Wendy nodded. "She said to come on ahead."
"You're overdue anyway, Wen. She can use your help on the farm, with her husband laid up and all. You've been homesick. Consider this a vacation."
"Bud, I'm scared. We're both too old for this."
Steel entered his voice. "Just go inside."
Wendy shook her head and backed up two steps into the kitchen. Her hands busied themselves with a worn dish towel. Bone could hear water boiling. She was making pasta for dinner before she left for the airport. Wendy always had to freeze a week's worth of meals.
"Sometimes it's like I don't even know you anymore," she said.
The look on her face stung him. Sometimes I don't know myself. Guess I'm just one of the wicked. Bone turned back to the tackle box, closed it up and put it back on the shelf just to buy time. He composed a reasonable reply, but by then she was gone.
My friend went back into the yard and turned on the hose. The car was still running because Bone didn't dare shut it off. He soaked the ground a bit, got down near the front of the old Mustang and muddied up the license numbers and then did the same at the back. They were junkyard plates anyway, but Bud wanted to be extra careful. He cleaned himself up.
After a time, Wendy opened the front door and handed him a cold beer and a huge plate of rigatoni with tomato sauce, steamed vegetables, and a big hunk of homemade garlic bread. He thanked her, took it and sat down in the front yard to eat. Wendy went back inside to finish packing her suitcase. Soon Bud could hear the game show she liked, canned laughter and a pretty woman spinning a wheel. He finished the food, washed the plate with the garden hose and left it on the steps.
The TV went silent. The front door opened and Wendy came out rolling her luggage. Bud helped her take it to their best vehicle, put things in the trunk, slam it shut. They looked at each other for a long moment. Then he kissed her on the cheek and they hugged. Bud Stone watched his wife drive away. After a while he went to the running car, got in and closed the door. He rolled the window down and stared at the empty home he was leaving behind.
My friend sat there nursing the beer, car running, until the sun was almost down. Then he drove down the driveway and headed north and west, toward Pacoima.
Bone used to tell stories about how bad some of the gangs were in the San Fernando Valley. He said the leaders rotated in and out of jail, and some ran small empires based on drugs and a new kind of sex trade. They bring girls in from all over the world, tell them they'll be working off their passage to America in some sweat shop but then hold them in Mexico, where they addict them to drugs and break them in to be hookers. Some have set up safe houses in parts of LA where underage girls can be arranged for a cash price. They bring them over the border in dresses and curls, rent them to perverts, pay them with heroin or Oxycontin and return them to Mexico when they're all worn out.
There were stories about what happened after that, about home movies of cold-blooded murder that could be purchased on DVD or over the Internet. Some folks think snuff films are an urban legend. Other people know better.
Bone had one particular gang in mind that night. The one that sold what appeared to be some of those genuine snuff films. A group of sociopaths flush with cash and far, far beyond redemption. Bud probably figured their reputation would assuage his guilt, make him feel better if he had to shoot. He was willing to play for keeps tonight.
He went into Panorama City and stared through the open window at neon signs and broken windows and gang markings. Gang bangers glared at him, shaved heads shiny with sweat, beige pants hanging loose below torn and stained white wife-beater tees. Some grabbed the crotch of their trousers and shouted epithets. The streets were filled with trash . . . of all kinds.
Young hookers were everywhere, skinny girls with needle tracks teetering on high heels flashing as much skin as possible, goose bumps like Braille dots on their shivering, pale skin. Bud drove on.
The night was like a pulsing, purplish vein when he pulled into the parking lot behind the empty chain market. This area was so rough the place closed down right after dark. No one would take a night shift. Rap music assaulted the ears. There were cars everywhere, kids blowing weed and drinking wine and beer. Bud drove into the lot. His old car blended in with the others. He didn't plan on getting close enough to stick out as a gringo. He sank low in the seat, drove along the fence and parked the Mustang in the side alley by the store.
Nothing to do now but wait.
Across the lot, two girls necked and fondled one another while a group of drunken boys cheered them on. For the first time, Bone allowed himself to feel afraid. A little fear could sharpen the senses. If these kids discovered an armed white guy among them, he'd be dead meat.
The man he was expecting was nicknamed Gordo; just huge, a fridge with a head on it, a wild mane of red hair and tats. Gordo was rumored to be half Mexican and half Irish, some such shit, but born and raised in East LA. Bone had sat in more than a few cop bars, listening to stories about the prick. He had the dope and hookers and snuff porn cornered, so much money behind him that the law couldn't get around his high-powered attorney long enough to nail him on anything serious.
If anything went wrong, Bone knew that the rest of the gang might come after him, but other than that, hell, the kid's own mother probably wouldn't give a shit. He opened the glove compartment, got some chaw and let the bitter taste fill his mouth. He didn't use it often, but it was an effective stimulant. The blast of nicotine added to his nervousness, gave him more fire. He gagged and patted his guns like a man trying to calm down nervous pets.
About a half hour later, a loud horn blared out a tune that Bone thought might have been La Cucaracha. Some of the boys hopped into their cars and backed out of the way to create an opening. A caravan of three shiny black BMWs drove slowly into the middle of the wild, noisy circle. The kids partied on and sprayed beer everywhere, but no one went near those three new cars. Bone sat up in the front seat, heart thumping.
Trouble.
Into a pool of light came a skinny kid with terminal acne. The boy was stumbling his way, maybe looking for a place to hurl without being teased by the others. Bone swore and slipped further down in the seat. The kid paused, leaned on the wall and pissed. Steam rose up and faded. Stay there, damn it.
The kid zipped up, and started walking again, but the wrong way. He was too drunk. For a long moment it looked like he'd crash into a soft drink machine by the market, maybe knock his sorry ass out, but he bumped into a metal cart instead, stumbled and fell to his knees.
Back in the circle, the crowd was starting to go quiet, perhaps with anticipation. The kids were all staring at the middle BMW like they knew who was in it. Bone figured Gordo would be in that one, with protection front and back. That's what I'd do.
The drunken boy started his way again, completely lost, just wandering around. He seemed to be singing to himself. Since the rest of the gang had fallen silent, Bone could hear his voice, all hoarse and boozed up. Time to make a decision.
Bone divided his attention as best he could, half on the approaching boy and half on that middle car. The front doors opened, and tall bodyguards got out on either side; black steroid junkies in those ubiquitous blue jogging suits with all the requisite gold chains. The crowd murmured.
The boy was closer now and had seen his car. Bone swore, and moved to the passenger side. He slipped out onto the cold cement and duck-walked backwards to vanish into the overflowing trash bins. Let the kid look, find the vehicle empty, move on. The garbage reeked. Bone peeked over the top of the trash can.
Back in the circle of headlights, a wide man with red hair got out of the Beemer at his own leisurely pace. The crowd erupted into cheers.
Gordo.
The boy was at the red Mustang, peering in the open driver's window. He slipped a bit, leaned on the car. Stuck his head inside. You barf in there and I'll break your fucking neck, Bone thought. Damn it kid, your karma sucks.
The kid opened the do
or and got in. He studied the dash for a while and then vanished from view. Bone shook his head, stunned. He edged closer and could just make out what was happening.
The boy was trying to hot wire the Mustang.
Back in the center of the crowd, Gordo was turning in a wide circle, arms raised. The gang cheered him on. Bone took advantage of the noise, opened the passenger side, reached in and grabbed the kid military style, one hand over his mouth. The boy whimpered and struggled. Bone dragged him back out onto the pavement in a choke hold and rendered him unconscious. He dragged the kid further into the alley. He pulled his knife, held it to the kid's throat for a long moment.
Bone sighed. He tied and gagged the boy and left him by the loading dock. The staff would find him the next day.
My friend got back into the waiting car. You should have wasted him, just collateral damage. The kid was a gang member. His hands weren't likely to be clean. Getting soft in your old age.
The party went on a while; Gordo and his bodyguards doing coke lines off the bare tits of a tall hooker in a black thong. Somebody put out a kit and a few of the gang members shot up, but most stuck to booze and hits of grass.
At one point the cops showed. One lone squad car started up the driveway, but when the first two lines of gang bangers turned and glared, the cop, probably some rookie getting initiated by an amused partner, discovered that discretion was the better part of valor. He drove off quietly.
Bone waited and watched. No one else came his way. Finally Gordo got back in the Beemer and the other cars parted again. Bone sat up, prayed silently and started the Mustang. It ground around some but wouldn't start. He tried again. Finally realized the kid must have done some damage. Frustrated, Bone slid down and checked the ignition, found the problem, started the car. It roared to life.
Bud Stone got behind the wheel and began to coast down the alley toward the front of the parking lot.
The BMWs were maybe forty yards away, going back out onto the main drag, when Bone hit the side street and turned. A few heads turned out of curiosity, but the car was old and the plates were a mess. Nothing out of the ordinary. No one followed. He stayed half a block behind the procession, low in the front seat like one of the locals. Bone opened the door a crack and spat. He got a fresh pinch of chewing tobacco. He kept his tired eyes glued to the back of the car bringing up the rear. If it braked, he braked. If he felt made, he planned to drive on by and try again some other night.
Gordo stopped at a battered, boarded up liquor store near the freeway. Bone pulled to the curb and waited. Gordo stayed in the car while one of his bodyguards went inside to buy a fifth of Tequila and a couple of six packs of bottled beer. The Beemers kept driving. Bone discreetly followed.
The neighborhood turned into large chunks of undeveloped land or decaying wooden crack houses with dying grass around them. Tall succulent plants grew everywhere; the world was darkness, shadows, splintered boards and phallic, spiked undergrowth.
The cars finally slowed. They ended up driving onto a large piece of what looked like horse property. There were two houses. The one out front had men camped at the windows, but they seemed drunk and careless. The cars headed for the back house. At first glance, it was another dump.
Bone left his Mustang and slipped into the bushes. He used his field glasses. The windows were clear and clean. Inside, he could see decent furniture, paintings, and a large-screen, high-def TV.
The black guys collected some cash and left together in one of the BMWs. Maybe their shift was over, or they were hired for show. Either way, the odds had just improved. Bone eyeballed the property. No signs of an alarm, and the only guards seemed to be in the front house. He had to get closer. A long, wooden rail fence wove in and out of thick ivy that offered the only decent cover. Bone went flat and started crawling at a steady, patient pace.
It took an hour, but by the time Gordo closed the thick curtains Bud Stone was squatting right outside the side door, picking the lock. He eased inside and sat there on the kitchen floor, alone in the dark, scared and excited at the same time. Listened. Someone said something and a woman giggled. Wait. Another. There were two women. But was that it? Would Gordo allow himself to be so careless?
Bone forced himself to wait, and a few minutes later heard coughing. There was at least one other man, on watch in the living room, probably smoking a cigarette. Bone crawled into the hall. The living room was two doorways away and the lights were on; the big TV fired colored shapes at the wall. He crawled closer to one of the doors, heard nothing. Peered inside and looked up. Someone fast asleep in a bed, one foot half on the floor. The guy was out cold and snoring.
Bone choked him out, tied and gagged him.
My friend moved on and soon heard what sounded like a bad horror film coming from the next doorway. He crawled again, froze when a floorboard squeaked. After a time, he continued forward and peeked into what he could now see was the master bedroom.
The television was on there as well, lots of screaming and grunting and blows. The two women had finished ministering to Gordo and were sharing a joint. The big man was naked, seemed inert. Bone waited until the girls passed out, too. His bladder ached, but he ignored it and edged toward the living room.
The other guard, a squat and muscular Latino with oily hair, was parked on a black leather couch, AK by his side, watching an old war movie with the sound way too high. Almost too easy. Bone got to his feet, stepped over quietly, choked and tied him up and grabbed the rifle.
Back to the bedroom. One of the girls, a hooker improbably named Angel, woke up to a hand over her mouth. The man standing over her had pantyhose over his face, and his features were mashed and distorted. He looked like something out of the film they'd all been watching; one of those bloody productions Gordo was famous for creating. The man held a finger to his lips and showed her the rifle. He motioned for her to wake up her friend, a cocaine whore more aptly named Candy.
"Be quiet," the stranger said in a menacing whisper. "I'm not going to hurt you. Gordo is the one I want."
Bone marched the two naked girls down the hall and locked them in the bathroom. Then he returned to the bedroom, found a chair and sat down. He watched the DVD for a while. A teenaged girl who seemed genuinely terrified was being slapped around by two naked men wearing Halloween masks. She spoke Spanish. They burned her with a cigarette, then choked and raped her repeatedly. If it was faked, it was Oscar caliber work. Bone figured it for an actual video pirated from another country. His blood started to boil. He turned off the television, sat down near Gordo, aimed the rifle at the dealer and flicked on the light.
"What the . . . ?"
Bone once told me that nothing concentrates the mind as perfectly as the business end of a gun. Gordo shook off the drugs and booze slowly, but then sat up straight when he saw the man with the pantyhose face. His red eyes bulged wide. One palm came up in the classic vain gesture meant to ward off a bullet.
"Hey," Gordo said weakly. "Hey."
"It's about your money, motherfucker." The intruder spoke quietly, firmly. "And I want all of it."
Gordo tried the usual bobbing and weaving. Said he didn't keep it all at the house, the safe was locked and an employee kept the key, maybe tomorrow morning; I'll get you for this and you can run but you can't hide asshole. Bullshit like that, the things people say when they're bluffing. Meanwhile, the strange man just sat there with his face all twisted up.
Gordo probably got bolder then, made some threats without getting a response. Bigger threats. Maybe Gordo even eventually made the mistake of threatening Bone's family. I figure something like that must have happened, something that compounded having viewed the sadistic video. How do I know?
Because Bone tied Gordo to the chair, gagged him, and started in with the knife.
Ten
Flies already circled my dying cat, Wink. Her skinny sides heaved as she struggled for air. I didn't know what had happened; whether the little tabby had been hit by a car, eaten something
bad, or maybe my stepfather had kicked her too hard. It was almost dark out and we were on the back porch. I was maybe eleven years old. The cat yowled and writhed for a second, then went silent again. I held Wink in my lap and did my best not to cry. Danny was drunk again, way too drunk to drive into Dry Wells. Besides, he said, "We ain't got money to waste on a vet. That animal don't do shit around here, except for killing rats. . . ."
I'd been fighting that day, and my elbows and knuckles were scraped raw. Danny had grudgingly cleaned me up and given me some of the money we'd won. I thought of offering to use that to pay Doc Langdon, but knew if I went to the phone Danny would beat me for sure. He had already said no, and Danny didn't brook sass, especially when he was drunk.
I decided that if the cat was still fighting for her life when my stepfather passed out, I'd collect my savings, put her in a sack around my neck, and ride one of the horses into town. With luck, I'd find Doc and be back before dawn.
Just then, the cat stopped breathing. My chest ached. I closed her eyes and cursed Danny, wished him dead along with the animal, but promptly felt a wave of guilt and shame. He'd given me a roof and food when my mother died. He was rough, but he was all I had. I reminded myself to be grateful.
My knuckles hurt. I put the cat down and tried to look at my hands but suddenly they weren't in front of me at all, they were behind my back, and I couldn't move. . . .
"When's he going to wake up?"
I was lying sideways on a seat that smelled like genuine leather. My hands were tied behind my back. I'd been gagged and blindfolded. The fight in my yard, the blow from the baseball bat. . . .
Everything was humming, vibrating. We were probably in the van, moving rapidly, maybe out on the highway. My head felt too large and I had what felt like a terminal hangover. My stepfather's memory spoke up from deep inside. Danny chewed me out for having lost a fight. I felt a little sick, probably from blows to the head, but also from shame. When you get the chance, boy, you make them pay.
One of the Wicked: A Mick Callahan Novel Page 8