The Big Hit

by James Neal Harvey

  Although many of the neighboring places had lights showing, the one Barker went into was totally dark. That didn’t matter, either. What counted was for the cop to stay inside long enough for Mongo to make his arrangements.

  He waited a few minutes, and when Barker didn’t reappear he left the Toyota, taking the roll of Primacord with him. There was still plenty of it left, and he was sure that when the cop did return to the Ford, he’d never notice the length of explosive fuse that had been stuck into the gas tank.

  50.

  As Barker went up the steps to the entrance he heard faint strains of piano music and the babble of conversation coming from inside. He rang the buzzer.

  After a few moments a slot in the door opened and a pair of eyes peered out at him. “Who are you?”

  “Detective Barker. Juanita’s expecting me.”

  The slot closed, and a minute passed. Then the door opened.

  An ape stood there. An ape with a shaved head and wearing a tuxedo. He pointed. “Bar’s over there. Have a drink and she’ll be with you in a couple minutes.”

  As Barker entered the room he saw that a party was in progress. Men in California casual, women in slinky gowns. And what women. They were all young, and beautiful.

  He got it then. This was a brothel. High class, but a brothel nevertheless.

  He made his way through the throng to the bar, which was tended by one of the beauties. She asked what he’d like, and he said a vodka martini on the rocks. When she put the drink in front of him he sipped it and looked around.

  The room was furnished in a style that went with the house: early ’20s. There were couches and chairs upholstered in various shades of velvet, and light was provided by multicolored Tiffany chandeliers. A black guy wearing a tuxedo was playing an upright piano, banging out Scott Joplin ragtime. The air was hazy with pot smoke.

  Several couples were dancing, and as he watched them Barker noticed that the men were much older than the women. In fact, there wasn’t a single male who appeared younger than forty. Most of them he’d put at fifty and up.

  “Hello, Barker.”

  He turned to see a woman approach. She had dyed red hair and was wearing a gold lamé evening dress. The skin on her face had the stretched-tight look that came from repeated bouts of plastic surgery. It was a wonder, he thought, she could move her lips.

  “I’m Juanita,” she said.

  “Glad to know you.”

  “This must be the first time you’ve been here.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “You been in the job long?”

  “Long enough.”

  “You guys are always welcome. Just give me a little advance notice.”

  “Okay, I will.” He nodded toward the people in the room. “You seem to be doing a good business.”

  “We are. It’s what we do every night. I run the best house in LA.”

  “Sorry, when we spoke on the phone I didn’t realize—”

  “Hey, that’s okay. I figured you were a rookie. And I was right, wasn’t I? Just moved up to detective?”

  He smiled. “Could be.”

  “That’s okay, too. I’ve got a lot of friends in your department.”

  Again he glanced at the crowd. “Easy to see why.”

  “Isn’t it, though. You ever seen prettier girls?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “A lot of them are stars, you know. That’s why men go out of their minds to be with them.”

  “They’re movie stars?”

  She laughed. “Porn stars, of course. When they’re not shooting they spend time here and pick up extra money. A smart girl can make a bundle by playing it both ways.”

  “So your clients have seen them in porn films?”

  “Right. It’s a real thrill for a guy. He sees the girl in a film, sees how beautiful she is and how she knows what she’s doing. He becomes a fan. And then he can come here and enjoy her himself. It’s like he’s living a fantasy.”

  “Interesting.”

  “They can also try different ones, and that helps give us repeat business. Keeps them coming back. We have lots of regulars.”

  “Don’t some guys hesitate about coming here?”

  “You mean because they’re public figures, like politicians for instance, and they don’t want to be seen? Sure. So a client just calls us, and we send him the girl he wants. We offer a complete service for guys who want to be serviced.”

  “Very clever. Of you, that is.”

  “It’s the same as everything else today. You need a good idea to start with, and then the rest is marketing. The films are like commercials that show off the girls. A client will buy every film the girl ever made. So it’s kind of a cross-promotion, I guess you could say.”

  “About your call. You said you knew the man who had the tattoo we put on television. We also showed a drawing of his face.”

  “Yeah, I know him. But first, tell me again that none of this’ll ever get connected to me.”

  “It won’t, I promise.”

  “Okay, good. Because the last thing I’d want is publicity. That’d ruin my business. My clients would have a fit, and then they’d all run and hide. And some smartass DA would try to be a hero at my expense.”

  “I understand.”

  She lowered her voice. “The guy you’re looking for. His name is Mongo.”

  “That’s his last name?”

  “I don’t know whether it’s his last name or his first name, or even if he’s got any other names. I knew him a long time ago. We were together for a while, and then he shot a guy and was sent to San Quentin. I’d mail him packages there, addressed to Mongo in South Block. They always got to him.”

  “What was he in for?”

  “Manslaughter. Should have been murder one, but he had a smart lawyer.”

  “And you recognized him from TV?”

  “Uh-huh. When I saw the drawing of his face I wasn’t sure. I thought it looked like him, and then I’d think, maybe not. But the tattoo was a dead giveaway. Soon as I saw that, I knew it was him.”

  “Does the tattoo mean something?”

  “It did when he put it on. Here, let me show you.”

  She asked the bartender for a pen and a cocktail napkin.

  Then she painstakingly drew the tattoo on the napkin. Her rendering matched the one Marcia Slade had drawn.

  “Okay, what do you see?” she asked.

  “A fishhook,” Barker said.

  “Right. But it’s also a capital J. You see that?”

  Barker looked at it. “Yeah, I do.”

  “The J is for Juanita. I was his girlfriend from before he went in the joint. He did the tattoo with a pin and black ink while he was inside. Then when I went to see him he showed it off to me, saying it was proof that I’d always be his best girl. His true love. The son of a bitch.”

  “I understand the J part,” Barker said, “but why the fishhook?”

  “That was his idea of a joke. It represents Juanita the hooker. See, all the time he was in San Quentin, I was walking Hollywood Boulevard, doing fifteen or twenty guys a night. The cons weren’t supposed to have money except what they were paid, which was about thirty cents an hour. So I’d send him as much as I could.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “I’d put a hundred-dollar bill in the wrapping and glue some of the paper over it. Then I’d send him a package that had small stuff in it. Candy or cookies, things like that. The prison never caught on, and he was able to use the money to bribe guards. He got a cushy job that way, and he also bribed them to smuggle junk in for him. He’d barter the junk with other cons, and they’d do whatever he wanted.”

  “Sounds as though he had it pretty good while he was there.”

  “Good? He lived a life of ease. There were some f
emale guards, and he paid them too, for blow jobs. He had it made.”

  “And after he got out? Then what?”

  “Then he dropped me like I had leprosy. After all I did for him? Didn’t mean a thing.”

  “I can see why you’d be bitter.”

  “Bitter isn’t half of it. I want to dance on his grave.”

  “Maybe you’ll get the chance. If we catch him.”

  “I hope you do. Man, do I hope you do. Did he really kill Catherine Delure and the other one?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “I don’t know why that would surprise me. There never was a colder guy. Killing somebody wasn’t just easy for him. He really enjoyed it.”

  “You saw that?”

  “Up close and personal. When I first met him, there was a guy I was living with, Harry Dusik. Mongo made a move on me and Harry objected. Mongo gutted him with a knife. Just like you would a chicken. Opened him up and pulled his guts out and showed them to him. Watched him die, and then he laughed and walked away. There was nobody colder, ever.”

  “Then why’d you get mixed up with him?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I was afraid not to.”

  “What did he do after he got out of San Quentin, do you know?”

  “I’m not sure. He told me he had an idea where he’d make a lot of money. Something about working with lawyers, but he wouldn’t say what it was. After that he just disappeared. I never saw him again. Never heard from him.”

  “Any idea where he might be now?”

  “No. Although I have a feeling he’s still in LA. He grew up here. He was an LA kind of guy.”

  “Okay. I really appreciate your help.”

  “Wish I could tell you more.”

  He wrote his cell-phone number on the cocktail napkin. “Call me if you think of anything else.”

  “I will. And say, Barker?”

  “Yes?”

  She waved a hand toward the people in the room. “You’re welcome to have one of the girls, if you want. No charge, it’s on the house.”

  “Thanks, Juanita. That’s very nice of you, but I’m in a hurry. Maybe some other time.”

  “Sure. Just let me know.”

  “I will.”

  “Say hello to Sergeant Reardon for me.”

  “Um, yeah.”

  He saluted her with his martini and drank it down. Then he left the house.

  Mongo crouched between the Toyota and another car, holding a cigarette lighter. His earlier failure to take out the cop had made him jumpy, and now his nerves were stretched taut. Tonight there could be no fuckup.

  When Barker came out of the house, Mongo wondered again what he’d been doing there. Whatever it was, the important thing now was for Barker to get into the Ford without catching sight of the Primacord. Fortunately it was dark, so it was unlikely that he’d noticed the long snakelike fuse that was stretching all the way back to where Mongo waited.

  When he reached his car, Barker stopped and looked in both directions. Come on, Mongo thought. Open the damn door and get in.

  Suddenly headlights appeared, to the rear of where Mongo was hiding. A car came toward him, driving slowly along the shadowy street. He ducked so the beams wouldn’t pick him up.

  The car went on by, and he raised his head just far enough to see what was going on. The car had slowed further, and when it was next to Barker it came to a stop. The driver and the cop seemed to have a conversation.

  What the hell was this? Could it be a trap, and the driver was another cop?

  But then the strange car moved on, still going slowly. Barker climbed into the Ford.

  Now or never, Mongo thought. He produced a flame with the lighter and ignited the Primacord. It burst into a brilliant streak of fire that reached the Ford in less than a second.

  BOOM!

  The explosion lit the area with a flash that for an instant was as bright as daylight. Pieces of debris flew into the air, and the Ford became a blazing torch, issuing clouds of black, oily smoke.

  Mongo didn’t wait to see what would happen next. He jumped into the Toyota and pulled out onto the street, swinging the car around and driving away as fast as he could.

  51.

  Barker heard voices. They seemed to reach his ears from a great distance, and he couldn’t make out the words. He tried to see the people who were talking, but that didn’t work either. They were only shadows, hovering over him.

  He was very tired. And unable to move. When he breathed his throat hurt, and he was conscious of pain in other parts of his body as well.

  The voices continued their chattering from someplace far away. He wished whoever was talking would shut the hell up and leave him alone. All he wanted to do was sleep. That might take the pain away.

  A few moments later he drifted into a series of strange dreams. He saw images of gunfire, and blood, and torn flesh. He saw the drawing of Mongo’s face, but now the mouth was twisted in a devilish grin. He saw Catherine Delure lying naked on a slab in the morgue. He approached the corpse, and as he did she sat up and pointed a finger at him, her eyes wide and staring.

  After a time, the dreams faded and he was alone and lost in darkness.

  “Hey, you awake?”

  It was hard for him to speak. Too hard. His throat was sore, and his tongue was so dry it was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He opened his eyes and blinked against the light. Where was he, and how had he gotten here?

  “I said, you awake?”

  He mumbled something in reply.

  “I figured you were,” the other said.

  Barker blinked again. He was in bed, and an IV was stuck in his arm. He realized he was in a hospital.

  “How you feeling?”

  With an effort he turned his head and looked at the owner of the voice. It was a guy with bandages on both arms who was occupying another bed. They were the only ones in the room.

  “Not too good, huh?” the guy said.

  “Been better.”

  The other laughed. “I bet. You were out of it when they brought you in here last night.”

  “What happened to me, do you know?”

  “Yeah, from what I heard the docs and the nurses saying, your car’s gas tank blew up. Nobody knew why it did.”

  Barker knew why. Knew it at once. And knew who had caused it.

  “But you were lucky,” his roommate went on. “Another driver was near you, and he drug you out of the wreck. If he wasn’t there, you would’ve been toast.” He laughed at his wit.

  Another driver? Ah, Barker remembered then. Someone had stopped to ask directions. The guy was looking for the same address Barker had just left. That must have been the one who pulled him from the car.

  But as far as the explosion was concerned, he had no recollection of it. He’d told the driver he was a stranger himself in the neighborhood, and then he got into the Ford. That was all he remembered.

  “Sometimes you were talking to yourself,” the roommate said, “while you were out. You kept saying now you had his name. What was that about?”

  “Beats me,” Barker said. To change the subject he asked the guy how he’d injured his arms.

  “Fell off a ladder and broke ’em. I’m a house painter, and I was just too goddamn careless. Now I got a problem, ’cause you can’t paint much without arms, huh?” He cackled. “By the way, my name’s Finnegan. What’s yours?”

  “Barker. What hospital is this?”

  “Hollywood Presbyterian, on Vermont Avenue.”

  Barker held up his hands and flexed his fingers. They seemed stiff and there were a few burned places on them, but outside of that they were okay. He did the same with his legs, and they too were working, although it hurt when he moved them. And he had a bitch of a headache. He touched his forehead and discovered a dressing had been taped to
it.

  Continuing to explore his condition, he pulled himself into a sitting position. As he did he felt pain in his back.

  “Listen, you better go easy,” Finnegan said. “You could make yourself worse.”

  “Uh-huh.” There was a call button attached to the bed. He pressed it.

  A moment later the door opened, and a nurse in a green uniform came into the room. She smiled at Barker. “Well, now. For somebody who went through what you did, you’re looking pretty chipper. How do you feel?”

  “Hard to tell. I hear my car blew up.”

  “Yes, while you were in it. You were singed, and got a pretty good knock on your head. Would you like something to drink?”

  “Just some water, please.”

  “Sure. And something to eat? There’s lunch later on, but I can get you a snack to tide you over.”

  “Thanks, I’m not hungry.”

  She filled a glass from a pitcher and handed it to him. Barker swallowed some of the water, grateful for the cool, soothing sensation as it coursed down his throat.

  He looked at the IV. “What’ve you got dripping into me?”

  “Just saline solution, and some vitamin B.”

  He asked how long it would be before he could leave the hospital­.

  “That’s up to the doctor,” she said. “He’ll be here shortly, and he’ll go over all that with you.” She handed him a paper cup with two pills in it. “Take these. They’re antibiotics.”

  Dutifully, he downed the pills, chasing them with water.

  “Anything else I can do for you just now?”

  “Yes, there is,” he said. “Do you have my cell phone?”

  “I can get it for you. Be right back.” She left the room.

  He flexed his legs. They continued to hurt, and he lifted the hospital gown and looked at them. The skin was red in places, covered with abrasions.

  A few minutes later the nurse returned and handed him the cell. “There’s someone here to see you,” she said. “A police officer.”

  Before Barker could reply, a burly uniformed cop walked into the room. He raised a hand in greeting. “Hey, how you doing?”

  “I’m okay.”