Total Immunity

by Robert Ward

  Charlie smiled down at him. “Everything’s fine now, Kev,” he said.

  “Yeah. Man, what did you say to him, Charlie?”

  “I told him I was with the FBI,” Charlie said. “That my name was Agent Jack Harper, and that if he had a problem with you, we could take it up at headquarters.”

  Kevin broke out into a wild laugh.

  “You did?”

  “I did,” Charlie said. “I also said that if he bothered you anymore, I was going to come back and kill him twice.”

  “Oh, man!”

  “Now let’s go get in the car. You were a very lucky young man today. I just happened to be down the street at the antique store looking for some chairs for the Deckhouse.”

  Kevin smiled and suddenly hugged Charlie. He felt a radiant warmth spread through him. Like the love he used to feel for Jack.

  “What the hell are you doing wandering around here on a school day?”

  “I, ah . . . It’s a long story, Charlie.”

  Charlie laughed and gave him a little hug.

  “Well, I’ve got all afternoon,” Charlie said. “Since I’ve become your fairy godfather, I think we should go back to my place, have a burger, and you can tell me all about it.”

  “That sounds good, Charlie,” Kevin said.

  Once again he felt like bursting into tears. Charlie had saved his life.

  Amazing! It was like a minor miracle.

  “Thanks, Charlie,” he said. “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been there just then. I still can’t believe it.”

  Charlie looked at him then and grinned.

  “Forget it. You’re like my own son, buddy. Old Charlie will take care of you. Don’t worry about a thing, kid. Now’s let get you on home.”

  25

  THE VALENTINE CLUB was located in a mini-mall between a Korean doughnut shop called US Very Good Doughnuts and a sushi restaurant called the Yellowtail Palace. If you blinked, you’d never notice the Valentine at all. It didn’t have a sign, but instead featured a small red valentine on the outside of the wall. The average person might think of the place as an obscure blood bank, which was, in a way, what it was. If you hung out there long enough, you would end up giving your life savings and maybe even your blood to Timmy Andreen, con man, dope dealer, and contract killer.

  Jack parked and went in through the heavy black door into a room that was painted red. There were little lamps on the tables like the kind you saw in Warner Bros. movies from the ’30s. Jack laughed to himself, remembering watching those movies with his old man, thinking that somehow hanging in speak easies with the little lamps on them would be the height of sophistication. What a joke . . . This place, with its hellish red walls, its cheap black plastic tables, and its little lamps — probably stolen from the loading dock outside Costco — would pass as sophisticated only in the Valley. What it really was was an imitation of a movie set, itself a bad imitation of a ’30s speakeasy. Gangsters, it seemed, were as nostalgic and sentimental about the past as clubwomen or the DAR.

  The waitresses wore French maids’ outfits and had their hair puff ed up in ’60s bouffants.

  Jack walked over to the bar, a massive oaken structure that didn’t go with the rest of the place. Andreen probably picked it up for nothing from a Western movie set. Now Jack remembered that he had been a porno producer for a while back in the ’80s and had even made a couple of Westerns, which went straight to video.

  Jack talked to the bartender, a blonde with a ponytail, and breasts that looked as hard as cue balls. Her name tag said RAE.

  “What can I getcha?”

  “Vodka, straight,” Jack said. “Ketel One. And I need to see Timmy Andreen.”

  “Timmy might be in the back,” Rae said. “Who do I say you are?”

  “Bobby Hopps,” Jack said. The real Bobby Hopps was a kid he’d played lacrosse with who had been killed in Desert Storm, but there was no way they would know that.

  “And why would he want to talk to the aforementioned Bobby Hopps?” the blonde said.

  “’Cause Mickey Benz told me to look him up.”

  Mickey Benz was a con Jack had put in prison for robbing a military armory in Arizona. Looking at a thirty-year bit, he’d decided to play ball. Jack was pretty certain that security had been tight enough that Timmy Andreen didn’t know he’d ratted out people in the L.A. dope world. At least he hoped so, because Andreen and Benz had worked together a couple of times. Jack might have scooped up Andreen back then, but they didn’t have anything major enough to warrant busting him. Maybe that would work for him now. Andreen would probably think of Benz as a stand-up guy. That was the plan, anyway. And God help Jack if it didn’t work.

  Rae picked up her cell phone and mumbled something into it, then set it down and gave Jack a wry smile.

  “He said you could come in the back. He’ll talk to you for five.”

  “My gratitude knows no bounds.” Jack dropped five bucks on the bar.

  “Yeah, well, you shoulda tipped me a dime instead, cheapskate,” Rae said. But she was smiling when she said it.

  Jack walked through another black door. He was getting tired of the red-and-black color scheme. He felt a sudden urge to simply blow the cover, take Andreen out in the back alley, and kick the shit out of him. But that would have been wrong. Very unprofessional. And totally against policy.

  The back room had more red walls but there was a big desk sitting in the middle of the room. On a couch on the side sprawled a guy in a pink silk shirt who looked like he was stuff ed with bowling balls. Over his left eye he wore a black leather eye patch. He was dressed in shiny leather pants that were so tight they looked as though they might burst at the seams. His massive head was flat on top, and his eyes were slits and set about two feet apart. His nose was about a yard wide, and his nostrils looked like two caves that were big enough for bats to fly in. His lips were big and meaty, and when he smiled, there was a gap between his teeth that you could have used for a mail slot.

  • • •

  He grinned at Jack and nodded his head up and down in a rhythmic way to a tune which only he could hear. Jack guessed it might be a moronic nursery rhyme he liked to play while eating human intestines.

  The man behind the desk, on the other hand, was small and wizened. Had a head like a bulbous raisin. His face was all wrinkles and angles, and his eyes were hidden in the folds of his leathery skin. His nose was like a pug’s, and his mouth was as thin as a staple.

  “So, Mister Bobby Hopps,” Raisinhead said, standing and waving to Jack with his thumb up, as if he was Roger Ebert endorsing a movie. “You come from an old friend of mine . . . Mister Mickey ‘The Quick’ Benz. Mister Quick and I go way back to the days when we were hustling pony rides on the parking lot at the new and highly touted Happyland. Thing was, we didn’t have an ‘animal license,’ and they turned us over to their very own little fascist park police. I assume a world traveler like yourself would know that they house a whole little mafia down there . . . Took us into these stucco buildings . . . and by the way don’t you just hate the fucking word ‘stucco’ . . . a lot of what’s happened with Western civilization — I mean the decline thereof — could be related to the use of the word and substance ‘stucco.’ Shoddy shit, stucco. Anyway, they take us into stucco land, and they sweat our asses and threaten to call the state troopers on us, mere striplings. Lads. Eventually they let us go but kept our pony as evidence. I heard tell that the man himself straddled the horse, putting its giant member into his mouth . . .”

  The giant on the couch began to laugh at that one. Well, Jack was pretty sure it was laughter. It was something like “A harharhar har . . .” a sound which seemed to be an imitation of a cartoon pirate laugh. The laugh was shortly followed by a gagging cough, and Jack watched as the great flat-headed giant tried to right his shaking muscle groups.

  “Well, how can I assist you, Bobby Hopps?” Timmy Andreen said. “Any friend of The Quick’s is a friend of mine . . . Et cet
era. Et cetera.”

  “I don’t know, exactly,” Jack said. “I just got out of Soledad and I need a gig. Mick said if I mentioned his name, you’d get all soft in the middle and offer me a truckload of money.”

  Andreen raised an eyebrow, and five or six hundred wrinkles rose with it.

  “I like your exceptional banter,” he said. “But what is your specialty, Mr. Hopps? Driver, safe expert, perhaps gemologist?”

  “I lean more toward the security department.” Jack smiled and looked over at the massive one-eyed hulk on the couch.

  “Yes, I see,” Andreen said. “But that’s one area where I’m pretty much up to snuff . I mean, Winkie over there has never met a man he couldn’t best.”

  For the first time, Winkie opened his twisted, flabby lips and spoke. Jack expected a deep, guttural sound befitting a giant idiot, but was surprised to learn that Winkie’s voice was high and light, with a kind of Oklahoma twang. Like Mickey Mantle’s on ether.

  “I fuck up whoever messes with Tim,” Mr. Winkie said, then gave his pirate cough/laugh.

  “Yes, Winkles, that you do,” Mr. Tim said. “Just the other night, we had a small skirmish out there in the Valentine Room. A fellow accused me of sexually abusing his date, the remarkably endowed Sunny. Of course there were no witnesses to my said affront, but the fellow insisted on making an issue out of it, and Winkie had to severely discipline him. Choked him right down to bare carpet and tossed him out on the macadam. Ugly, but deeply efficient, and he left not one scar.”

  “You can’t have my job,” the giant said sadly.

  “Well, certainly not,” Jack said. “But I thought I might assist you. ’Cause sometimes you might get double-teamed.”

  “Winkie works alone,” the giant said.

  He stood up and Jack saw the giant’s shadow block out the light from the wall lamp. It was as though an office building had suddenly been erected in the room. Jack felt an appealing fear glowing inside of him.

  “Listen, man,” Jack said, opening his palms in a gesture of conciliation. “No offense.”

  Winkie took a quick step forward. His hands were not opened. Indeed, they had been turned into fists, which looked like dumbbells. And there was now a kind of sweet smell coming off him, a joyous and murderous lather.

  Jack moved forward quickly, before the giant could raise his mountainous arms. His own hands were now clenched lightly, all except his pointer finger, which he now swiftly jammed into the soft flesh just below the giant’s Adam’s apple. The effect was immediate and extreme. Mr. Winkie gave a screeching choke sound, then fell to his knees making horrible sucking noises. The floor shook, and sentimental paperweights of vacations past fell from Andreen’s desk.

  Before the behemoth could recover, Jack kneed him in the face, knocking him over on his side. Blood squirted from his massive nose and sprayed all over Jack’s shoes.

  Winkie lay there quivering and gagging for some time.

  Tim Andreen made a face and shook his head, as if to say “tsk- tsk.” He walked around to the other side of the desk, stepped over the gagging giant’s body, and offered Jack his wrinkly right hand.

  “That was fine work, Mr. Hopps,” he said. “I think I can find a place for you in our organization. Would you mind terribly if we discuss your salary tomorrow? It would seem bad form, given Winkie’s humbled condition.”

  “Not at all,” Jack said. “Would you like me to move him out of here?”

  “Yes, and be gentle with him,” his new boss said. “Under that tough hide, Wink’s very sensitive.”

  “I thought as much,” Jack said. “Is he going to remain with your organization, or would you like him deposited in the Dumpster outside?”

  “Oh, no, I could never fire the Winkster,” Andreen said. “He’s been with me for lo, these many years. I feel very much like his guardian. Perhaps, you could teach him that deadly move you sprang on him. Bring him up to date with the latest methods of self-defense.”

  “I’d be happy to,” Jack said. “He seems a little rusty.”

  “Yes, and get him a drink,” Andreen said. “He prefers vodka . . . and pineapple juice. Have one for yourself, too, Hopps. On the house.”

  “Thank you,” Jack said. “Do you want me to start now or tomorrow?”

  “You’ve already started,” Andreen said. “Get yourself a sandwich or something. I like to treat my people well. The kind of work you do takes energy. Got to eat a balanced diet. Try our wheatgrass tequila infusion. Miss Rae will get you one.”

  Jack smiled as the door opened behind him.

  “Ahhh, look who it is,” Andreen said. “My dear, I want to introduce you to the newest member of our happy little family. Mr. Bobby Hopps.”

  The woman stepped out of the door’s shadow and into the light.

  It was all Jack could do not to gasp openly. The woman was none other than Michelle Wu. Dressed in black tights and ballet slippers, she looked as if she was there to dance the night away.

  “This is Michelle,” Andreen said. “She’s our new singer. Michelle, this gentleman is Mr. Bobby Hopps. Our new employee in security.”

  “Really?” Jack said. “Well, I’ll look forward to hearing you.”

  “I start this weekend, if you’re still around,” Michelle said.

  Her voice was cool, her Vicodin eyes bright with pinwheels.

  “Oh, I will be,” Jack said. “I think I’m going to find working for Tim very interesting.”

  Michelle bit her lower lip and looked down at the floor where Mr. Winkie’s color was slowly turning from icy blue to salmon pink.

  Then she moved past Jack and walked around the desk, and ran her long fingernails through Timmy Andreen’s dyed black hair.

  It was after three A.M. when Jack left the club. He’d hung out, met some of the club’s regular patrons . . . a second-tier star named Simon Blazek from second-rate action movies, and Kitty Wedge and Gretchen Hipe, a couple of failed starlets, who were worn out playing “the girl” and thinking about becoming hookers or porn stars.

  There was nothing going down; no one got out of hand. Jack’s biggest fear was dealing with the grumpy Winkie, who occasionally looked over at him and offered a snarl/smile. This, Jack was certain, was only the first encounter with the great giant, who definitely desired revenge.

  Now he waited a half block away, sitting in front of El Diablo, a grease-pit Mexican restaurant where married Valleyites came to rendezvous with their tennis instructors, drink margaritas, and play sex games beneath the table in the dark, moody bar.

  Jack’s nerves were frayed, and he felt sleep pulling him down, but he couldn’t afford to sleep. Not yet.

  Not until he talked to Michelle Wu.

  She finally came out of the Valentine Club at four A.M., got into her Mercedes, and headed down Ventura toward the city.

  Jack let her go by, then pulled a quick U-turn and seconds later pulled her over right outside of Terresushi.

  “Jackie,” she said, smiling as they pulled into the empty parking lot. “Were you surprised to see me, baby?”

  “Yeah, I was. What the hell were you doing there?”

  “I told you I played around with the boys sometimes. Gambling, a little fun . . . that’s all. And now Tim was giving me a chance to sing. You know I’ve always wanted to be a star, Jackie.”

  “You’re already a star, baby,” he said.

  “True.” She leaned into him and smiled. “But I’ve got a great voice. Do you know I trained to be an opera singer in Hong Kong?”

  “You’re a girl of a million surprises,” Jack said.

  “Now that you’re working security, you’ll hear me,” Michelle said. “I might start a whole new career. Do you think I’m pretty enough to be a singer, Jackie?”

  She batted her eyes in a comical way, and Jack had to laugh.

  “What you are is a piece of work,” he said. “You know why

  I’m there, Michelle. You wouldn’t give me away to Timmy-boy, would you? So maybe he�
��d help you in your new career?”

  Michelle opened her mouth and gave a hurt little sigh.

  “Jack, how can you say that?”

  “Knowing you, it’s easy,” Jack said.

  “You obviously don’t know me at all,” Michelle said. “You think I would ever do anything to endanger my Jackie-boy?”

  She ran her finger across his lips, and Jack felt a surge of desire for her.

  “You want me to do something to help you, Jackie? ’Cause I will . . . I’d do anything to help you, baby.”

  “Is that right?”

  “It is,” she said. “It’s very right. Like you and me, Jackie. We’re very right.”

  “Yeah, we’re practically family,” Jack said. “But don’t forget, Michelle. I’ve got four stolen vehicles on you, and a couple more that I think you sold for parts in Mexico.”

  “How could I forget that, Jackie, when you remind me of it every time I see you? Just tell me how I can help you, and maybe those old charges — all lies, anyway — could go away?”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “Maybe they could.”

  “Then we could have the kind of relationship we are capable of,” Michelle said. “I could take you to Hong Kong and show you my world.”

  Jack laughed. She was dead-on charming, the greatest bullshit artist he’d met in twenty years. She was so good that he wondered if she believed it . . . at least, while it was coming out of her beautiful mouth.

  “All right, I’ll tell you what I need. I need to get into Timmy’s office and check his computer. The sooner the better. I want to find out if he hit Zac Blakely and Ron Hughes. Maybe you could also divert him for a while. Are they open every night?”

  “No. They’re closed on Sundays.”

  “He ever go in there to work then?”

  “Not very often. I’m not sure, but I don’t think so, Jackie. Trouble is, Winkie is on duty on Sunday.”

  “All right,” Jack said. “This Sunday night. Think you can divert the goon?”

  “Maybe I could possibly distract Winkie,” Michelle said.