X-Rated Bloodsuckers

by Mario Acevedo

  The crow turned about and sprang into the air, its black wings a blurry rush of feathers. The crow sailed into the bright sunlight and disappeared.

  A new emotion rose inside me and crowded aside the dark shock of Coyote’s death. Something more than anger.

  Revenge.

  I had my own orders. Direct action. Kill Cragnow and Venin.

  How?

  I had lost my partner. Roxy’s files and most of my possessions were burned up. I gazed at the urban sprawl beyond the sanctuary of the overpass. Which was the way forward?

  I had the clothes I wore and what was inside my overnight bag: a few toiletries, a notepad, two loaded magazines of silver bullets, plus the stash of eight thousand dollars.

  So I had money, a gun, and ammuntion. That was a start.

  My cell phone hummed in my pocket. I withdrew the phone and flipped it open. I didn’t recognize the number, a local area code.

  “Hello? Hello?” The man’s voice sounded familiar.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Felix? It’s Lucky Rosario.”

  CHAPTER 42

  I could’ve turned into ice. Rosario calling now?

  “I want out, Felix.”

  “Out from what?”

  “Everything. My business with Cragnow. That whole mess.”

  “Gimme a second.” I had to reorient my thoughts from losing Coyote and back to the investigation. “You seemed happy with the arrangement. The money. The girls.”

  “The hell with that. We’re talking about murder.”

  Damn right, this was about murder. “What do you mean? Whose murder?” I wanted him to say Roxy’s.

  “Rebecca Dwelling and Fred Daniels.”

  Big surprise.

  “You’re saying Cragnow was behind the murder of Rebecca and Fred?” I wanted Rosario to spell it out in bold capital letters.

  “Yes.”

  “Cragnow admitted it?” I asked.

  “Admit? Hell, he bragged about ordering the killings. And there’s another murder. Katz Meow.”

  I had expected that news but still, hearing it stung. “What makes you sure Katz was murdered? Last I checked, she was still missing.”

  “Not anymore. She’s in the morgue. With a bullet hole.”

  A bullet hole. Same as Roxy. “Who killed her?” I asked.

  “Don’t know.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Give me cover.”

  “If you mean protection, go to the police. Cut a deal with them.”

  Rosario’s voice lowered to a desperate whisper. “You know I can’t. Julius Paxton is in Cragnow’s back pocket. I squeal to the cops, and you’ll find me on a table next to Katz.”

  “And you think I can help?”

  “Felix, I’ll tell you everything I know. Enough to bury them all for good.”

  The alarm in my kundalini noir tripped. Cragnow or Paxton could be using Rosario to track my cell phone.

  “Rosario,” I said, “I’ll call you back at your number. But double-cross me, and I will hurt you.”

  “Hold on, Felix—” he blurted as I palmed my cell phone and turned it off.

  If Rosario’s information was any good, it could be my break to get at Cragnow and Venin.

  First, get as much distance as possible from here, in case my call had been monitored.

  I hiked under the overpass until I came across a path that led into East Los Angeles. I couldn’t imagine finishing this investigation chasing after Cragnow in a city bus. I needed wheels. Something fast and cheap.

  A Yamaha V-Max motorcycle sat on the lawn of a house. In the world of crotch rockets, the V-Max was king testosterone. A FOR SALE sign asked $4,800 OBO.

  Dents, scratches, faded paint, and blued chrome exhaust told me this bike had been ridden awhile. Gray duct tape covered the edges of the seat. The tires had plenty of tread. The wheels and disk brakes looked true.

  I sat on the V-Max and worked the foot and hand controls. Other than needing a wash, the bike was in fair shape, considering the high mileage on the odometer.

  I could zap the owner and rip him off, but while I might be a lecherous, bloodsucking killer, I was no thief. Besides, bad karma had plagued me enough in this case; I didn’t need any more.

  I walked up to the house behind the Yamaha and rang the doorbell. A man appeared at the screen door and stepped out. He was a slender Chicano about my height in his late twenties, with the smudge of a soul patch, tattoos, and wearing denim cargo shorts and a wife beater.

  We rapped about the bike. He kept calling me cuñado. Brother-in-law.

  I asked, “How’s it run?”

  “Cuñado, it’s got more huevos than two of you.”

  Good enough. We haggled over the price and settled on $3,800.

  “Cuñado, aren’t you going to give it a ride first?”

  “If it doesn’t have huevos,” I said, “I’ll come back for yours.”

  I gave him cash. He handed a pair of stiff leather gloves and an envelope with the title, registration, and keys. He added a beanie helmet in dark matte gray with two bloodshot eyes glued to the front.

  “Better wear it, cuñado. State law.”

  I cruised the neighborhood to get a feel for the machine. After a few minutes I couldn’t resist and goosed the throttle. The V-Max shot forward like it wanted to fly. This bike had plenty of huevos. I smiled.

  I stopped at a 7-Eleven to gas up and buy a street map. Rosario wanted to talk. I studied the map, looking for someplace public yet open enough for me to check that Rosario arrived alone. There were plenty of neighborhood parks close to here. Too small. How about Elysian Park north of Dodger Stadium? Maybe.

  Beyond that, the much larger Griffith Park with its woodsy, hilly trails. Good enough.

  My kundalini noir grumbled. Last I had to eat was the posole and blood. A carnicería would have cow’s blood, but considering the trauma of the day, I wanted something more nourishing and comforting—fresh human.

  A red Ducati sport bike glided to the curb in front of the 7-Eleven and stopped next to my V-Max. The rider swung a booted leg off the Ducati. A red leather riding suit with black mesh trim hugged feminine curves. She flipped up the front of her helmet. The cheek pads scrunched her features, but I recognized the eyes. She was the yuppie in the Ferrari that night Coyote and I were chased from Dale Journey’s church.

  The woman looked at my Yamaha. She gave a dismissive shake of her head, as if to say, what a P.O.S.

  I was hungry, and this woman had shown up. What timing. I took off my sunglasses and contacts. Guess what, lady? It’s snack time.

  I asked about her bike, we made eye contact, and wham, she was mine.

  I led her by the hand around back, where we hid between the crib for recycling cardboard and the Dumpster.

  I removed her helmet and unzipped the jacket. Her perspiration and perfume wafted in a mouthwatering aroma. Her neck was more delicious than I remembered. I took my time, no sense being a pig.

  My kundalini noir satisfied, I put the helmet back on her head, zipped the jacket, and left her slumped against the wall behind the Dumpster.

  I rode to Griffith Park. I passed the golf course, then the Greek Theatre, and stopped near the bird sanctuary. Steep, wooded hills hemmed the narrow grassy patches along the road. I could easily move about hidden from view. Rosario would meet me here.

  I left Griffith Park and stopped at a pay phone. So what if Cragnow or Paxton listened in? I had a plan.

  Rosario answered on the second ring.

  “Time to talk.” He’d better recognize my voice. “Jot this down.” I gave him directions into the park from the south side, entering through Vermont Canyon Road. “Be there at three-thirty.”

  The phone rustled, as if Rosario was shifting it on his shoulder. I imagined his fat neck sagging against his collar. “Yeah. I got it.”

  “And Rosario, you want me to help you, right?”

  He kept quiet. His reply was heavy. “I’m not
playing games with you, Felix.”

  “Good. I don’t think Roxy Bronze or Katz Meow need the company.”

  CHAPTER 43

  I drove back to Griffith Park and left my motorcycle close by, where I could get at it in a hurry. I knelt behind a shrub along the west side of the field and observed the road winding toward the bird sanctuary.

  I gave myself a half hour to reconnoiter the area. Taking off my sunglasses, I read the auras of the park visitors. No orange vampire auras. All red, nothing suspicious.

  At twenty after, a black Porsche Cayenne drove up Vermont Canyon Road, paused in front of the bird sanctuary, and U-turned to park in the lot south of the open field. Rosario got out. He was alone. His white dress shirt reflected the sunlight with a metallic sheen. He carried a folded newspaper under one arm. Looking about, he dabbed his hairline with a kerchief. Dark circles the size of volleyballs marked the sweat stains under his armpits. He undid his necktie and tossed it into his Porsche before shutting the door. The alarm beeped.

  What was with the newspaper? Is that where he carried his .45 automatic?

  Rosario made his way around the other cars parked in the lot. A woman pushed a stroller. An elderly couple checked a tourist book.

  Rosario halted in the middle of the small clearing, turned his gaze to the left and right, rolled up his sleeves, and stood on the grass with his back to the woods.

  His aura bubbled with anxiety. Tendrils of fright snaked and withdrew. His fear was unfocused. He fished the kerchief from his breast pocket and mopped sweat from his face and neck.

  I studied the area again. I looked for auras shimmering with aggression. Nothing. Nobody was interested in Rosario but me.

  I replaced my sunglasses, palmed my little .380 pistol, and approached Rosario from his left.

  He turned his big head and looked at me. Sweat trickled into his eyes, and he squinted at my pistol.

  I motioned to the newspaper. “If that’s your piece, I hope you put it together right this time.”

  “It’ll shoot straighter than that popgun you got.” Rosario wiped his neck again. “It’s goddamn hot. Can’t we do this in the shade?”

  “No. I like the view.”

  “Where do we start?” he asked.

  “At the beginning. What brings you here?”

  “To save my ass from prison. White-collar crime is one thing, murder something else. Katz. Rebecca. That scumbag Fred Daniels.”

  And Roxy Bronze. “When did Cragnow tell you about these murders? How? Over the phone? At your office? His place?” How forthcoming was Rosario going to be? Would he admit to visiting Cragnow’s home?

  “Last night. At his house up in Coldwater Canyon.”

  Okay, Rosario was being straight.

  He said, “I was at a cocktail party at Cragnow’s place.”

  “A party with whom?”

  “Mordecai Niphe and I were there to discuss business with Cragnow. We were passing the time with his girls when…” Rosario wadded the kerchief and dabbed his cheek. “We got trouble. First it was big, ferocious dogs barking. They sounded huge, like wolves. Then some shooting began.”

  I knew about the wolves and the shooting. “Back up. What business do you and Mordecai Niphe have?”

  “We go back a few years. Don’t you want to hear about the shooting? I might have gotten killed.”

  “We’ll get to that. Does this business have to do with Reverend Dale Journey? Would Councilwoman Petale Venin figure into any of this?”

  Rosario’s eyes widened like he wanted to spill everything he knew through them. “You have no idea.”

  CHAPTER 44

  “Then tell me,” I said.

  Rosario cleared his throat. “Felix, have you ever been poor?”

  “I know what it’s like not to have a bed of my own. But I never saw that as an excuse to break the law or cheat people out of their money.”

  Rosario shook his head. “Then you weren’t poor enough. You didn’t see that the world doesn’t give a damn when your old man is crushed under the heels of the wealthy. What did my dad get for his years of honest, hard work? Pink slips. Debt. The day we got kicked out of our house, my father dropped to his knees and cried.”

  “So life screwed your old man.”

  “You don’t understand. Seeing my dad broken like that scarred me to the bone. I promised myself to learn how the game was rigged. Find an angle, work it, and get rich.”

  “And your angle?”

  “Petale Venin,” Rosario said.

  Petale Venin. The name made me shrink into myself. My kundalini noir coiled, wary, suspicious, even a little afraid. I had barely escaped my one meeting with her and the next day a bomb killed Coyote and destroyed his home.

  Sweat ran from Rosario’s hairline and soaked his collar. I felt the heat as well.

  Rosario said, “I had a little real estate business. One afternoon I showed a client some property up in Altadena. That client was Dale Journey, at the time some pissant preacher from Long Beach. He told me God wanted him to build something extraordinary. Better than what’s his name down in Garden Grove and the Crystal Cathedral. Journey said the view from Loma Linda Drive in Altadena was perfect. Problem was, there was a neighborhood of some two hundred homes already there. What to do?”

  Rosario tapped his temple. “That’s when I turned to Councilwoman Venin for help. I’d heard she was eager to make her mark as a visionary friend to big money interests.”

  “How long ago was this?” I asked.

  “Eleven years.”

  That jibed with the newspaper clippings in Roxy’s file, now all burned to ash.

  “Clearing Loma Linda Drive was going to be tricky.” Rosario knit his brow to express the earnestness of the task. “Never mind the expense of giving those folks fair market value.”

  “Or doing the right thing,” I said. “Maybe what your father would’ve done.”

  Rosario shook his head. “The last advice I got from him was screw the world before it screws you. The trick to Loma Linda was, how would Journey get that land? As a man of God and servant of the people, he couldn’t very well shove all those families aside. So Venin and I brainstormed this idea for a development trust. We’d lobby the city to use eminent domain and condemn the homes in favor of a new commercial development.”

  “Who was in that trust?”

  “The usual. Lawyers. Doctors. Friends of politicians. The trust was going to build a mall to rival the Galleria down in Glendale, at least that’s what the public record says. After all, what is the value of an established neighborhood compared to the projected tax revenue from new business? You flash those dollars and the city administration drops its pants and starts stroking. Families? What families?”

  I remembered the story. “Councilwoman Venin couldn’t do that. I can imagine tons of ethical violations. Crimes, in other words.”

  “First rule of politics. It ain’t a crime ’til you get caught. Who was going to rat her out? Me? Journey?”

  “But the mall was never built,” I said. “The development trust went bankrupt. Everyone lost a bundle.”

  “You kidding? Here’s another rule. Never use your own money. The state of California paid for the demolition, using a grant for community development. Both our senators made sure the feds kicked in funds to ‘maintain economic stability.’ Even without laying one brick, we pocketed a nice profit.”

  “And the bankruptcy?”

  “You ever hear of Hollywood accounting? We hired the same legal firm who does the numbers for a major studio. Ever ask, how can a film cost a hundred million, rake in half a billion, yet those waiting for net profit never see a dime? Those shysters did the same hocus-pocus on our P and L, emphasis on the L.”

  “So the land sat vacant,” I said.

  Rosario nodded. “Like a big goddamn scar on the hill. Journey comes in and swings a nice deal. It was the Christian thing to do. Everyone profits, except for the families who lost their neighborhood and the taxpayers wh
o footed the bill.”

  “Interesting civics lesson.” Nothing Rosario said contradicted anything I’d learned. Fact was, he shed light into a lot of dark cracks. But he hadn’t yet mentioned anything about Roxy’s death or the vampire–human collusion.

  “Where was Cragnow Vissoom during all this?”

  Rosario wiped the sweat collecting on his eyebrows. “Don’t know. About four years ago he showed up on my radar screen. He was still a bit player in the skin trade but intended to move up, real estate-wise. Then Cragnow hit it big, pulling in the cash like he owned a casino. Thanks to Roxy.”

  “And Reverend Journey?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Journey gets the land and then what?”

  “He built his church on the hill.”

  “When does Mordecai Niphe show up?”

  Rosario rubbed the sweat from his face with the kerchief. He smiled. “Where do you think the money for Journey’s church came from?”

  There it was. Niphe, the moneybags behind Journey and his ministry. I thought back to the photo of Rosario, Niphe, and Journey standing together. Rosario and Niphe shoulder to shoulder like army buddies, Journey off to one side, his hesitant smile saying, I’m only here because of the money.

  “You had mentioned that party last night at Cragnow’s. What did you talk about?”

  “Journey’s in financial trouble. Niphe wanted to discuss leveraging some of Cragnow’s holdings to buy Journey’s notes. I need to emphasize, notes that Niphe has an interest in.”

  The reverend going broke reflected what Andrew Tonic had shared. Journey goes down the tubes and he takes Niphe’s money with him.

  Rosario said, “Niphe insisted that we act fast before word of Journey’s trouble got around. We put together a nice package, reconfigure the loans, and everyone makes out.”

  “And if Journey’s trouble was made public?”

  “The attention would make the property value sink like a rock. Add the scandal of anyone following the money trail and making the connection from Cragnow to Journey.”

  “What else did you discuss?” I asked.

  “Cragnow talked about using the church as a base for his plans.”