Mortal Faults

by Michael Prescott

  Abby went up to the bar and got the attention of the slow-moving, heavy-lidded bartender. He was wiping a glass with a hand towel that looked dirtier than the dishware. On the wall behind him was a sign: PARKING FOR HARLEYS ONLY—ALL OTHERS WILL BE SHOT.

  Fast Eddie’s, it would appear, was not aiming to reproduce the social atmosphere of the Algonquin Roundtable.

  “What?” the bartender said. His lower lip was set in a permanent curl.

  “Vodka rocks.”

  He grunted and poured. She slapped a bill on the counter and told him to keep the change, advice he accepted without gratitude.

  Abby wasn’t a believer in drinking on duty, but if she’d ordered anything nonalcoholic, she might have called attention to herself. She sipped the drink. The cheap vodka burned with a sour aftertaste.

  Her barstool afforded a good view of the Scorpions’ conclave in the mirror behind the bar. She watched the rowdy crew, her gaze moving from one man to the next, dismissing anyone without a tattoo on his neck.

  She spotted him at the second of the three tables. She hadn’t expected to feel anything when she saw him again, and her reaction surprised her. She felt a sudden jolt like a fist in the stomach. Her eyes watered. She brushed them dry with the back of her hand.

  For just a moment she was trapped in the bedroom again, taking fire from front and back, with no way out and only five bullets in her gun.

  She shook off the memory. She took another sip of vodka, which wasn’t tasting quite so bad now, and studied the man who’d tried to kill her.

  He was in his mid-twenties, muscular and hard-eyed, but his face was softer than it should have been, almost feminine in its contours. He reminded her a little of Leon Trotman, who had stalked the schoolteacher in Reseda until Abby put him back in jail.

  She had nearly killed Leon. And she hadn’t had anything personal against him.

  She watched him listlessly downing a stein. He was flanked by two sidekicks. One of them looked sleepy, and the other one looked restless. His two partners in crime, she guessed.

  The man she recognized was paying little attention to his pals. His eyes were downcast and worried. No doubt he was concerned about his future. He’d failed in his assignment. Abby didn’t know the Scorpions’ penalty for failure, but she doubted it was anything to look forward to.

  The rest of the gang weren’t shunning him, though. Either they were exceptionally loyal or they didn’t know he’d screwed the pooch. The best guess was they didn’t know about the assignment at all. The whole thing had probably been kept on the q.t.

  Abby had spent much of the ride from L.A. reconstructing how the hit was arranged. Reynolds grew up in Santa Ana and had been the D.A. there. At some point, either in his youth or on the job, he came into contact with the Scorpions. Probably he did them some favors as a D.A. In exchange, they would do his dirty work. Every successful leader needed operatives at the grassroots level, and not all the operatives were the fresh-faced variety she’d seen at the campaign office.

  The three men she was looking at weren’t old enough to have been in the gang when Reynolds was a district attorney, let alone when he was a kid. Most likely, his personal allegiance was to one or more of the older members, the ones in leadership positions now. In a sensitive matter it would be smart to limit the people who knew the details. Reynolds probably approached one of the leaders in the bike shop, and that man in turn arranged the hit with a phone call.

  She nursed her vodka for long time, brushing off occasional come-ons from other patrons and ignoring the bartender’s perpetual scowl. She was patient. The man with the tattoo was drinking a lot of beer, and as her dad used to say, you don’t buy beer, you only rent it.

  Not long past midnight the guy finally left the table to use the can. Abby vacated her barstool and followed him into the alcove where the restrooms were located. She pretended to use the pay phone while keeping an eye on the door to the men’s room.

  After only a minute, he emerged. She doubted he’d had time to wash his hands. Drunk, homicidal—and unhygienic. This guy had it all.

  She stepped away from the phone, timing the move so he collided with her from behind.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Didn’t see you there.”

  “Should watch where you’re going,” he growled.

  He started to walk on.

  “I wasn’t thinking,” Abby said. “Guess I’ve had too much to drink.”

  This piqued his interest. An intoxicated woman was an easy lay, or so all males assumed. He turned to look at her. His glance rested only briefly on her face before checking her more important assets.

  “My name’s Sandi,” she said. “Sandi with an i.”

  She’d made up the name on the spot. It wasn’t one of her aliases, and she had no fake ID in her purse to back it up, but she didn’t expect to be showing anyone her creds tonight.

  He burped. A real charmer. “Dylan,” he said.

  “That’s a cool tattoo.”

  His hand went to his neck, tracing the insectile shape. “More’n a tattoo,” he said. “It’s a ...” He searched for the word. “You know, insignia.”

  “You mean, like a sign?”

  “Sign, yeah. It’s a logo. Our trademark.”

  “Whose trademark?”

  He shook his head, pissed off at her ignorance. “Shit, you live around here, you’ve gotta know.”

  “I live in Mission Viejo.” A safe suburban town to the south.

  “Mission fucking Viejo?” He hawked up a gob and spat in the general direction of a potted plant. “What the fuck you doing here?”

  She showed him a provocative smile. “Looking for adventure.”

  He considered this, his narrowed eyes coldly thoughtful. “You might find more’n you bargained for.”

  “That so?”

  “Yeah, it’s so.” He seemed to reach a decision, and the decision was that he wasn’t horny tonight. “Best skitter on home, Li’l Bo Peep. Ain’t none of your sheep around here. You’re way out of your element.”

  He took a step away.

  “It’s not the first time,” she said.

  The words stopped him. He gave her a grudging glance. “You been here before?”

  “Not in this place. But I’ve been ... around.”

  “Have you, now?” He found this amusing. “Like, where?”

  “Like, all over. Up and down this part of the coast. Venice, Long Beach, Oceanside. I’ve hit some hot spots in San Diego, too.”

  He shrugged. “So you’re some rich bitch who goes slumming.”

  “I’m not rich.”

  “You ain’t poor, neither. College?”

  She was hardly going to admit to having a psych degree. “Two years.”

  “That’s two years more’n I got.”

  “You didn’t miss anything. It was boring.” She let a tone of seductive languor steal into her voice. “Of course, I’m easily bored.”

  “No, you ain’t.”

  “Aren’t I?”

  “Nah. If you was, you would’ve offed yourself by now. ’Cause you’re the most boring goddamned cunt I ever met.” He snorted laughter. “Mission Viejo. Fuck.”

  He swaggered off, and she was left alone and frustrated. She’d sent out every sexual signal in her repertoire, and he’d blown her off. She had to assume he had other things on his mind. The alternative was that she was losing her allure, a hypothesis too far-fetched too entertain.

  She returned to the bar and ordered another vodka. In the mirror she saw Dylan rejoin his buddies, his expression more sour than before.

  Her best bet now was to tail him when he left the bar, which would probably be around closing time. She would leave shortly before two and watch the parking lot from her car.

  Tailing a motorcycle would be tough. The chopper could cut through traffic in ways no car could match. There was a good chance she would lose him.

  Damn. She was so close, but she hadn’t gotten him to bite.

  Bu
t maybe there was still a chance. She saw Dylan’s nervous-looking friend pointing at her and nudging. Apparently he’d seen them talking in the alcove, and he was prodding Dylan to go for it. Dylan brushed off the advice, but the other guy was persistent. Abby silently encouraged him. Peer pressure could be a potent force.

  She watched the pantomime show in the mirror. From Dylan’s body language, she could tell that his resistance was breaking down. He had gone from arms crossed—a defensive posture—to arms open.

  The friend’s voice rose above the general din. “Fuck it, man, she’s hot!” Abby almost smiled, even if the compliment did emanate from a sociopathic scumbag. Then she remembered that if Dylan and his crew had been better shots, she wouldn’t be so hot right now. She would be cold, morgue-cold.

  She felt another twist in her gut and found herself taking a bigger swallow of vodka.

  In the mirror, Dylan rose from his seat. His friend’s final line of argument seemed to have closed the deal. The biker came toward the bar, carrying his beer.

  She looked away from the mirror and nursed her drink until he sat down on the barstool beside her. Then she glanced at him.

  “That wasn’t very nice,” she said coolly. “What you said about me back there.”

  “Yeah. Well—I’m feeling kinda snarky tonight.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “Bad day at the office.”

  “What sort of work do you do?”

  “The sort I don’t like to talk about.” He gulped a swig of beer. “You ain’t Mex, are you?”

  “What?”

  “Dark hair, brown eyes. You a Latin?”

  “Anglo.”

  “Good thing.”

  Yeah, Dylan was a real catch. “So, that matters?”

  “Fuck, yeah, it matters. Goddamn taco benders are taking over this town. Before you know it, they’ll be all over Mission Viejo, too. You just wait.”

  “What have you got against Mexicans?” she asked, her voice neutral.

  He regarded her as if she were mentally defective. “What do I got against ’em? Well, they’re fucking scum, to start with. And illegal. Not one of ’em has a green card. They take work away from Americans, too.”

  “Most of those jobs aren’t so great.”

  “You wait. Before long, goddamn border jumpers’ll be taking everybody’s job. Like yours, maybe. What do you do?”

  “Secretarial work.”

  “One of them strawberry pickers could do that job, at least one that can read and write and speak English. And he’d do it cheaper than you. Then you’re out on your butt with not so much as a thank-you for your years of loyal service.”

  “Something like that happen to you?”

  “Not me. I got a skill, see. I’m a mechanic. I know my way around an engine. Those campesino assholes—half of ’em ain’t never even driven a damn car.”

  “You’re safe, then.”

  “Not hardly. I can’t charge what I used to. Wetbacks come in and lower the pay scale for everybody. You got an American who was trimming trees for fifteen bucks an hour. Speedy Gonzales shows up and says he’ll do it for half that much. American is either out of work or he has to cut his pay to compete. Then he can’t spend so much on getting his car fixed when it breaks down, so I gotta charge less if I want to get his business.”

  “You’ve thought about this a lot.”

  “When your livelihood’s at stake, you got to think about it. And find ways to bring in extra money.” He turned pensive.

  “You mean, doing some repair work on side?”

  “Repair work. Yeah. That’s a good way to put it. Fixing things.”

  “Cars,” she prompted.

  “Problems,” he said. “People got problems, I fix ’em. Until today I always got it done. Today everything went to shit.”

  “People understand when you make a mistake.”

  “I dunno. With some people, it’s all about results. You get the results, or you don’t. And if you don’t ...”

  “If you don’t?”

  He showed her a crooked smile. “You’re screwed, blued, and tattooed.”

  “You’ve already got the tattoo.”

  “Yeah, you’re right about that, Sandi from Mission Viejo.” He looked her over. “How old are you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m twenty-six. You gotta be, what, thirty?”

  At least he’d underestimated. “Something like that. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t usually go for older women.”

  She reminded herself of all the reasons why she couldn’t splash her drink in his face. “You don’t?”

  “Nah. Guys who’re into that—they got, like, a mother complex, you know?”

  “I’m not old enough to be your mother.”

  “Yeah, I know. You got a nice body, too. Work out, I bet.”

  “Every day.”

  “I can tell. You get all buff, and you come to dumps like this to meet guys like me.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Scary hobby.”

  “I guess I need a certain amount of stimulation to stay interested in things. You know what I mean?”

  “Not really.”

  “I need the rush. I need to put it on the line sometimes. You ever feel like that?”

  Dylan got it. He nodded, his grinning mouth flecked with suds. “Baby, all the time.”

  “What gives you a rush?”

  “You tell me first. Tell me what turns you on.”

  “Places like this.”

  “This?” He snorted. “This is a shit hole.”

  “That’s why I like it. It’s not safe.”

  “No, it ain’t.” He showed her a wolfish leer. “Getting less safe all the time.”

  She managed to hold eye contact without barfing. “That’s why I’m liking it better all the time. So what’s your poison?”

  “What I did today,” he said slowly.

  He got off on killing. Great. “What did you do today?” she asked with bland innocence.

  He shook his head, remembering that the topic was off-limits. “Nothing.”

  “So you won’t share?”

  He cast around for something safe to say. “I like to ride. Got a Harley Low Rider.”

  “That’s a good bike.”

  “Better’n good.” He stared into the depths of the mirror. “Way I got her customized, she’s a thing of fucking beauty. Sweeter’n a woman, for sure.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “I do. Woman’s good for a couple hours, tops. My bike can go all night long.”

  “You ride all night?”

  “Sometimes. When I can’t sleep, I take her out on the freeway or down to the coast highway and fly, fly, fly.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  He turned to her. “You ever ride a Harley?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  He got off the barstool and drained his beer. “Come on, then. You want adventure, I got the ticket.”

  26

  He gave her his helmet and rode without one, and she clung to his back as he cut through the streets to the freeway and howled up the on-ramp, whipping from lane to lane, everything blurred and spinning in a rush of speed and noise. The engine roared, throbbing like a racing heart, and the wind blew into her face while his sleeveless jacket beat against her throat, and the tattoo on his neck strobed in the passing headlights. She held on tightly to him, knowing that if she let go, she would be blown out of her seat and smashed on the road. He was drunk and angry and reckless, driving like a madman, and Abby was aware of the danger but accepted it without fear. She wasn’t going to die in a drunk driving accident; it would be too mundane.

  He flew south on the freeway, exiting with a scream of tires. On South Standard Avenue, he pulled into the parking lot of a dingy apartment building and killed the engine.

  “Come on in,” he said. They were the first words he’d spoken in nearly an hour. He led her up a flight of bowed wo
oden steps and unlocked his door.

  Everything was proceeding as planned. Once inside his apartment, she would ask for a drink. He would pour glasses for both of them. While he was distracted, she would lace his beverage with one of the little white pills in her purse. The pills were Rohypnol, sometimes known as the date rape drug—a medication illegal in the US, but obtainable by those with connections. The newer version of the drug turned blue when it dissolved, making it harder to conceal in liquids, but Abby’s stash was the original variety, which dissolved clear.

  The sedative would take effect within twenty minutes, knocking him out. The trick would be to keep him talking until the narcotic had spread through his bloodstream, but that was no big problem. If there was one thing Abby was good at, it was talk.

  She would have to be careful, of course. During the ride she’d shifted her hold on his waist once or twice. She’d felt the handgun in the side pocket of his jacket.

  She followed him in. He flipped a wall switch that turned on a pair of lamps flanking a futon. The apartment was sparsely furnished, dirty, and old. There were the usual accoutrements. A TV with what looked like a bootleg cable hookup. A stereo system that no doubt bothered the neighbors when it was cranked up to top volume, but the neighbors, of course, would be too intimidated to complain. A card table and folding chairs that served as a dinette set.

  A doorway led into a kitchen that looked small and carried the stale odor of grease even at a distance. There must be a bathroom somewhere, and there might be a bedroom too, unless the futon served as his bed.

  “Nice place,” she said.

  “Yeah, it’s a regular Taj Mahal.” He showed her a crooked grin. “I’m going to fuck your lights out, you know that?”

  “I kind of figured that was the idea,” she said mildly, and then he grabbed her.

  It happened so fast she had no time to react. His big arms were around her waist, and he was crushing her against his chest, his mouth on hers, his tongue probing, while his hands slid to her buttocks and squeezed hard.

  She broke away from the kiss, gasping. “Hey, let’s cool it, Dylan. Let’s—”

  “Shut up.”

  He pivoted sideways, carrying her with him, and she noticed for the first time how strong he was, strong enough to lift her off her feet and throw her down on the futon, and then he was on top of her, a huge, hungry smile on his face. But what she focused on was the scorpion, purple and swollen, clinging to the side of his neck. It repulsed her.