City of the Lost

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City of the Lost Page 2

by Stephen Blackmoore


  Simon’s built like a fireplug, squat and solid, but a good twenty years older than he looks. Thinning hair. Likes boiled British food a little too much for his doctor’s comfort, but he doesn’t care. Man’s got so much money he’s immortal. He can afford to live large.

  He claps a thick hand on my shoulder. “You all right, lad?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Just been a long day.”

  He hangs his head, nods. “It has been at that,” he says, peers up at me. “Going to be longer still. This isn’t over yet, Joe.”

  “What’s not over, Simon?” Something in me threatens to snap. I don’t get angry. It’s unprofessional, gives the other guy an advantage. I force myself to relax as best I can, but it leaks out the edges, anyway.

  “Do you know why he did this?” I step in closer, show him my hands. Julio’s blood still under my fingernails. “He tore his own fucking throat out.”

  Simon steps back slowly, and it’s then I realize he’s got a blade millimeters from spilling my intestines to the floor. It’s easy to forget how fast he is with a knife.

  “Calm yourself, Joseph. That’s what we’re here to discuss, innit?” He looks around, peering into the hazy shade of blue that passes for a dark night in Los Angeles. “But not out here.” He heads back into the living room. I hang back a moment to pull myself together, then follow him in.

  He slides the door closed. Locks it. Draws the curtains. “I don’t know if that’ll help,” he says, more to himself than to us. Danny hands him a scotch and soda. He tosses it back like water, throws himself into one of the leather Manhattan chairs.

  “Give us a rundown on what happened,” Simon says.

  I give them the details. But when I get to the part about Julio going to retrieve the stone Simon gives me a shut-the-fuck-up look, and I bounce past that detail.

  Danny doesn’t seem to notice the omission. I wonder if Simon’s told him about it. And wonder why he wouldn’t.

  “Giavetti killed Julio,” he says. Holds up a hand when I open my mouth. “Let me finish. Please. I don’t know how, but I know he did it. Me and him, we go back quite a ways. When he came in to see me I nearly shat myself. I’m sixty-four now. Met Giavetti when I was eighteen. He looked just as old then as he does now. You following me?” He pauses to let it sink in. It doesn’t.

  “I saw the guy when he first came to see you,” Danny says. “He’s got to be in his eighties.”

  “I said the same thing back in 1959,” says Simon.

  “You sure it’s the same guy?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Oh, yes,” he says. “Man like Giavetti, you never forget. Did odd jobs for him. Had his hands in a couple of brothels in London, horse racing, poker clubs.”

  He pauses, takes a deep breath. “Bloody queer thing. Spent a lot of time at libraries.

  “One night,” he says, “pal of mine gets the bright idea to bump him off. We’d been drinking, and we both knew Giavetti was loaded. So we figure we’ll hide in a closet, strangle him in his sleep. My job was to get him in the house. I’ve got keys, I know when the ol’ bugger goes to bed.”

  “You tried to kill him?” Danny asks.

  “Not tried. Tied him up good, beat him to death with a cricket bat. Let him bleed out on his Persian rugs and laughed the whole time. Stuffed our pockets with as much as we could carry. Set the place alight. He was dead, all right. I watched him burn.”

  I look over at Danny to see if he’s buying any of this.

  “Bullshit,” he says.

  “I’m with Danny on this one,” I say. “You’re saying Giavetti’s ghost is back, and he somehow got Julio to kill himself? Come on, Simon. Don’t lose it now. You killed Giavetti, what, almost fifty years ago? It’s somebody else. What about your partner?”

  “Lost his nerve,” he says. “Talked about going to the police.” Knowing Simon that means he’s at the bottom of the Thames. Scratch that lead.

  “Who else knew?”

  “Besides you two, I’ve never told a soul. Back then Giavetti had connections. Word got out we’d done the deed, we were good as dead. No one else knew.”

  “Somebody’s screwing with you. The guys you hooked him up with were in on it. Have to be. The dead one lost his nerve, the others took him out.”

  “The missing bullets?”

  “Vests,” Danny says, getting into it. “The bullets are stuck in their Kevlar.” Starting to make sense, pieces all lining up. Simon’s nodding slowly at the scenario.

  “Then why’d Julio kill himself after meeting him?” he says.

  “Okay, enough,” Danny says. “This is a nice chat around the campfire telling ghost stories and all. Maybe later we can roast s’mores and sing ‘Kumbaya.’ But right now you’ve got some fucker impersonating a guy you killed fifty years ago. It’s that or you’re going senile, and I’m betting that ain’t your problem.”

  “So you think this is just a trick, then?”

  “I’ll admit it’s a weird angle to play,” I say. “But yeah. He’s got a point.”

  When Simon grabs onto an idea he doesn’t let go of it. Most stubborn man I’ve ever met. He’s got that tone that says we’re in for a long night of arguing.

  He thinks for a long moment. “You’re right,” he says finally.

  “Come again?”

  “I said, you’re right. Has to be an impersonator. The man’s dead. Years now.”

  Something’s wrong. Simon never gives up a point this easily. What the hell is he playing at?

  “Danny’s got a point. It doesn’t matter,” Simon says. He nods at Danny, who gets up to fix him another scotch and soda. “Somebody’s fucking with me. I want him gone.”

  “Hallelujah,” Danny says. “He sees the light.”

  Simon gives Danny a cold smile. I don’t think Simon’s going to quickly forget that senile crack.

  “When?” I ask.

  “Tonight,” Simon says. He raises his empty glass. “Danny, would you get me another?” Deflated at being his serving boy, Danny goes to freshen his drink.

  Simon opens a drawer in the table next to his chair, pulls out a Glock 30 with a threaded barrel and a silencer.

  “Use this,” he says, handing them to me. “They’re clean.”

  Danny comes back with a new glass. Simon slams it back. “I’m heading out of town,” he says. “Going to San Diego for a couple of days. Bit of a holiday. Maybe do some fishing.” The calm Simon shows the world is cracking. He doesn’t drink this much, doesn’t sweat this much.

  “You’re all I’ve got left, Joseph. I’m depending on you to escort our false Mr. Giavetti out of town before I get back. It’s vital you do this. Probably the most important thing I’ve ever asked you to do.”

  He doesn’t have to tell me to get the stone. That much is implied. An old man in a hotel room. Doesn’t get any easier than that.

  But why is it so goddamn important?

  Chapter 3

  It’s just Danny and me standing in the gravel driveway, smoking. We watch as Simon drives off in his black Jag.

  “What was that you two were talking about?” Danny asks.

  “Giavetti. You were there. You going deaf or just senile?”

  Danny laughs. “Speaking of which, he’s gone round the bend, hasn’t he?”

  I shrug. “Maybe.” I’ve been thinking since the phone call at the bar that Simon isn’t acting quite right. Not quite Simon. Nothing gets to him, normally. He’s fucking unflappable. His insistence on getting the rock just doesn’t make sense. And now, with this story of Giavetti— “What, you believe him?”

  “Does it matter?” Sure, I got doubts, but I work for the man. Worked for him damn near twenty years. If he’s going off the reservation, I’m going right there with him.

  Danny thinks about what I’ve just said. “Guess not.” The rear lights of the Jag disappear down a turn.

  “Besides,” I say, “if he really believed this was the same guy do you think he’d be sending me to kill him? Come on. Listen to h
im tell it, this guy’s immortal.”

  “You want to look at it that way, sure. I still think he’s off his nut.” Danny takes a drag on his cig, blows out a lungful of smoke.

  “My dad went senile,” he says. “We had to stick him in a home. He couldn’t remember who anybody was, shit himself every day. You ever have to deal with that kind of thing?”

  “Never met my dad.”

  “That’s gotta suck.”

  “Is this going somewhere?”

  “Simon’s not gonna live forever. Eventually, he’ll do something stupid, and the whole thing’s gonna come crashing round his ears. What then?”

  “This a hypothetical?”

  “What? Oh, calm down. I’m not trying to fuck him over. He’s as much my meal ticket as he is yours. I’m just wondering what happens when he finally screws up. Or gets old and kicks. The man’s sixty-five, for chrissake.”

  I toss my cigarette, grind it out with a heel. He’s right. Simon is getting old. He’s got no kids, no family I’ve ever heard of. What happens when he finally goes? It’s not like I’m getting a pension off him.

  “Simon’s not senile.”

  “No, he was just telling us some dead mob boss from the fifties has come back from the grave to drive Julio crazy enough to commit suicide. I mean, I’m not saying Julio was exactly stable, but—What? Don’t look at me like that. You’re crazy, too.”

  “I just do what I’m told.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “You just do what you’re told. You’re just a useful tool, right? See, that’s the difference between you and me. You like taking orders. It frees you up from the heavy thinking.”

  I light a fresh Marlboro, blow smoke into the chill air. From where I’m standing I can just barely see a sliver of the ocean down across the lights of PCH.

  “I ever tell you I don’t like you much?” I ask.

  “Good thing we’re both professionals, then, huh?”

  I’ve got a good fifty pounds on Danny. I could make him eat the sidewalk without breaking a sweat. But that’d just piss off Simon. Might be worth it, though.

  Danny gets this worried look on his face when I don’t say anything. Like he knows what I’m thinking. I don’t want to be around this sonofabitch any more than I need to, so I drop the half finished cigarette, grind it out with my heel, head to my car.

  “Hey,” he says as I get in. “That senile crack? I was just joking. Don’t need to tell Simon that. Right?”

  I smile at him, say nothing, and pull out of the driveway. Let him chew on that for a while.

  I don’t give a fuck about what he says about Simon. He’s probably right. The thing that’s bothering me is what he said about Julio. About me.

  Of course Julio was a little bit crazy. You can’t stick a guy in a trunk and run him through a junkyard compactor if you’re not a little bit off.

  But Julio wasn’t the kind of crazy that kills himself. Suicide’s something you do to other people.

  And what the fuck was that about being a useful tool? Fuck him. I’m not the one fetching Simon’s drinks. The fuck does Danny think he is? I’ve never liked the guy, now I know why.

  Sure, what I do is easier. Follow orders. Do what you’re told. But I’m not a goddamn robot. I do this because I’m good at it. I like the work. I can handle anything that gets thrown at me.

  But then, so could Julio.

  I push the thought aside, head up PCH with the windows down. Cold air blows in the smell of the ocean. My knee aches past the Advil, so I chew up a couple more and swallow them dry. My stomach will pay for it later.

  I call Giavetti’s hotel on my cell, confirm he’s still checked in. I’ll have this sewn up before morning. Head over the hill to Du-par’s for pancakes after.

  I hang a right on Topanga, begin the long, curvy wind through the canyon to the 101. My cell phone chirps. I fumble it out of my jacket. It’s Mariel, Julio’s wife. Like I need this right now.

  “Yeah.”

  “I just got home,” Mariel says. “You called.”

  “Have the police called you yet?”

  “Police?” she asks, wariness creeping into her voice. “Is Julio with you?”

  “No,” I say, not sure how to proceed. “He … look, Mariel, are you gonna be up for awhile? I think I should come over.”

  A considering silence. “What’s happened to Julio?”

  How do you tell someone that her husband ripped through his own throat with a broken bottle?

  There’s a noise on the other end. “Hang on,” she says, puts the phone down. A few seconds go by. “God, Joe, you had me scared there.”

  “Sorry?” I say.

  “Julio,” she says. “He just walked in. You want to talk to him?” Her voice fades in and out as I drive through a dead patch around Fernwood and start to lose the signal. “Honey,” she says away from the mouthpiece, “Joe’s on the phone.”

  “Mariel,” I say. “Listen to me. Julio’s not there. He’s not coming home.”

  “No,” she says. “He’s right here. He’s—” A pause.

  And then she starts screaming.

  “Mariel? What’s happening?” If she answers me it’s lost in a burst of digital static. The signal cuts out completely. I throw the phone into the passenger seat, stomp on the gas, and tear through the canyon as fast as my car will take me.

  I cut the lights half a block from the house, park behind a pickup across the street. Did Mariel just snap? I never got she was all that stable to begin with. Or is there somebody actually in there? And if so, who is it?

  One way to find out. I pull the pistol from under my seat and fit the suppressor over the barrel. Check the chamber, load a clip, rack the slide.

  Front door’s cracked open. I can see Mariel sitting on the floor at the foot of the sofa. I ease the door open, step inside.

  And there’s Julio sitting on the couch, Mariel’s hand in his, head moving from side to side. He’s got wide eyes, like he can’t remember how to blink, a ragged flap of snake belly white skin and muscle where his throat used to be.

  His mouth is working like a grouper, trying to make a sound, but nothing’s coming out, not even a wheeze. Takes me a second to realize it’s because he’s not breathing.

  Mariel turns to me when I come in, tears streaming down her face, mascara painting dark lines down to her chin. “Help him,” she says to me. “Oh, God, please help him.”

  “Holy fuck,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. I stand stock still, gun tight in my fist. I have no idea what to do. Seems a little late for the paramedics. I step slowly toward them, Julio barely acknowledging me, and touch him. His skin is clammy. I check his pulse. Nothing.

  I remember Frank Tanaka’s weirdly intense interest in Giavetti, the detective telling me to call him if I see anything weird. This is definitely fucking weird. But I bring him into this and Simon’s fucked. Maybe me, too.

  Julio turns to me, head lolling to one side. Yellow pus oozes out the gash in his throat.

  To hell with Simon. All bets are off. This is the weirdest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen.

  I dig around in my jacket for Frank’s card. My phone is still in the car, so I grab Mariel’s.

  She’s obsessively patting Julio’s hand, rocking back and forth, saying, “It’s okay, baby. It’s all gonna be okay.” Trying to hold things together, but she doesn’t know how. I’m not sure I’m doing any better.

  “I heard him come in,” she says, her eyes glued to her husband. “And then I saw him like this. What happened to him, Joe?” Her body heaves with fresh sobs. “I don’t know what to do.”

  The phone rings once, twice, then clicks as Frank comes on the line. “Hello?” he says, voice groggy with sleep.

  “Frank,” I say. “Joe Sunday. Look. Julio… .” I’m not sure what to say. I’ve got a dead man on the sofa, and I need some help. I think Giavetti might have something to do with it, and oh, by the way, my boss thinks he murdered him in London fifty years ago. And did I mention that the
dead guy on the couch is still moving around?

  What the hell am I doing, calling a goddamn cop?

  “What?” he asks.

  I take a deep breath. I need somebody who can think straight. Right now he’s the only one who comes to mind. “It’s Julio,” I say. “He’s—” There’s a loud click. I think he’s hung up on me, until I realize I’m not getting a dial tone.

  “You can put the phone down,” says a grainy voice, accent like Chicago. Chicago and something else I can’t place. “It doesn’t work, anyway.”

  Guy steps out from the kitchen. Tall. Wrinkled and balding. Liver spots on his hands and face.

  “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” The man’s old enough to be my great grandfather, but his hands and neck are all wiry muscle, and he’s standing straight as a marine. Just like the security camera pic Simon showed me. I almost laugh but stop myself.

  He may be old, but that Beretta in his hand isn’t. I do what he says, put the phone back in its cradle.

  “And the gun, too, if you don’t mind.”

  “I think I’d rather not, thanks.” God, but don’t I just love a Mexican standoff.

  “Joe, who is this?” Mariel asks. Giavetti smiles at her.

  “Sandro Giavetti,” he says. He grins at some inside joke. “You could say your husband and I are close.”

  She stands up. Steps into my line of fire before I can stop her. “Can you help him? He came home like this. I don’t know what to do.”

  Giavetti moves to the side, each of us keeping our guns on the other. He shakes his head. “No. I was hoping this time would be different.” Mariel looks even more lost than before.

  “You did this to him,” I say, more statement than question. It dawns on me that maybe Julio isn’t the only one. “Who else? The two guys who stole for you? You tried to get the other one, but he killed himself before you got to him, didn’t he?”

  “I’m not having this conversation. I only want my property.”

  I look back at the mess on the couch that used to be Julio, gasping for air that never comes. His property?

  “No. You’re not taking him anywhere,” I say.

 

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