His eyes turned toward mine. He lapped blood from his fingertips and waited a moment before answering.
"Hermano, I knew you'd get around to that question. I should be offended but I'm not. You at least have the cojones to ask me to my face."
"What do you care about Roxy?"
"Maybe I don't. What's another dead human among the billions already here? But what I know is that Cragnow and his buddies who run this nidus are setting us vampires up for a disaster. This deal with humans, whatever it is, is a countdown to catastrophe."
"Why doesn't Cragnow see it that way?"
"Because he's blinded by arrogance and his thirst for power. Vato, I can't stop him alone."
Coyote took a swig from his beer and belched. "Felix, do you trust me or not?"
"I have to."
"Good, because I'm still hungry and I need to borrow something for a burrito."
I gave him a five. "Make it to go and keep the change." I heaped my bottle, plate, and napkins together and shoved them into an overflowing trash can. "There are others we need to question. Like Councilwoman Venin and Roxy Bronze's ex."
Coyote held up his plate and licked it clean. "Who'd be easier to get to?"
"Let's try the ex. Fred Daniels."
From Watts we took the Long Beach Freeway north toward Rosemead. I followed the directions from MapQuest on my wireless laptop. Coyote peeled back the aluminum foil of his burrito and ate.
I told him what I'd learned about Roxy from my research before leaving Denver. She had been married to Fred Daniels, who introduced her to the porn business. Together they were to be the first couple of smut. Daniels took the screen name of Peter Pipe.
A year later, Peter Pipe and Roxy Bronze quit billing themselves as a couple. Except for gay porn, the business was all about women, unless the guy had a prodigious pipe, which Daniels didn't. He worked as her manager and, like his on-camera "acting," failed at that. Daniels occupied himself with booze, cocaine, and the easy pickings around porn sets. Roxy was Daniels's meal ticket until she jettisoned him after a nasty divorce.
I found the address and parked against the curb.
"Que bonito chante," Coyote said. What nice digs.
The house was a fine example of midcentury Atomic Ranch: a big picture window, long horizontal lines, and plenty of ochre-colored brick. The garage doors were closed.
I removed my sunglasses and sat in the car for a moment. I studied the well-kept neighborhood and scanned for suspicious auras. Coyote and I then got out. The lawn smelled freshly watered.
The front door was tucked into an outdoor foyer paved with flagstone. A decal to an alarm company decorated the glass bricks around the main entrance.
I looked through the window in the door and saw the alarm on the opposite wall. It read: SET.
"Let's go around back," I said.
Coyote brushed past me. "Pa'que?" What for?
He touched the door handle. The alarm flashed DISABLED, and the dead bolt snapped. He pushed the door open.
Coyote gave a broad, ragged-toothed smile. "I can do more than look handsome."
Ugly, tricky bastard.
The air inside was cool and moist. A welcome relief after the rush-hour drive under the sun's punishing glare.
Lounge music drifted from the stereo receiver on a buffet table. I couldn't detect the presence of anyone in the house.
Coyote walked across the front room to check the hall. I went into the kitchen.
A glass pitcher with iced lemonade and a half-empty bottle of white rum rested on the counter. The sliding glass doors at the back of the kitchen opened to a fenced yard with a swimming pool.
I stepped around the counter and paused at the threshold to replace my sunglasses to temper the harsh sunlight. A terrazzo walkway surrounded the pool. The only sound was the gurgle of the pool filter.
Beyond the pool was a strip of lawn bordered by rosebushes and boxwood shrubs. White plastic chairs sat on the grass.
I was sure the house was Daniels's divorce settlement. Probably the only smart move in his life was that he married an ambitious porn star and mooched off her for all he could get.
Where was Daniels? The way my case was going, I wouldn't be surprised to find his drowned corpse lying on the bottom of the pool. I walked to the water's edge, expecting to find his bloated and dead face.
"Don't you move."
I turned to the left.
There was a stainless steel outdoor bar at the corner of the yard, under the shade of two magnolia trees.
Fred Daniels rose from behind the bar and aimed a Beretta pistol.
Chapter Eleven
"Don't do anything stupid," I said evenly.
Daniels looked like he did in his photos. Late twenties. Blue eyes empty of deep thought. An impossibly smooth forehead, probably from overdoing Botox.
He was shorter than me. Very tan. His brown hair was gelled into spikes with blond highlights. A cream-colored linen shirt sagged over his lean torso. In his pictures he flashed a smile; here he threatened with a scowl and a 9mm pistol.
The muzzle of the Beretta and the gold links of his tennis bracelet trembled. With his left hand, Daniels picked up a glass tumbler from the bar. I smelled the lemonade and rum.
Keeping his gaze fixed on me-a gold piercing cinched over his eyebrow-he brought the tumbler to his lips and gulped nervously. Lemonade dripped down his chin and to his shirt. He set the tumbler down, and the ice tinkled. He wiped his chin and rubbed his fingers against his shirt. The trembling of his hand eased and the black malevolent hole of the gun barrel held steady on me.
I calculated my options.
Daniels stood about thirty feet away. Too far to zap with hypnosis even after I removed my sunglasses. I could try and rush him, but that would risk getting shot. Or I could draw my pistol and start blasting. But I needed to ask questions. Better that I let him drink until Dutch courage turned into a drunken stupor.
Daniels kept the muzzle trained on my chest. "How'd you get in without tripping the alarm?"
"I opened the door. If that's a problem, talk to your security company."
"Unless I shoot you as a trespasser. Then it'd be your problem."
Cheeky dipshit had better mind his manners.
In my short stay so far in L.A., pistols seemed as ubiquitous as sunglasses. "You always keep a gun handy?"
"Cragnow warned me."
That double-dealing undead son of a bitch. He wanted my help and then alerted Daniels to meet me with a pistol at the ready. What was Cragnow's agenda? What didn't he want me to know?
"Warned you about what?" I took a step toward Daniels.
"Don't come closer. Cragnow said to tell you that he gave me special bullets. I don't know what's so special about them, but he said you'd know what he meant."
Damn right I did. Silver bullets. Probably painted to look like regular steel-jacketed slugs. I could take several hits to my body with conventional bullets; one silver bullet in the right place would leave me flopping on the terrazzo like a speared fish.
The afternoon sun reflected off the pool and into Daniels's face. The gold hoops of his earrings glittered. He squinted, and his free hand groped for the Ray-Bans lying on the bar. Daniels put the sunglasses on. Now if I wanted to hypnotize him, I'd have to get close enough to knock off his shades.
He hadn't shot me yet, and the way he held the pistol signaled that he wasn't comfortable with violence.
"What now, Lone Ranger?" I asked. "You going to use those special bullets?"
Daniels relaxed. "Look man, I just want to be left alone."
"I got no problem with that." I kept my arms loose and gestured with my hands, palms up. "How about we just talk about your ex."
"What for?" The edge in his voice returned. He steadied the pistol. "The police know everything. You could wallpaper the city with what's been printed about me and Roxy. There ain't nothing more to say."
"I'm not convinced of that," I replied. "Every time I mention Ro
xy's name, people act like roaches about to scatter."
"Why don't you scatter?"
I couldn't wait to hurt this douche bag. Fist, then fangs.
Where was Coyote? I could use him to distract Daniels.
"You know where I could find Katz Meow?"
"Ask Cragnow. She worked for him."
A cell phone resting on the bar chimed.
"Step back," Daniels said.
I didn't.
The pistol went off. The bullet ricocheted between my legs. Daniels seemed as astonished as I was.
The phone kept chiming.
Daniels's surprised expression turned into a sneer. "Hey, that wasn't hard." His grip tightened on the Beretta. "Now get back."
Luckily, the last shot was low. The next one might hit my belly, or worse. I took a step back.
His eyes remained fixed on me and he picked up the phone. "Yeah I know exactly where he's at." Daniels smirked. "Right in front of me."
He folded the cell phone and his shoulders relaxed. "Cragnow's men are on the way." His smirk deepened. "Maybe they can help you find Katz."
Why did mention of Cragnow's goons sound like bad news?
Coyote stumbled out of the kitchen. Daniels swung the pistol toward him.
"Don't shoot," I yelled.
Coyote spit an ice cube and tipped the empty pitcher of lemonade over his upturned face. "Estoy bien pedo." I'm really shit-faced.
Daniels stabbed the Beretta toward me, then to Coyote, and at me again. "Don't move."
Coyote lurched to the edge of the pool, teetered, and dropped the pitcher into the water.
"What the hell you doing?" shouted Daniels. "Get against the wall, the both of you."
"Good idea," Coyote mumbled. He staggered close to the wall and unzipped his jeans over a row of potted flowers. "All that lemonade has gotta come out. Might as well make it now, bro."
"Not on my plants," Daniels whined. He stepped from behind the bar. "Get back from them, you drunken wetback bastard."
I lunged forward. Daniels jerked his gun toward me and popped a round that zinged past my ear.
"?Al la Madre!" Holy Mother! Coyote jumped from the wall. A stream of fire shot from his crotch onto a big chrysanthemum. "?Auxilio!?Auxilio!Llamen los bombaderos." Help! Help! Call the fire department.
Flames rolled against the stucco wall and turned into black smoke that curled back on us.
Daniels started shooting again. The bullets peppered the air. One of those bullets was bound to hit Coyote or me.
I grabbed Coyote by his collar and yanked him into the kitchen.
Bullets cracked against the sliding glass door.
A wall of fire erupted across the kitchen threshold behind us.
I ran out the front door and dragged Coyote along. His feet slammed against the furniture. Fire dribbled from his open fly. We got into my car. Smoke mushroomed over the roof of Daniels's home like it had been hit by artillery.
Once the engine kicked over, I stomped on the accelerator. My tires screeched like banshees with hemorrhoids. Coyote fumbled with his zipper.
My kundalini noir settled enough for me to finally speak. "How'd you do that?"
"Facil, vato." Easy, dude. "I had to pee really bad."
"I mean pissing fire."
Coyote sucked air through his teeth and appeared contrite. "My fault. I keep forgetting that I shouldn't drink rum." He cupped his balls. "Next time I might end up with huevos flambe."
"Stay away if you decide to fart," I said. "That would be another Hiroshima. Anyway, thanks for saving me."
"Don't mention it, carnal."
I headed south on the freeway.
Fred Daniels was the weasel I expected him to be. Trouble was, he acted like a cornered weasel-holding a gun loaded with silver bullets. At least he was alive. For now. Which meant I could get to him later.
And Cragnow? He was hiding something. Why else would he ask me to help him, then turn around and warn Daniels? And he gave him the deadly bullets, meaning that if all went to shit during my visit, the chances were good that I'd be the one full of holes.
"If all my leads are going to be so much trouble," I thought aloud, "this is going to be a long investigation."
"Felix, no te preocupes," Coyote said. Don't worry.
"Are you talking in a general sense or is there something else?" I replied.
He shrugged.
"Don't play games, Coyote."
He grasped the door handle. "Too bad, vato, because that's all I know."
Coyote pushed the door open. Traffic was heavy and moved at a steady clip of forty-five miles an hour. He tumbled out. The door slammed shut and the lock snapped closed.
Astonished by his departure, I tapped my brakes and looked into the mirror, but as a vampire, Coyote wouldn't show. I craned my neck, expecting to see him dodging cars that swerved and were panic-stopped.
Nothing. Just lines of automobiles rolling in long, impatient columns.
Coyote was gone. Quick as a blink.
Don't worry, Coyote had said. What did he mean? Would I see him again?
The car behind me blared its horn. I resumed speed and headed for my hotel and a much needed rest. Thinking that I might have trouble finding a coffin to sleep in, I had brought inversion boots and planned to relax hanging upside down in a closet.
Back in my room, the red light on the telephone flashed. I retrieved the message.
"Felix Gomez, my name is Veronica Torres."
Roxy's partner in their campaign that undermined Project Eleven. A sworn enemy of Lucky Rosario and councilwoman Petale Venin, among others.
How did Veronica know I was here?
She spoke crisply, with an intriguing lilt to her Chicana barrio accent. Puerto Rican? Central American? "I got a text message asking me to call you…"
Message from whom? Coyote?
"… something to do with Roxy Bronze. If you can, let's meet tomorrow morning. Here's my number…"
When I called Veronica back, I asked if she knew who had left the text message. She didn't and told me caller ID said the number was unknown.
I asked if she knew anyone named Coyote. She didn't know that either. Finally I asked, "Don't you think it's strange you got an anonymous message to call me?"
She replied, "There's a lot of things about Roxy's death that are strange. An anonymous message to call you is the least of them."
We made an appointment to meet at 9 A.M. at the Barrios Unidos center in Pacoima.
I rigged a chin-up bar inside the closet. After I undressed and put on my pajamas, I latched the inversion boots around my shins and hooked the boots over the chin-up bar. Vampires can defy gravity but only through conscious effort. If I planted my feet against the ceiling and dozed off, gravity would pull me down.
I put my cell phone and the loaded Colt pistol on the floor within arm's reach. As I hung there, waiting for sleep, I worked the investigation over in my head.
Until now, I had thought of only three motives for Roxy's murder: revenge for thwarting Project Eleven; interfering with Cragnow's scheme of vampire-human collusion; and leaving Gomorrah Video.
Perhaps I overlooked an equally compelling and sinister motive. Who else would profit from her death? I stuck on the word profit.
Profit as in money.
My hacker told me Roxy Bronze had a million-dollar insurance policy that paid out to two parties. Half of the million dollars went to Barrios Unidos. The other half went to the Open Hand in Reseda, a nonprofit medical clinic for porn actors and other sex workers.
Could someone at either of these places have put the bullet in Roxy's skull?
The idea was almost too fantastic to contemplate. Nonprofits were always scrambling for money. Murdering someone for the insurance payout was a dangerous scheme as a fund-raiser. Then again, it was half a million dollars.
Chapter Twelve
The next morning I arrived in Pacoima-a blue-collar Latino community on the north side of the San Fernando Valle
y. Small homes stood beside subsidized housing projects. People who tended gardens and cleaned toilets for the rich had to live somewhere.
Even with supernatural mojo, I still felt queasy coming here. Since I had left many years ago, vowing never to return, I had graduated from college, gone to war, become a vampire, and settled in Denver. And here I was, back in Pacoima anyway.
Terrific.
Once I got off the freeway, I drove north a few blocks. Surprisingly, Pacoima looked a lot better than I remembered. I counted only one boarded-up storefront and no abandoned cars. Small shops lined the boulevard: nail salons, taco stands, auto parts. I turned right at the corner with a convenience store and gas pumps that used to be a vacant lot.
Barrios Unidos occupied a cinder block building whose original tenant was a Pentecostal church. Beige paint blotches covered graffiti on the walls and the base of the steeple. Weeds and trash collected along a chain-link fence. I parked at the end of a row of a half-dozen cars in the gravel lot.
I entered through double doors that had steel mesh over the windows. A threadbare carpet covered the floor, which creaked when I walked in. From behind the closed door of an adjoining room, children sang a folk tune in Spanish. An easel held a calendar listing the center's events for the month: kindergarten, literacy programs, prenatal clinics, Friday open-mike poetry, and a workshop for novice writers.
The front hall doubled as an art gallery. The exhibition was a series of modern interpretations of the Virgin of Guadalupe. The Virgin as seamstress. The Virgin wearing boxing gloves. The Virgin working the drive-thru window at McDonald's.
At the end of the hall stood a table heaped with dried flowers and small mementos. On the wall above the table was a portrait of the Virgin, but the face of this Virgin belonged to Roxy Bronze.
To the left hung a framed front page of the Los Angeles Times dated from seven months ago. The headline read, PROJECT ELEVEN IS A GONER. Below the headline, there was a photo of a victorious crowd waving banners on the steps of L.A. City Hall and giving the thumbs-up.
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