And whether Giavetti even knows what the fuck he’s doing.
Whispers. A dim light in a room at the end the hallway. Though I’m far off I can see silhouettes. I can pick the voices out as easily as though they were right next to me.
Giavetti. And Simon. Simon, who should be in San Diego.
“We had ourselves a deal,” Simon says. “Both of us. I help you get the rock, you do both of us.”
“The deal changed,” Giavetti says, “the minute you turned on me.”
“Goddammit, I didn’t do it. I told you that. They saw an opportunity, and they took it.”
“Yeah, and who told them about that opportunity? Huh? This was supposed to be kept quiet. All I needed were some men to get the goddamn rock. Men that don’t ask questions. I was stupid enough to believe you then. Not this time.”
The weight of Simon’s betrayal slams into me, and for a moment all I can do is listen, stunned. He knew about all this. Knew where Giavetti was hiding out. Knew what he could do. Would do.
And he threw me to the fucking shark anyway.
I press against the wall, inch my way toward them. Orange shadows flicker around me. Why didn’t I see it before? Of course Simon would know. He doesn’t make a deal without crawling through every angle. He’s had this planned from the start. Let Giavetti take the heat then take the stone for himself.
But it all went to shit, didn’t it? Simon provided the talent, but they were working for him. And when they tried to snag the stone, Giavetti took them out. Left Julio and me to bat cleanup.
“You know it wasn’t like that.” Simon’s voice growing higher, getting frantic. I’ve never heard him like this. He sounds worse than on the phone when Julio died.
“Right. And that fucking gorilla you sent over the other night? Well, I took care of him, too.”
“Jesus. You didn’t … you didn’t have to turn him into a goddamn zombie.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Between him and your other goon I got things figured out just fine, now.”
Silence.
Voice barely a whisper. “What are you talking about?”
“He’s talking about me, Simon,” I say, stepping into the room.
Giavetti, Beretta in hand. Simon, watching the gun like a mongoose eyeing a cobra.
“Joseph?”
“I guess we know why you wanted that stone so much, huh? That why you’re here, Simon? That why you fucked me? Why you fucked Julio? To get your goddamn stone?”
Giavetti lets out a laugh. “Oh, I want to see you talk your way out of this one. On the inside, I’m crying. Really.”
“I … I was worried. Wanted to make sure—”
I backhand him to the floor, his nose crunching against my knuckles. “You knew about this. The whole fucking time you knew about it. What he was doing. What he could do to us.”
“Of course he knew,” Giavetti says. “Immortality, son. How do you pass that up?”
“No. I—” Simon’s voice trails off as he struggles for air, for something to say. Blood’s gushing out of his shattered nose. I grab him by the lapels, lift him above me. He’s blubbering, eyes wide. The mongoose just got bit.
I throw him against the wall. Hear something crack. He hits the ground hard, struggles to pull himself up.
“I didn’t … didn’t know,” Simon insists. His swollen nose is going purple.
“Don’t fucking tell me that,” I say. “Tell Julio. Tell his wife.” I reach for him, not sure what I’m going to do, knowing it will be final whatever it is.
Giavetti’s gunshot makes the decision for me. The bullet punches through Simon’s chest, blooming red on his shirt.
Simon scrabbles at the wound, pitches onto his back.
We watch him bleed out. Neither of us makes a move to help him. I’m only sorry I wasn’t the one to pull the trigger.
Giavetti and I stare at each other for a long moment, sizing each other up. Hard to tell from the look on his face, but I don’t think he’s liking his odds much.
“Guess that just leaves us,” Giavetti says. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from a pocket, shakes one loose, and tosses the pack to me.
“Go on,” he says. “Not like they’re going to kill you.” He lights up with a Zippo, tosses it to me.
I light up a smoke for myself, take a long drag. Suck down almost half of the thing before I think to take a breath.
Giavetti pulls the opal out of his pocket. Rolls it between knobby fingers. “Got a proposition for you.”
“I’m all ears.”
“How would you like your life back?”
I stare at him as it sinks in. So he can do it. Or he’s just blowing smoke up my ass. I’m leaning toward the smoke theory. But it’s a good question. How would I like my life back? Living, I understand. Being dead’s going to take some getting used to. But there are some benefits. I work my jaw, feeling tendon and bone, good as new.
But there’s that empty feeling, like I’ve been ripped open and hollowed out. I’m Pinocchio in reverse. The real boy turned into a wooden puppet.
And what if I take him up on his offer? Julio’s gone. Simon’s gone. Like it or not, nothing’s going to be the same.
“What’s the catch?” I say. “What do you get out of it?”
“You out of my hair. I bring you back and you go home. Like nothing ever happened.”
Yeah, and if you order now you get this handsome Pocket Fisherman. So what if he can do it? What makes me think he will? No. He’d just bring me back and shoot me in the head again. Game over.
“Living forever isn’t for lightweights, kid. Something tells me you’re not cut out for it. I’m the only one knows how to bring you back. I’m the only one with the answers.”
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m not cut out for it. But I’m not cut out for dying, either.
I glance at Simon’s body, dark blood pooling underneath him. He might have screwed me, but he wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t for Giavetti. “Not sure I trust you much.”
He shrugs. “What, and you could trust him? I’m not the one tossed you at me. He was using you as bait, and you know it. So, what’ll it be? You want your life back? Then take me up on the deal. You want answers? Only way you’re going to get them.”
“If you could actually kill me,” I say, “you’d have done it already.” I take a step toward him. I am so gonna kick his ass.
He raises the gun, like it’s going to do any good. “You don’t want to do that, kid,” he says.
“He’s right, Sunday.” A familiar voice behind me. “You don’t want to do that.”
Frank Tanaka steps into the light behind me, gun out and wavering between me and Giavetti. The cavalry’s here. Too early or too late, I’m not sure which.
“Well, fuck me,” Giavetti says and starts to empty the clip.
Bullets pepper the wall behind us. A round hits me in the chest, another blows out the back of my knee. I go down, my leg buckling under my own weight. I yell at Frank not to fire, but too many years of police work kick in and he takes his shot.
Giavetti’s head snaps back with a well placed round. A look, not of rage or fear, just resignation. Like this is just a temporary setback. He wobbles, topples to the floor.
I drag myself to him, try to think of something, anything to help. It’s useless.
He’s gone.
Chapter 6
“Fuck. Fuck me.” Frank runs over, shoves me out of the way. Something wild in his eyes I’ve never seen before.
He pounds on Giavetti’s chest. Starts giving him CPR, like that’s going to do any good. The man’s missing the entire rear of his skull. Frank’s breath just blows out the back.
That’s when the stone catches my eye. Under a piece of trash where it skittered when it fell from Giavetti’s hand. While Frank’s occupied, I snake my hand out and palm it.
There’s a surge that runs up my arm like I’ve hit my funny bone with a sledgehammer. A flare in my vision that swallows everything in a blindi
ng haze of colors. A rush of sound, rising to a deafening pitch. A dazzling light and sound show, patterns shifting, growing, collapsing in on themselves. It goes on forever.
Until it doesn’t, leaving behind an abrupt emptiness in my mind. Takes me a moment to come back to myself, realizing that it lasted no time at all. The scene around me hasn’t changed.
Frank’s muttering to himself, like he’s just shot his own dog. Finally he slams his fists on Giavetti’s chest and pushes himself away.
“Goddammit.” It takes him a second before he seems to notice that I’m still there. And bleeding. “You’re hit. I’ll—” The slurping sound of my knee regrowing, the gaping hole in my chest collapsing in on itself stops him mid-sentence.
He’s sketchy. Can’t really blame him, I suppose. But when the bullet in my chest hasn’t even finished popping out, he loses his shit and puts another one right back in.
“Jesus, man. Do you mind?” My ears are ringing. He’s taken out my left lung, and my voice is a wheezy gasp. I’m really going to have to burn these clothes.
I pull myself up from the floor, the new knee still unsteady. At that range the hole’s big enough to shove a grapefruit through. I don’t want to know what the back looks like. “Just put the fucking gun down. I’ve been shot enough today, thank you.”
Frank lowers the pistol. His eyes glued to the already closing wound.
I put my hand out. He stares at it. “Get up.” Slowly, he takes it. I haul him to his feet.
“Nice shot,” I say.
“Thanks.”
“I don’t think he’s dead.” If Simon gutting him in the fifties didn’t do it, I doubt this will either.
“Yeah, I know.”
“He’s—What do you mean, you know?”
Frank opens his mouth to say something but the radio on his belt squawks, announcing that backup’s on the way. ETA’s ten minutes. The hard resolve I’m used to comes back into his eyes.
“You. Out of here. Hang a right down the hall. I’ll cover for you. Your car’s up the hill. Key’s in the ignition.” He shoves me toward the door.
“The hell?” Not complaining, but I don’t know what’s going on.
“I don’t need you in an interrogation room. We’ll talk later.”
Like that’s going to happen. Must be reading my mind because he grabs my shoulder, leans in.
“Don’t skip out on me,” he says.
“Give me a reason.”
“Because you want to know what I know.”
Dammit.
I head home to my place near La Brea and Fountain. Bought it with cash about ten years ago. Little two bedroom Spanish cottage with bars on the windows. Not a bad place. Quiet neighborhood, all things considered. The only gunfire on my street happens during the holidays when idiots citywide decide that shooting in the air is the best way to celebrate Jesus being born.
I need to clean up, sure, but first I have to stash this goddamn stone. Pockets are a bad place for anything. Shit falls out, you forget it’s there. First thing I do is hide the stone in a safe in the back of my closet. Also not the best place to stash something. It’s not a great safe, hinges on the outside. A good couple of hours with a crowbar and the door will probably pop off. But until I can think of a better place, it’s what I’ve got.
I stash my clothes in a trash bag to burn later. Scrub the blood and gore off my body until the shower runs cold, though I barely notice the temperature. Spend a good hour afterward staring at the wall wondering what to do with all this jittery energy I’ve got. It’s been at least twenty-four hours since I slept last, but I’m not tired. Makes a weird sort of sense. I’m dead, right? Don’t need to breathe, don’t need to sleep?
Sitting around is not something I’m good at. I pull on some gym clothes, throw together a bag, and head out the door. I need to burn off some of this energy.
Friend of mine, Carl Reed, runs a gym out of a strip mall in Hollywood between a roach-infested Ukrainian restaurant and a Starbucks. Old world, new world, fighting in between.
Carl inherited the place from his old man, Chuck “The Hammer” Reed, a couple years back. Chuck fought heavyweight in the early seventies while Carl and I were going to high school together. Spent years brawling his way to the title until a detached retina brought all that to a halt. So he opened the gym and taught.
I give Carl a nod as I come in. I’ve been training here since his dad opened the place. In some ways I spent more time with his father than Carl did. Carl went off to college. Didn’t want to end up like his old man so he did the exact opposite. Got a degree in English and went on to be a reporter. Now he works at the Times. He has a guy run the gym for him, but keeps an office in the back. Doesn’t want to sell the place. Closest thing to a legacy he’s ever going to get.
Just a handful of guys in the gym going through their routines. I feel the need to beat the crap out of something. Carl comes over while I’m taping my hands, grabs the roll, and finishes it up.
“You always sucked putting this shit on,” he says, his deep bass rumble sounding just like his old man’s.
I give him a grin. “This stuff’s for pussies anyway,” I joke.
“Yeah,” he says. “Real men like busted hands.” He finishes the job, tightens the Velcro on my gloves.
“How’s the newspaper business?”
“Internet’s kicking its ass,” he says. “Not to mention the latest rich, white asshole who bought it. How’s the thug business?”
Now that’s a loaded question. I know what he’s really asking: “Is there anything you can give me?” Every once in a while I bounce some tidbit over to him that finds its way into the paper. I’m an official Anonymous Source. Carl’s known what I do for a long time. Mostly. I don’t talk about the killing. Just roughing people up. He doesn’t pry, just takes what I give him.
I wish I could tell him, but I don’t know where to start.
“Pretty quiet lately,” I say.
Carl’s got a military grade bullshit detector, and I know I just set it off. He cocks an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. “If it heats up, let me know,” he says. “Could use some fodder for the fish wrapper.” He leaves to go check on some kid who’s having trouble with a speed bag.
I head over to one of the heavy bags in the corner, let myself get lost in the sound of gloves on leather drowning out the sounds of boxing all around me. Guys in the ring, jumping rope, hitting the speed bag. Time goes by. How much I can’t say. I’m just hitting the bag.
Carl pokes his ugly George Foreman face around the bag. “Dude, what are you on?” he asks.
“What?” I hammer at the bag again, try to get back into my groove. The smack of leather on leather.
“I’m talkin’ about the Popeye number you got going here. You’ve been hogging this bag over an hour. You haven’t stopped moving. You on something stronger than spinach?”
I stop, step back. An hour? I glance over my shoulder at the clock, catch the weirded-out stares of the other guys. I hadn’t noticed the time.
“Fuck, man. I had no idea.”
“Yeah. You know, you’re not even breathing hard.” I take a breath, hope he doesn’t catch on that I wasn’t breathing at all. He swipes a finger across my forehead, shows it to me. “And you aren’t sweating, either. Fact, you’re as cold as ice. What’s going on?”
“Dude, you’re always worried about me. Just had a rough night’s all.”
Another ping on the bullshit detector. “Yeah, well, shake it up a little. Hit the speed bag, do some weights. This shit’s freaking out the paying customers.”
I nod. He’s right. I’m going to have to watch myself. Too much of this, and I’m going to get questions I can’t answer.
I do a circuit. My usual workout. Only there’s no strain. The weights are heavy, sure, but the only thing giving me a problem is the integrity of my bones and muscles. Not fatigue, not pain. When I think nobody’s looking I slide on some more weights and bench 500. My top’s 350.
/> The whole time I’m thinking about fitting in. I’m different now. No two ways about it. I can’t just go on like nothing’s happened, but I can’t let anyone know. Jesus, what would people do if they found out?
But how do I fit in? It feels like trying to walk drunk. All those little balance moves your body just does and you never think about. And then you get hammered and have to think about them. Can I make my heart beat? I can breathe, but my lungs are just windbags.
The big things are easy to hide, but people pick up on the little things. How many of those little details am I missing? I throw in some grunts as I hit the bags, but I’m not feeling it, and if nobody notices that I’d be surprised.
I catch a view of myself in the mirror. I look all right, if a little haggard. But then I’m getting old. I always look haggard. Not sweating, not getting tired. What else am I missing? My head starts to spin with all the things I’m forgetting. After a while I just stop. No point in getting more worked up. Not like I can do anything about it.
I stow my gear in my bag, pretend to wipe sweat off my face with a towel, and head to the door. Carl’s shadow looms behind me.
“Hang on, he says. “You and me have to talk.” He takes me back to his office, closes the door. Flicks on an old RCA sharing space with a bamboo plant on top of his filing cabinet. Staticky picture, a local channel, comes up with some talking head going off about the Middle East. Dude really needs to get cable in here.
“You’re not gonna show me your homemade porn movies again, are ya? I can only handle seeing your johnson so many times.”
“Only way you’re seeing my meat’s when I’m stone cold dead, and you know it. You want a sausage fest go down a couple blocks on a Saturday night. Now shut up and wait for it. Big news. Just saw it. Bound to come around again.”
We watch. The usual horseshit. Oil, fighting, genocide. Gangbangers shooting up kids in parks, home invasions getting grannies killed. It’s depressing shit. Why I stopped watching TV years ago. A couple commercials go by. Makes me wonder why Giavetti was so fired up about living forever. It’s not like the world gets any better.
“Here we go,” Carl says, turns up the volume.
City of the Lost Page 4