"Fuck the mail, Henry. You're getting off here. Am I right, Six-Eight?"
Without answering, the man obviously named because of his longitudinal dimensions moved in and grabbed Pierce by the upper arms. He pivoted and hurled Pierce through the open door into the twelfth-floor hallway. His momentum took him across the hall and crashing into a closed door marked ELECTRICAL. Pierce felt his breath blast out of his lungs and the laundry basket slipped from his grasp, landing with a loud thud on the floor.
"Easy now, easy. Keys, Six-Eight."
Pierce's breath had still not returned. The one named Six-Eight moved toward him and with one hand pressed him back against the door. He slapped Pierce's pants pockets with the other. When he felt the keys he dove his big hand into the pocket and pulled out the key ring. He handed it to the other man.
"Okay."
With the smaller man leading the way —and knowing the way —Pierce was pushed down the hall toward his apartment. When he got his breath back he started to say something but the bigger man's hand came around from behind and covered his face and his words. The small one held up a finger without looking back.
"Not yet, Bright Boy. Let's get inside so we don't disturb the neighbors more than we have to. You just moved in, after all. You don't want to make a bad impression."
The smaller one walked with his head down, apparently studying the keys on the ring.
"A Beemer," he said.
Pierce knew the keyless remote to his car carried the BMW insignia on it.
"I like Beemers. It's the full package; you got power and luxury and a real solid feel. You can't beat that in a car —or a woman."
He looked back at Pierce and smiled with a raised eyebrow. They got to the door and the smaller man opened it with the second key he tried. Six-Eight pushed Pierce into the apartment and shoved him down onto the couch. He then stepped away and the other man took a position in front of Pierce. He noticed the phone on the arm of the couch and picked it up. Pierce watched him play with the buttons and go through the caller ID directory.
"Been busy here, Henry," he said as he scrolled the list. "Philip Glass . . ."
He looked back at Six-Eight, who had stationed himself near the apartment's front hallway, his massive arms folded across his chest. The small man crinkled his eyes in a question.
"Isn't that the guy we had a discussion with a few weeks back?"
Six-Eight nodded. Pierce realized that Glass must have called the apartment before reaching him at Amedeo.
The small man went back to the phone readout and soon his eyes lit on another familiar listing.
"Oh, so now Robin's calling you. That's wonderful."
But Pierce could tell by the man's voice that it wasn't wonderful, that it was going to be anything but wonderful for Lucy LaPorte.
"It's nothing," Pierce said. "She just left a message. I can play it for you if you want. I kept it."
"You falling in love with her, are you?"
"No."
The smaller guy turned and gave a false smile to Six-Eight. Then suddenly he moved his arm in a quick overhand motion and hit Pierce with the phone on the bridge of his nose, delivering a blow with the full power of the sweeping arc.
Pierce saw a flash of red and black blast across his vision and a searing pain screamed through his head. He couldn't tell if his eyes were closed or he'd gone blind. He instinctively rocked backwards on the couch and turned away from the blow in case another was coming. He vaguely heard the man in front of him yelling but what he was saying wasn't registering. Then strong, large hands clamped around his upper arms again and he was pulled upright and completely off the couch.
He could feel himself being hoisted over Six-Eight's shoulders and then carried. He felt his mouth filling with blood and he struggled to open his eyes but still couldn't do it. He heard the rolling sound of the balcony's sliding door, then the cool air from the ocean touching his skin.
"Wha . . . ," he managed to say.
Suddenly the hard shoulder that had been in his gut was gone and he started a headfirst free fall. His muscles tightened and his mouth opened to emit the final furious sound of his life. Then, at last, he felt the huge hands grab his ankles and hold. His head and shoulders slammed hard against the rough concrete of the textured exterior of the building.
But at least he was no longer falling.
A few seconds went by. Pierce brought his hands to his face and touched his nose and eyes. His nose was split vertically and horizontally and was bleeding profusely. He managed to wipe his eyes and open them partially. Twelve stories below he could see the green lawn of the beachside park. There were people on blankets down there, most of them homeless. He saw his blood falling in thick drops into the trees directly below. He heard a voice from above him.
"Hello down there. Can you hear me?"
Pierce said nothing and then the hands that held his ankles shook violently, bouncing him off the outside wall again.
"Do I have your attention?"
Pierce spit a mouthful of blood onto the exterior wall and said, "Yes, I hear you."
"Good. I suppose by now you know who I am."
"I think so."
"Good. No need to mention names then. I just wanted to make sure we're at a point of knowledge and understanding here."
"What do you want?"
It was hard to talk upside down. Blood was pooling in the back of his throat and on the roof of his mouth.
"What do I want? Well, I first wanted to get a look at you. A guy spends his time sniffing your asshole for two days, you want to see what he looks like, right? There's that. And then I wanted to give you a message. Six-Eight."
Pierce was suddenly hoisted up. Still upside down, his face had come up to the open bars of the balcony railing. Through the bars he saw that the talker had stooped down so that they were face-to-face, the bars between them.
"What I wanted to say was that not only did you get the wrong number, you got the wrong world, partner. And you got about thirty seconds to decide whether you want to go back to where you came from or you want to go on to the next world. You understand what I am saying to you?"
Pierce nodded and started to cough.
"I . . . unnerstan . . . I'm . . . I'm done."
"You're damn right you're done. I ought to have my man drop your stupid ass right here and now. But I don't need the heat, so I'm not going to do that. But I have to tell you, Bright Boy, if I catch you sneaking and sniffing around again, you're gonna get dropped.
Okay?"
Pierce nodded. The man Pierce was pretty sure was Billy Wentz then reached a hand between the bars and roughly patted Pierce's cheek.
"Be good now."
He stood up and gave a signal to Six-Eight. Pierce was pulled over the balcony and dropped on the balcony's floor. He broke the fall with his hands and then pushed his way into the corner. He looked up at his two attackers.
"You got a nice view here," said the smaller man. "What do you pay?"
Pierce looked out at the ocean. He spit a wad of thick blood onto the floor.
"Three thousand."
"Jesus Christ! I can get three fucking places for that."
Now just straddling the edge of consciousness, Pierce wondered how Wentz had intended the word fucking to be interpreted. Was he talking about places for fucking or was he just routinely cursing? He tried to shake off the clouds that were encroaching. It occurred to him then that the threat to himself aside, it was important to try to protect Lucy LaPorte.
He spit more blood onto the balcony floor.
"What about Lucy? What are you going to do?"
"Lucy? Who the fuck is Lucy?"
"I mean, Robin."
"Oh, our little Robin. You know, that's a good question, Henry. 'Cause Robin's a good earner. I have to be prudent. I have to calm myself when it comes to her. Rest assured that whatever we do, we won't leave marks and she'll be back, good as new, in two, three weeks at the most."
Pierce scrabbled hi
s legs on the concrete in an effort to get up but he was too disoriented and weak.
"Leave her alone," he said as forcefully as he could. "I used her and she didn't even know it."
Wentz's dark eyes seemed to take on a new light. Pierce saw anger work its way into them. He saw Wentz put one hand on the top of the balcony railing as if to brace himself.
"Leave her alone, he says."
He shook his head again as if to ward off some encroaching power.
"Please," Pierce said. "She didn't do anything. It was me. Just leave her alone."
The small man looked back at Six-Eight and smiled, then shook his head.
"Do you believe this? Telling me like that?"
He turned back toward Pierce, took one step toward him and then swiftly brought his other foot up into a vicious kick. Pierce was expecting it and was able to use his forearm to deflect most of the power but the pointed toe of the boot struck him on the right side of the rib cage. It felt like it took at least two ribs with it.
Pierce slid down into the corner and tried to cover up, expecting more and trying to control the burning pain spreading across his chest. Instead, Wentz leaned down over him. He yelled at Pierce, spittle raining down on him with the words.
"Don't you fucking dare try to tell me how to run my business. Don't you fucking dare!"
He straightened up and dusted off his hands.
"And one other thing. You tell anybody about our little discussion here today and there will be consequences. Dire consequences. For you. For Robin. For the people you love.
Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
Pierce weakly nodded.
"Let me hear you say it."
"I understand the consequences."
"Good. Then let's go, Six-Eight."
And Pierce was left alone, gulping for breath and clarity, trying to stay in the light when he sensed darkness closing in all around.
20
Pierce grabbed a T-shirt out of a box in the bedroom and held it to his face, trying to stop the bleeding. He straightened up and went into the bathroom and saw himself in the mirror. His face was already ballooning and turning color. The swelling of his nose was crowding his vision and widening the wounds on his nose and around his left eye. Most of the bleeding seemed to be internal, a steady stream of thick blood going down the back of his throat. He knew he had to get to a hospital but he had to warn Lucy LaPorte first.
He found the phone on the living room floor. He tried to go to the caller ID directory but the screen remained blank. He tried the on button but couldn't get a dial tone. The phone was broken —either by the impact with his face or when Wentz had thrown it to the floor.
Holding the shirt to his face, involuntary tears streaming out of his eyes, Pierce looked about the apartment for the box holding the earthquake kit he had ordered delivered with the furniture. Monica had showed him a listing of the kit's inventory before ordering it.
He knew it contained a first aid kit, flashlights and batteries, two gallons of water, numerous freeze-dried food items and other supplies. It also contained a basic phone that did not use electric current. It simply needed to be jacked into the wall for it to work.
He found the box in the bedroom closet and dripped blood all over it as he desperately used both hands to rip it open. He lost his balance and almost fell over. He realized he was fading. The loss of blood, the depletion of adrenaline. He finally found the phone and took it to the wall jack next to the bed. He got a dial tone. Now all he needed was Robin's number.
He had it written in a notebook but that was in his backpack down in his car. He didn't think he could make it down there without passing out on the way. He wasn't even sure where his keys were. The last he remembered, they had been in the hands of Billy Wentz.
Leaning against the wall, he first called Information for Venice and tried the name Lucy LaPorte, asking the operator to check under various spellings. But there was no number, unlisted or otherwise.
He then slid down the wall to the floor next to the bed. He began to panic. He had to get to her but couldn't —he thought of something and called the lab. But there was no answer. Sundays were sacrosanct with the lab rats. They worked long hours and usually six days a week. But rarely on Sunday. He tried Charlie Condon's office and home but got machines at both numbers.
He thought about Cody Zeller but knew he never answered his phone. The only way to reach him was by page and then he would be at the mercy of waiting for a callback.
He knew what he had to do. He punched in the number and waited. After four rings Nicole answered.
"It's me. I need your help. Can you go to —"
"Who is this?"
"Me, Henry."
"It doesn't sound like you. What are you —"
"Nicki!" he shouted. "Listen to me. This is an emergency and I need your help. We can talk about everything after. I can explain after."
"Okay," she said in a tone that indicated she wasn't convinced. "What is the emergency?"
"You still have your computer hooked up?"
"Yes, I don't even have a sign on the house yet. I'm not —"
"Okay, good. Go to your computer. Hurry, go!"
He knew she had a DSL line —he had always been paranoid about it. But now it would get them to the site faster.
When she got to the computer she switched to a headset she kept at the desk.
"Okay, I need you to go to a website. It's L.A. dash darlings dot com."
"Are you kidding me? Is this some —"
"Just do it! Or somebody might die!"
"Okay, okay. L.A. dash darlings . . ."
He waited.
"Okay, I'm there."
He tried to visualize the website on her screen.
"Okay, double click the Escorts folder and go to Blondes."
He waited.
"You got it?"
"I'm going as fast as —okay, now what?"
"Scroll through the thumbnails. Click on the one named Robin."
Again he waited. He realized his breathing was loud, a low whistle coming out of his throat.
"Okay, I've got Robin. Those tits have gotta be fake."
"Just give me the number."
She read off the number and Pierce recognized it. It was the right Robin.
"I'll call you back."
He pressed the plunger on the phone, held it for three seconds, and then let go, getting a new dial tone. He called the number for Robin. He was getting light-headed. What was left of his vision was starting to blur around the edges. After five rings his call went to voice mail.
"Goddamnit!"
He didn't know what to do. He couldn't send the police to her. He didn't even know where her real home was. The message signal beeped after her greeting. As he spoke, his tongue started to feel too big for his mouth.
"Lucy, it's me. It's Henry. Wentz came here. He messed me up and I think he's going to see you next. If you get this message, get out of there. Right now! Just get the hell out of there and call me when you get somewhere safe."
He added his number to the message and hung up.
He held the bloody shirt back up to his face and leaned against the wall. The flow of adrenaline and endorphins that had flooded his system during the attack from Wentz was ebbing and the deep throb of pain was settling in like winter. It was penetrating his whole body. It seemed as though every muscle and joint ached. His face felt like a neon sign pulsing with rhythmic bursts of searing fire. He didn't feel like moving anymore. He just wanted to pass out and wake up when he was healed and everything was better.
Without moving anything but his arm, he raised the phone off its cradle again and brought it up so he could see the keypad. He thumbed the redial button and waited. The call rang through to Lucy's voice mail again. He wanted to curse out loud but now it would hurt his face to move his mouth. He blindly felt around for the phone cradle and hung up the phone.
It rang while his hand was still on it and he raised it back to
his ear.
" 'Lo?"
"It's Nicki. Can you talk? Is everything all right?"
"No."
"Should I call back?"
"No, I me ehry'ing's nah all ri."
Chasing the Dime (2002) Page 17