My vision had just about returned to normal when I was thrown into another, darker area. I blinked a couple of times and saw the room was an office. Two men in tuxes stood on either side of me. I smelled Old Spice aftershave.
One-way glass formed the far wall, looking out over the VIP area. Next to that was a bank of closed-circuit television monitors showing various sections of the club. On the wall opposite the video devices was a stack of liquor cartons arranged haphazardly around a metal desk.
Jesus Rundell sat behind the desk. He had a cigar in one hand and a red-haired dancer in his lap. The girl was sobbing quietly, one hand over her eyes, the other covering her chest.
“Shit, girl, quit acting like that hurt.” Rundell blew a smoke ring across the desk. “You know you like it.”
The dancer shuddered, her shoulders shivering as the sobbing grew louder.
“Get this out of here, will ya?” Rundell pushed the dancer off his lap. She fell on the floor and rolled into a ball. A bouncer grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the door.
“You’ve sure been messing with my business.” Jesus Rundell looked at me and rubbed one hand on his thigh lightly. “And your boy Olson made a serious mistake when he stuck me with that knife.”
I started to say something, but one of the tuxes punched me in the stomach and I hit the floor hard, landing next to an empty pack of cigarettes and a black bra.
“Enough of that shit, already.” Billy was in the room.
I got to my hands and knees and tried not to vomit.
“I thought you were going to stay out of Dallas,” Rundell said.
“I thought you weren’t gonna fuck things up.” Billy knelt beside me and grabbed my arm. “Try standing up, Hank. Nobody’s gonna hit you again.”
I stood. My legs were wobbly.
“Where’s the file?” Rundell relit his cigar.
“Maybe it burned up in my house.” I took several deep breaths.
“Uh-uh.” He shook his head. “You’re not stupid enough to keep it there. That was just a welcome home message.”
“You almost fried me, too, dumbass,” Billy said. “Thought you were supposed to keep it safe.”
“And I thought we’d reached an understanding about showing me the proper respect.” Rundell’s skin seemed to get tight on his cheeks. His eyes narrowed to slits.
“That’s when you don’t screw things up.”
The bouncers shifted slightly beside me. Rundell stared at my friend, his anger a physical presence in the room.
Billy kept talking. “We had a deal.”
“And your buddy’s messed it up.” Rundell pointed to me with his cigar.
“What the hell are you two talking about?” I massaged my stomach.
“Hank has the file,” Billy said.
“Where is it?” Rundell stood up.
Billy looked at me.
I looked back. Tried to figure out all the permutations and angles. Couldn’t make sense of anything. I said, “It’s at my office.”
“Hank’s been keeping it safe.” Billy smiled. “Now we’re gonna go get it.”
Rundell stuck the cigar in his mouth and grabbed a pinstripe sports coat off the back of his chair. The strobe lights in the club flashed on. A pair of dancers were in the VIP section, writhing on the same stage, back to back.
“And then what?” Rundell’s head was wreathed in smoke.
Billy laughed and smiled the smile. “A deal’s a deal.”
The tuxedo-clad goons behind me relaxed.
“Damn straight.” Rundell limped from behind the desk and stuck out his hand. He and Billy shook. “Let’s go.”
Idrove. Billy was next to me, Jesus Rundell in the back.
“Nice fucking ride.” He banged on the side panel of the back door.
“It’s a Bentley,” I said.
“That so?”
“They’re made in England.” I glanced in the rearview mirror. Our passenger was chewing on his dead cigar. “That’s in Europe, you know.”
Billy made a noise, a have-you-lost-your-fucking-mind kind of sound.
“You ever been to Europe?” I peeked in the mirror again as I turned south on Harry Hines Boulevard and went past a Mexican biker bar on one side of the street and a country club on the other.
“Imagine yourself at the edge of a cliff, Lee Oswald, overlooking a deep canyon.” Rundell’s voice was so low I had to strain to hear it. “What possible benefit is there to poking at me?”
“No offense.” I smiled at the mirror. “Just making conversation.”
“Shut the hell up, Hank.” Billy’s voice was tight. “Just drive the car.”
Rundell leaned back and chewed on the stogie. After a few miles, he pulled a disposable lighter out of his pocket.
“Sorry,” I said. “Delmar doesn’t want anybody smoking in his car.”
Billy blew out a mouthful of air.
“Don’t you even wonder why you can’t see the bottom of the canyon floor?” Jesus Rundell lit the cigar and a cloud of smoke drifted into the front seat.
The rest of the trip was uneventful.
I pulled into the driveway of my office ten minutes later. I was no closer to having a plan or the elusive file than when we’d left the bar. Billy wasn’t too helpful, either, especially since we couldn’t talk without the baldheaded whack job hearing us.
I put the transmission into park and wondered what to do next. The answer wasn’t long in coming.
A bullet ripped into the front windshield.
I ducked.
Billy opened the door and rolled out.
Rundell yelled and swore.
Another shot rang out. A cloud of safety glass filled the front of the Bentley. Delmar was going to have my ass over this.
I killed the ignition, opened the door, and dropped to the ground. The bullets came from in front of the car; I headed to the back.
“What the hell is going on?” Billy was kneeling by the rear bumper.
“You’re bleeding.” I pointed to a red line on the side of his neck.
“Shit.” Billy grabbed the wound.
Another shot, this time striking metal. We both lowered our heads reflexively.
I reached for my Browning and remembered it was back at Delmar and Olson’s house. The pistol Olson had provided had been taken from me by one of the bouncers back at the bar.
“Where the hell is Rundell?” Billy pulled out the Ruger.
Before I could reply, I heard the rear door of the Bentley open followed by a banshee cry.
“I think we found him.” I peeked around the rear of the car.
Jesus Rundell stood by the side of the Bentley, screaming at the top of his lungs. He stopped for a moment, pulled a pistol out from under his coat, and fired toward the front of the car: four, five, six shots, as fast as he could pull the trigger.
I couldn’t see what he was shooting at, nor could he, if I was to guess. The bulb that lit the driveway had been burned out for months.
What I was pretty sure he was hitting was the side of the wood-framed house that served as our office. Judging by the angle at which he stood, I guessed most of his rounds were hitting the back of the structure, about where my personal space was.
The unknown shooter returned fire, three quick shots. Rundell yelled and grabbed the side of his head. The rear window of the Bentley shattered.
“Who the hell is out there?” Billy snuck a quick peek from his side of the car.
“I dunno. But if they keep shooting, you may not have to worry about Jesus anymore.”
“Shit.” Billy stood up. “Rundell, get the hell under cover, will ya?”
I looked at my friend. “I thought you wanted him dead?”
Rundell stumbled to the back of the car. Even in the low light, I could see blood dripping down the side of his neck and onto the shoulder of his sport coat. Our unknown assailant had shot off Jesus Rundell’s earlobe.
“Who the fuck is shooting at us?” He banged the trunk of
the Bentley with one hand.
“Shut the hell up!” Billy grabbed the man’s arm and pulled at the same time as another volley rang out.
Rundell yelped. I actually saw the bullet rip through the fabric of his coat, high on his shoulder. He fell to his knees and leaned against the bumper of the car.
“W-w-where are the pictures?” He grasped the front of my shirt.
“Pictures?” I stared at the wounded man.
Billy pushed me aside and grabbed Rundell by the collar. “The meet. When is it?”
Rundell frowned. “Huh?”
“The sit-down.” Billy pulled at the wounded man until their faces were only inches apart.
“Told you already.” Rundell shook his head. “There won’t be any problem.”
“When and where?” Billy said.
“Day after tomorrow. Sugar Babies.” Rundell’s breathing was labored, his face even paler than before, the shock setting in. “What about the file?”
“Forget the file.” Billy shook his head. “Is everything set up?”
“Quit worrying.” Rundell rolled his eyes. “I told you everything would be cool.”
“T-thanks.” Billy let out a sigh as his shoulders sagged.
“We had a deal, remember?” Rundell smiled for the first time. “Everybody’s gonna be okay—”
Billy fired once from the hip, striking Jesus Rundell in the forehead. His head snapped back, a tiny spray of blood barely visible in the low light.
“What the hell?” I fell backward, landing on my ass.
“Let’s go.” Billy scrambled toward the street, keeping low.
Another shot hit the Bentley.
I followed him into the night.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Streetlights were a hit-or-miss thing in this section of East Dallas. City Hall, a fiscally mismanaged scandal-making machine, could barely come up with enough money to put gas in the police cars, never mind making sure all the outdoor lighting was functional.
So we ran in the dark. Billy was ahead of me. The pain in my stomach slowed me down. He paused after three blocks. When I caught up with him, he was leaning against a stop sign, breathing heavily.
This particular section of town was on the edge of a neighborhood controlled by the Mara Salvatrucha, also known as the MS-13, a particularly violent gang formed by refugees fleeing the civil violence in El Salvador. The MS-13 wouldn’t much like a couple of white homeboys walking on their sidewalk.
“We have . . . got to . . . get out of here.” Each wheezing breath I took was agony on my bruised diaphragm.
“Who was trying to kill us?” Billy pointed the Ruger at my nose.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“You threw me to the wolves once. Why wouldn’t you do it again?”
“Did it not register with you that they were shooting at me, too?”
The throaty rumble of a car with glass-pack mufflers sounded down the block. No sirens yet. A twenty-round firefight in gangbanger land was about as common as a car alarm going off. I wondered if anybody had even dialed 911.
“I’m not going back to prison.” Billy’s voice was shaky.
“This is gang turf.” I turned toward the sound of the approaching automobile. “A couple of gringos on foot. Gonna be bad.”
“Yo.” A voice sounded from the darkness. The car, a twenty-year-old Chevy riding an inch from the pavement, pulled to the curb, the headlights illuminating two figures standing on the sidewalk.
I didn’t say anything. Billy held the gun by his thigh, more or less out of sight.
“What’s up, man?” The taller of the two spoke, his accent thick and exaggerated. The smaller one took a step forward. He was maybe twelve years old.
“We’re passing through,” I said. “I’m from a couple of streets over. No disrespect meant.”
The older one nodded a couple of times as if he were pondering the situation. He looked at Billy. “And what’s your problem?”
Billy didn’t say anything. Instead he pointed the gun at the one closest to us. His hand shook.
“What the hell, bro?” The older one took a step back and raised his hands, not the actions of a hardened gangbanger.
“Billy.” I kept my focus on the two in front of us. “Put. The gun. Down.”
“Yeah . . . Billy.” The older one backed away another foot or so. “No problems here, man. Just put the piece down.”
“Okay, it’s cool.” Billy let out a long breath and relaxed his shoulders. That’s when the Ruger went off, striking the youngster in the eye. The tiny .22 was like a loud pop gun.
The older one grabbed his mouth and fell to his knees. The car sped off down the street.
“I-I-I didn’t mean to.” Billy turned to me. “The trigger . . .”
I forgot to breathe, my skin cold. Everything seemed hazy, as if filtered through dirty glass.
“Madre de Dios.” The man beat his chest.
“It was an accident,” Billy said. “I swear.”
“You killed my little brother.” He cradled the youngster’s head in his lap and stared at us.
“Billy.” I watched my friend point the Ruger at the man on the ground. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m not going back to prison, Hank.” His voice was a whisper. “You have no idea what it’s like.”
“Put the gun down.” I began to shake, my limbs trembling uncontrollably. “Don’t make a bad situation worse.”
The man holding his dead brother wailed.
I looked down the street. It was empty. “We need to get out of here.”
Billy rocked on his feet a couple of times and lowered the gun.
I trotted back toward my office. When I got to the alley, I turned left and made my way down the narrow track. Billy followed a few feet behind.
I listened and watched for the police. I heard more dogs than I could count, three backyard domestic disputes (two in Spanish and one in a guttural language I couldn’t identify), and a half dozen boom boxes playing Mexican radio.
I saw three squirrelly looking people smoking dope, two rats, and a dead dog. At the end of the alley I turned right and walked toward Rieger Street.
Billy said, “Where are we going?”
I didn’t reply.
“You gonna turn me in again, Hank?” Billy’s voice was shrill. “It was an accident.”
I didn’t say anything. I thought about the child lying on the sidewalk a few blocks over. I kept walking.
A hundred yards from my office I moved off the sidewalk and melted into the shadows of the neighboring buildings, hugging the shrubs. Billy was still behind me.
When I got to the place next door to my office, I stopped and waited, listening for any movement. After three or four minutes, it became obvious that the shooter was either waiting silently for us to return (not a likely scenario) or had left.
I dashed to the front door and saw that it had been forced open. The frame by the lock was in splinters. The inside was in near-total darkness.
Billy appeared beside me.
I ignored him and crept to my office. There was a cocked-and-locked Browning Hi Power in a small childproof box bolted underneath my desk. I grabbed the Browning and a SureFire flashlight and returned to the hallway as the night breeze flowed through the shot-out windows.
“Now what?” Billy’s voice had a trembling quality to it.
“Stay here.” I brushed past him and did a quick search of the interior. There weren’t many places to hide. Once outside I pressed myself against the side of the building and did a quick circuit around the perimeter to make sure the shooter was really gone.
He wasn’t.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
When I got to the backyard, by the alley where the bamboo grew thick, I smelled alcohol. Then I heard snoring.
I waited for a long 120 count but nothing else sounded except crickets and the faraway sounds of a city at night. I held the flashlight away from my body and the pistol at eye le
vel and aimed at darkness. After another half minute I turned on the SureFire. The overgrown backyard lit up as if it were daylight, the powerful xenon bulb making everything a vibrant white.
Larry Chaloupka, Nolan’s once again ex-fiancé, lay sprawled on the dirt, an almost empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s in one hand, a Korean knockoff of a Glock nine-millimeter in the other.
His polyester short-sleeved dress shirt had come untucked, exposing a massive belly rising and falling in sync with the snores.
I slowly let out my breath and leaned against the side of the house. Unfortunately, there were only a few seconds to relax before I heard sirens close by and saw red and blue flashing lights. The gravel crunched in the driveway where the shot-up Bentley sat next to Jesus Rundell’s corpse. Car doors slammed.
I killed the light and placed the Hi Power on a windowsill, after removing the live round from the chamber. A Dallas police officer broke through the shrubs and into the backyard.
He appeared to be concentrating on Larry’s comatose form and didn’t see me for a moment. When he finally did, he pointed his gun and light at my head. “Freeze.”
I raised my hands.
More police entered the small area; lots of lights flashing, cops talking, radios radioing. An older officer, obviously in charge, sauntered in and took a quick look around before walking to where I stood. He was about fifty. The name tag on his chest said COOPER.
The younger cop who had entered first shoved me against the rough wooden wall of the office. A quick but thorough pat-down ensued. He removed my wallet and tossed it to his superior before pulling my hands behind me and snapping on the cuffs.
“You want to start at the beginning or where it gets fun?”Cooper said.
“Sergeant Jessup wouldn’t be on nights, would he?” I smiled and tried to look as little like a murderer as possible.
“Who?”
“Frank Jessup. He works homicide.”
“Son, let me give you some advice.” Cooper smiled in an unfriendly way. “Don’t start out dropping names of homicide guys. Makes me think you’ve got experience in that area.”
The Next Time You Die Page 22