“It’s something to follow through on, though, isn’t it? I mean, it just seems so logical, the way things fit together.”
“Yeah, I’ll admit that. But then what? At this point I have no basis to charge Zarkov and Apperson or anyone else with Catherine Delure’s murder. So what could I charge them with? Fraud? That’s not my job, and it’s not what I’m after.”
“I understand what you’re saying. Arresting them for fraud would be up to the authorities here in LA, right?”
“Sure. And they’d have the same problem. What is there for them to go on? What’s the basis for an ADA to ask a judge to sign a warrant?”
“What’s an ADA?”
“A prosecutor. ADA is for assistant district attorney. Or as they’re called here in California, a deputy district attorney. And even if the judge went along, what could the prosecutor take to a grand jury? The accused committed a crime by offering suckers a chance to invest in a movie?”
“That would sound a little thin, wouldn’t it?”
“Would to me. According to what you’ve said, people can’t give their money to a hustler like Zarkov fast enough. And not just to him, but to a lot of other operators in the movie business. Isn’t that true?”
“So it seems.”
“And as you’ve also pointed out, most movies don’t make money, they lose it.”
“Right again.”
“So where’s your case, Counselor?”
She smiled. “Sorry, Your Honor, for wasting the court’s time.”
“You haven’t. I’m just showing you where the holes are. But as I said, you’ve been a lot of help. My next problem will be gathering some evidence. And also locating a very important missing piece.”
“What is that?”
“The killer. The creep who went to the hotel in New York and committed the murders. If I’m right, he was hired to make the hit. So the questions are, who is he and who hired him? Find him and I get the answer to the first part, and maybe the second as well.”
“You think he’s here in LA?”
“Could be. Or maybe he’s still in New York. Or in a few million other places. But if I don’t have him, I don’t have anything. I have to find him.”
She drew in her breath. “That makes my blood run cold.”
Barker rose from his chair and drew her to him. He stroked her back, running his hand down below the edge of the wrapper.
“I have to leave soon,” he said, “and get back to work. But before that, I’ll do my best to make your blood warm again.”
She flicked her tongue against his lips. “It’s already getting there.”
Still holding her close, he guided her back into the bedroom.
27.
Harold Strunk was on his second cup of morning coffee. He was working on a real estate deal, and when the call came in he was annoyed at being interrupted. But when his secretary told him who the caller was, he picked up. “Yeah?”
“Good morning, Harold. How’s it going?”
Strunk considered small talk a pain in the ass. “What do you want?”
“I think I might need you to arrange another assignment.”
“Somebody should take a vacation?”
“Yes. A permanent one.”
“Where is this person?”
“In LA.”
“You said you might need this. You don’t know whether you do or not?”
“It’s not firmed up yet.”
“Why not?”
“There’s the matter of the fee.”
“What about the fee?”
“The last one was very expensive.”
“Balls. What you got was a bargain. And besides, I have a feeling that for your client, a couple hundred thousand bucks is bird shit.”
“He doesn’t see it that way. Especially because this new situation is much simpler.”
“The fee is what it is. Like I told you up front, it’s a flat rate. You want this other one on the cheap? Hire somebody yourself.”
“Harold, I’m only doing what my client wants me to do. And that’s negotiate. Surely you can understand that?”
“What I understand is money. And I don’t negotiate. So tell your client he’ll get what he pays for. That means it goes to a satisfactory conclusion, without fail. And there’s no way for anything to be traced back to him. Not ever. So pay the fee and that’s it, take it or leave it.”
“Yes, but—”
“Let me remind you, the last one most people would’ve considered impossible. But it got done, didn’t it? And even with the biggest police force in America going all out, the cops couldn’t come up with doodly-fucking-squat. Now you’re trying to hondle? What do you think I’m running, a pants store? You want fifty percent off?”
“Harold, be reasonable, okay? I’m sure my client was just testing the water. I’ll let him know the fee is nonnegotiable, and we’ll see what he says. I’m confident we’ll move ahead.”
“Yeah, sure,” Strunk said, and hung up.
He went back to the papers on his desk. The real estate deal was complicated, and completing it would require all his legal skills. A location in downtown Beverly Hills would have to be condemned and then sold to the trust Strunk controlled for a fraction of its true worth. For that to happen, not one but several members of the city council would have to be paid off.
But he’d succeed, he was sure of it. No problem was too tough for Harold Strunk. He buzzed his secretary and told her to bring him more coffee.
As he drank it he resolved to cut down on his caffeine intake, which was a resolution he made every day and never acted on, even though the stuff made his nerves as taut as the strings on a banjo. He was finishing the cup when another call came in from the same party.
“I’ve talked with my client,” the caller said. “He continues to think the fee is on the high side. But I pointed out to him the advantages as you outlined them, and he agrees that they’re considerable.”
“Cut the shit,” Strunk said. “Do we have a deal, or don’t we?”
“Yes, Harold. We have a deal.”
Strunk picked up a pen. “Who’s the person who should go away?”
28.
Mongo was bored out of his mind. He’d gone for his usual run on the beach, and after that had run through his exercises. Now he’d spend the rest of the day reading and watching TV. Maybe later he’d go to the supermarket and pick up something for dinner.
It was a dumb way to waste time, and he was itchier than ever. He paced back and forth in his small living room, finally settling down to call up a porn movie on his computer.
The movie didn’t do much for him; the girl was a dog compared to the ones he hired. Still, watching her writhe and squirm and hearing her moan aroused him, even though she wasn’t very convincing.
For a minute he toyed with the idea of calling a service and having them send someone, but he dismissed that idea as too risky. He’d never had a girl come to the cottage, and it would be stupid to start now.
Maybe he ought to drive into Hollywood, drop in at a place he knew, get himself some action. That would wipe out the boredom. A good piece always did that for him.
Hell, he’d settle for a blow job. Especially one from a beautiful Filipino who worked there. Her name was Danao, and she had a mouth like a vacuum cleaner.
That idea brought to mind the incident that had taken place in Vegas, when he’d been snookered by that lousy bitch who tried to steal from him. The thought made him angry all over again. Although it shouldn’t have, because the fault had been his.
He’d known better than to trust a female. You could play with one, do whatever came into your head, but you always had to keep your guard up.
That was a lesson he’d learned early on, when he was just a snot-nosed kid. And it had been delivered to him by his own mo
ther.
One of the things he’d enjoyed was peeking into the bedroom when she was doing what she called entertaining a friend. It was something she did several times a night, and with a different friend each time. It was comical to see some lard-ass huffing and puffing away.
But then on one occasion Mongo became careless and sneezed. His mother jumped out of bed and beat him with a shoe and threw him out of the little dump they lived in.
He stayed away from home for two days, eating whatever he could steal from a neighborhood bodega, sleeping curled up in an alley. When he finally went back he found her in the bedroom, stone cold and with the needle still stuck in her arm.
How could he ever have trusted her? A mother was supposed to take care of you when you were little. But with her, that was a joke.
The truth was, you couldn’t trust any of them. Like the broad in Vegas, for instance. Whether he himself had been to blame or not, he shouldn’t have let her off with just a kick in the ass. Should have tossed her down the elevator shaft. That would’ve served the bitch right, and it would have been a hell of a lot more satisfying.
The phone rang, jarring him. He picked up.
“That you?” the garbled voice said.
Mongo tensed. He’d been waiting forever for this, had been angry he hadn’t heard. Now at last, here it was. “Yeah, it’s me.”
“You have work to do,” the voice said.
“Okay, fine. But I got news for you. Prices have gone up. And I need an advance.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get one. And when the job’s finished you’ll be well taken care of.”
The electronic distortion made the words hard to understand. Mongo strained to catch their meaning. “Go on.”
“This one you’ll like. He’s a detective from New York, and he’s here in LA. His name is Jeb Barker.”
Mongo sat up straight. A dick from New York? Here in LA? And that was the target?
“He’s staying at the Sunset Inn,” the voice said. “Get it done.”
The call ended, and Mongo stared at the phone. He hit the replay button and listened to the call again. As he did, a number of thoughts went through his mind.
Apparently the cops were much further along than they’d let on. Not only had they come up with a lead, they’d known where to send a detective. The son of a bitch was right here in the city.
But Strunk was right when he said this was one he’d like. Take out a cop? Christ, what a pleasure that would be. The cop had come out here to run him down, but before he could do that, Mongo would wipe the fartbrain off the face of the earth.
29.
First there were a couple of things that had to be taken care of. Mongo wrapped the wig in an old newspaper, stuck it into the fireplace, and set a match to it. He watched it burn, and when it was nothing but a lump of ashes, he opened the trap and shoved the remains into it with a poker.
Next he dealt with the tape recorder. Destroying that required a little more muscle. He took it outside and laid it on the ground and smashed the case to bits with the axe he kept for chopping firewood.
The compressed-air cylinders remained intact, however, so he pushed those aside. He swept up the plastic splinters and dumped them into a plastic bag, and dropped the cylinders in as well before tying the bag shut.
While he was doing this, he thought about the job ahead of him. It wouldn’t be easy; a New York detective was a different proposition from the dipshits he usually dealt with.
The cop would most likely be alert and suspicious, and therefore it would be vital to slip up on him. Mongo would have to be gone before the guy ever knew he was in danger.
In his days as a kid in the hood, Mongo had been an accomplished street fighter. His technique had been to size up his opponent, and then give him something he wasn’t expecting.
In those days, it was often a quick shot with his homemade sap, a short length of wood with nails driven through it. When the guy bent over in pain, blood streaming down his face, Mongo would whack him again. Surprise, surprise, motherfucker.
That was the kind of thing he had to plan now. Something totally unforeseen. Except that it would have to be much more sophisticated. More along the lines of the way he took out the two bitches in the hotel in New York.
Carefully planned and executed, that one had been his masterpiece. He should have had their heads mounted so he could hang them over the fireplace.
With the detective, the first step would be to identify him, find out what he looked like. That might also reveal some telling characteristics. Was he a big guy, and strong? Look like he had good reflexes?
Important to know those things. Carrying the plastic bag that contained the remains of the tape recorder, Mongo left the cottage and went out to his car.
He drove south on the coast highway, and at a point near Paradise Cove he spotted a dumpster at a construction site. He pulled close to the dumpster and tossed the bag into it.
Continuing on, he turned off onto Sunset and traveled east. As usual the traffic was heavy, and by now the sun had burned off the fog.
He drove at a moderate pace, staying in the right-hand lane. Other drivers overtook him—one in a Mercedes, another in a BMW—and he tried to ignore them as they flashed past.
It wasn’t easy; he felt a twinge of resentment. Why should those bastards be driving such cars while he was stuck in this lousy little Oriental shitbox?
He knew why, just as he knew why he was careful to stay within the speed limit. He’d learned not to call attention to himself when on the road. A traffic stop could lead to the cop asking him questions and running his license through a computer, and Mongo did not need that.
Nevertheless, he wished he could be driving the kind of car he felt he deserved. A Porsche, say, or a Ferrari. Top down, a broad by his side, whaling along with the engine screaming. Way to go, man.
For that matter, his whole life needed tuning. Living in a cottage in Malibu wasn’t bad. But it was hiding, damn it. And an occasional trip to Vegas wasn’t nearly enough to offset that.
So what would he do to turn things around? He already had a plan. Although he needed more money to carry it out. With enough of it, he could get the hell out of the States and live the way he wanted. Strunk sent part of each fee to Mongo’s bank account in the Cayman Islands, and settling there would be sensational.
But right now he had a job to do. When he reached the Sunset Inn, he left the Toyota in the parking lot and went into the hotel. In the lobby he picked up a house phone and asked the operator to connect him with Mr. Barker.
A deep male voice answered, and Mongo said, “This is the reception desk, Mr. Barker. There’s a man here who wants to see you. He won’t give his name, but he says he’s got valuable information for you.”
“Information about what?”
“He won’t say that, either. But he says you’ll know what it’s about. He’ll wait for you here at the desk.”
After putting the phone down, Mongo picked up a copy of the Los Angeles Times from a table and walked to a chair in the farthest corner of the lobby.
He sat and opened the newspaper, not reading it but holding it so that it obscured his face. From time to time he glanced over the top of the page, keeping an eye on the desk.
A minute went by, and then another. He saw various people walk through the area, saw some of them go to check-in and others stop at the cashier’s station, saw still others stroll in and out the front entrance. Men and women, none of them anything like what he was expecting.
And then, there he was. A husky dude wearing a blue button-down. Black hair cut short, square jaw, nose maybe a fraction off-kilter. It had to be the cop.
Mongo watched him go from the elevators to the front desk and speak to the clerk, who shook his head and shrugged. The guy then glanced around and finally returned to the elevators. He stepped into a car al
ong with several other people and the doors closed.
Mongo now had his pursuer pegged, knew exactly what he looked like. He also knew the dick was in good shape and probably quick on his feet. He’d be quick mentally, too. The fact that he’d made detective at a relatively young age indicated that.
Besides, the NYPD would not send some pussy out here. As Mongo had expected, the target would be no pushover.
He began to fold the paper when something caught his eye.
Jesus Christ—there was the fucking drawing!
It took up a quarter of the page. The caption said it was a new composite showing the Delure killer and that it had been created by the police in New York.
He still wasn’t sure how much it resembled him. For one thing, he believed he was better looking than that. He stared at the image intently and reluctantly decided the grim face in the drawing was a lot closer than the first attempt. He’d have to be more alert than ever.
Getting to his feet, he walked to the entrance casually and dropped the paper onto the table on his way out to his car.
From the hotel he drove east once again, and then onto 101 South. He turned off at the Alvarado Street exit, which put him in one of the city’s poorest neighborhoods.
It was called Pico-Union, because it sprawled outward from the intersection of Pico Boulevard and Union Avenue. To the LAPD it was part of the Rampart Division.
This was an area Mongo knew well. Once affluent, there were still a number of buildings and homes here that revealed its former prosperity. But now the structures were crumbling and neglected, and many were inhabited by squatters.
The population was nearly all Hispanic. There were people from Mexico, El Salvador, Guatemala, and Honduras, and many of them were in the United States illegally.
The area had the highest crime rates in Los Angeles, with gangbangers constantly at each other’s throats. This was where the Hacienda Village Bloods and the La Mirada Locos and dozens of other gangs had sprung to life.
He continued south, noting that the neighborhood was exactly as he remembered it. Boarded-up stores, small dingy houses, kids roaming the streets looking for something to steal. The asshole of the city.
The Big Hit Page 18