamn it.
Olivia takes the gun back from Virgil and tells him to tie Amy up.
The kid opens the top drawer of the dresser and rummages around a bit, coming up with a pair of hose.
“These’ll work,” he says.
He moves to the bed and sets about binding Amy’s hands behind her back. Try to evoke sympathy from your captors, she remembers. “Please let me go,” she whispers, forcing tears into her eyes and a tremor into her voice.
/> “Everything’s cool,” Virgil says. “We’re gonna take good care of you.”
“But I don’t even know what’s happening.”
“You’re lucky,” Virgil says. “Knowing stuff is highly overrated in this case.”
“Don’t talk to her,” Olivia snaps.
Virgil moves down and ties her ankles together. When he’s finished, Olivia sets the gun down and picks up Amy’s phone again. Pointing it at Amy, she snaps a photo of her sitting on the bed, her back resting against the ornately carved headboard. Virgil leans over to look at the screen with her.
“That’s awesome,” he says.
Olivia grabs the Glock and bends to press the muzzle to Amy’s forehead. Amy closes her eyes but is more angry than scared.
“Be good,” Olivia says, then she and Virgil walk out the door.
DOWNSTAIRS, OLIVIA FINDS Boone’s number on Amy’s phone and calls him. The call goes straight to voicemail. She leaves a message: “Check out the photo and call back, bitch. And don’t even think about going to the cops. I got eyes on you.” She then sends him the picture she took of Amy on the bed.
So now the fuse has been lit. Nothing to do but wait for the explosion.
VIRGIL PASSES OLIVIA one of the joints he rolled with Eton’s weed, and she pours more 151 into her glass of Diet Pepsi. They’ve been sitting on the couch all afternoon, watching TV and checking Amy’s phone every five minutes. First People’s Court and now Maury. This black chick screams and falls to the ground when a DNA test reveals that her boyfriend is not the father of her child, and Virgil imitates her, moaning, “No, no, no.” Olivia laughs so hard, she has to run into the bathroom to catch her breath.
The pizza guy rings the bell. Another motherfucker who can’t speak English. Virgil pulls out one of the hundred-dollar bills Taggert gave him for helping at the dogfight, but the kid can’t break it, so Olivia grabs a twenty from her wallet. Then Virgil tries to tip the dude with a joint. The kid’s eyes grow wide, and he shakes his head before backing quickly off the porch.
“No, no, no,” Virgil says again, and Olivia cracks up.
They dig in to the pizza, and Olivia smiles to herself, as happy as she’s been in forever. She thinks of Taggert and can’t believe how much time she wasted on that bastard. That control freak. That user. That liar. He deserves everything she’s about to bring down on him.
“Awww, fuck,” Virgil moans. “This isn’t what I ordered.”
Olivia looks down at her slice. “What?”
“It’s got peppers on it. I’m allergic to peppers.”
“So pick them off.”
“But they’re touching everything else.” The kid looks like he’s about to cry.
AMY SCOOTS TO the edge of the bed. It’s been hours since Olivia and Virgil left her here, and she can’t lie still doing nothing any longer. She swings her legs over so they’re hanging off the side of the bed and slides forward until her feet touch the floor.
The only window in the room is covered with thick drapes. She stands and makes her way toward it, the pantyhose around her ankles giving enough to allow her to build to a slow shuffle. If she can get a look outside, she might recognize the neighborhood. That’ll come in handy if she gets hold of a phone.
She pauses when she reaches the window, listens intently. The TV is still blaring, music and voices seeping up through the floorboards. She nudges the drapes aside with her nose and comes face to face with her reflection in a pane of cracked glass. A sheet of plywood has been nailed to the frame from the outside and blocks the view.
Okay, so much for that. She’s about to return to the bed when she notices the sharp end of a nail protruding about an inch from the wall. Turning around and backing up, she scrapes the pantyhose binding her wrists across the point. With each stroke the nylon frays a bit.
After a few minutes she pauses to test her bonds. Definitely looser. A few minutes more, another test. This time the nylon gives way when she flexes her wrists. Her hands are free. She sits quickly on the floor and goes to work on the hose wrapped around her ankles.
She has them almost untied when she hears footsteps on the stairs. Her heart pounding, she tears at the last few knots. Just as she looses herself and scrambles to her feet, Virgil opens the door. He’s carrying a couple slices of pizza on a plate in one hand, a gun in the other.
“Whoa!” he yells. “Whoa!” He drops the pizza and almost drops the Glock.
Amy launches herself at him and grabs his gun arm. Her momentum throws him off balance, and they both go down hard. She twists his wrist and tears the pistol out of his hand. He rises to his knees, but she kicks him in the chest and knocks him over.
Olivia appears in the doorway. Amy swings the pistol back and forth, covering both of them.
“Stay where you are!” she shouts. She’s breathing hard, sweating.
Olivia smirks and shakes her head. “You got us, huh?” she says. “Do we give up now?”
“On your bellies!” Amy shouts. “Arms straight out from your sides.”
Olivia laughs and says. “Virgil, get up and take that fucking thing away from her.”
Amy points the Glock at him, says again, “On your belly!”
“Take it,” Olivia says.
Virgil gives Olivia a worried look. “What do you mean?” he asks.
Olivia snarls with disgust and steps over him to approach Amy.
“Final warning,” Amy says, aiming the gun at Olivia’s chest. Something’s not right, she thinks. Olivia’s not this crazy. She pulls the trigger as the girl reaches for the pistol. Nothing happens.
Olivia wrests the Glock away from Amy, then slaps her across the face. She racks the slide on the gun, points it at Virgil, and pulls the trigger. Again nothing.
“I put in an empty clip while you were taking a shit,” she says to her brother. “You think I’m going to let you hold a loaded gun, stoned as you are?”
“That’s fucked up,” Virgil says.
“Next time I tell you to do something, you do it,” Olivia says.
It’s do or die now. Amy makes a run for the door, but Olivia grabs her hair as she passes by, stopping her short, and Virgil throws his arms around her knees. Her head strikes the dresser on the way down. She’s seeing stars when she hits the floor.
“Tie her up,” she hears Olivia say. “And make sure she can’t get loose again.”
She doesn’t struggle when Virgil takes hold of her T-shirt, jerks her to her feet, and drags her to the bed, where he begins lashing her to the frame with more pantyhose. She’s dizzy, nauseated. Better to conserve her strength than to continue to fight now, in case she gets another chance later.
“When’s he going to call?” Virgil whines as he pulls a knot tight. “It’s been hours.”
“How the fuck should I know,” Olivia says. “Hey! Hey, bitch!” she says, addressing Amy.
Amy looks over to see her drop the empty magazine out of the gun and slide in a full one.
“Next time, it’s for real,” Olivia says.
BOONE CARRIES SIX shot glasses to the sink, throws away the peels from a dish of lime wedges, and wipes down the bar. A bachelorette party has just tossed back their last belts of Patron and stumbled out to a waiting limo, ready to move on to the next stop on their Hollywood pub crawl. They were a shrill bunch, drunk and demanding, and Boone’s headache is glad to see them go.
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.
Richard Lange Page 27